#just a fucking place holder for people

[levil0vesyou]

Just learned I'll have to change my name to "a name that fits the new legal gender" and they specify if you're going third gender you need to pick a gender neutral one (that they deem sufficiently gender neutral) AND you can't even change the number of names aka I'll be stuck with having a middle name after all this is fucking awful I'm gonna commit a major crime

[bitegore]

okay i am actually writing the Experimentalist First Aid metapost right now.

Beginning statement and caveats - I have no reason to believe this is canon and basically don't, except that I like it better. However, it literally would be indistinguishable from canon for the most part for various reasons outlined below, so like, you can't prove it's not. Canon compliant canon divergent headcanon territory.

Also, this is about G1.

I think First Aid is many things.

First Aid is a big giant fucking baby and he has the experience of someone who has been alive for Ten Total Minutes. First Aid is not old enough to have properly-tuned self-preservation instincts or an understanding of what will and will not be able to kill him. Unlike everyone else, he handles this by being a giant soft baby (affectionate) and going "I don't want to go fuck around with things that can kill me" and hangs out inside, where he gets his fill of Necessary Exciting Stuff(tm) with Ratchet and the other Autobots. However, he's still got the ravenous desire for Experiences, and this turns into

He fucking loves learning. he loves learning so much. He doesn't want to get hurt but he wants to know everything. Sometimes he needs to go out and do stupid things for that, but he'd rather learn from someone else's experiences first.

He is a medic. He likes to help people, but he likes to help people by taking them apart and getting elbow-deep inside of them and rearranging things, which is usually the kind of thing that human people get squeamish about. Even granting that Transformers are not as squeamish or flinchy about gore as humans are, being the person who gets to watch their friends get grievously injured and then stick your hands in there and mess around with the wound is pretty heavy for some (most!) people! But I think it would be a strange reading to say that First Aid doesn't like to be a medic, so this clearly doesn't bother him the way it might bother someone else. He doesn't like when his friends are injured, but the actual process of surgery - cutting them open or digging into a wound to clean it out, that sort of thing - isn't a problem for him, which leads into

Even by TF standards, First Aid is remarkably unfazed by injuries, gore, and insides-currently-outside than someone else his age would probably be. And that means I can get away with the next few parts...

I read First Aid as a sadist. In the autonomous, just-kind-of-happens sort of way, not the "I'm going to menace you" sort of way people sometimes interpret that statement. People get hurt in front of First Aid and he finds himself fascinated by the injury and immediately concerned with fussing over them in particular, partially because it's his job to pay attention to the wound and partially because there's something about pain and injuries that fascinates him beyond the confines of his job.

First Aid also likes his job, and he likes doing a good job, which means he's not aout to just start banging anyone up to hurt them for the hell of it because his job is to fix them. I don't even imagine sadism is particularly uncommon among doctors, because frankly it only makes sense to me that the characters literally hardwired to cut people open might have something making it so they don't feel bad when they cut someone open. Which would mean it has to be easy for them to maintain an Autobot standard of professionalism, which doesn't really prohibit being buddies with your patients (see: Ratchet) or, like, certain human standards of care around privacy and freedom from experimentation, but does broadly prohibit being needlessly cruel to your patients in a way they themselves aren't on board with. So this doesn't interfere with his job at all, basically; it's just some extra thing he has on the side for the most part.

First Aid is a big giant fucking baby and he has the experience of someone who has been alive for Ten Total Minutes. First Aid is not old enough to have properly-tuned self-preservation instincts or an understanding of what will and will not be able to kill him. Unlike everyone else, he handles this by being a giant soft baby (affectionate) and going "I don't want to go fuck around with things that can kill me" and hangs out inside, where he gets his fill of Necessary Exciting Stuff(tm) with Ratchet and the other Autobots. However, he's still got the ravenous desire for Experiences, and this turns into

He fucking loves learning. he loves learning so much. He doesn't want to get hurt but he wants to know everything. Sometimes he needs to go out and do stupid things for that, but he'd rather learn from someone else's experiences first.

He is a medic. He likes to help people, but he likes to help people by taking them apart and getting elbow-deep inside of them and rearranging thigns, which is usually the kind of thing that human people get squeamish about. Even granting that Transformers are not as squeamish or flinchy about gore as humans are, being the person who gets to watch their friends get grievously injured and then stick your hands in there and mess around with the wound is pretty heavy for some (most!) people! But I think it would be a strange reading to say that First Aid doesn't like to be a medic, so this clearly doesn't bother him the way it might bother someone else. He doesn't like when his friends are injured, but the actual process of surgery - cutting them open or digging into a wound to clean it out, that sort of thing - isn't a problem for him, which leads into

Even by TF standards, First Aid is remarkably unfazed by injuries, gore, and insides-currently-outside than someone else his age would probably be. And that means I can get away with the next few parts...

I read First Aid as a sadist. In the autonomous, just-kind-of-happens sort of way, not the "I'm going to menace you" sort of way people sometimes interpret that statement. People get hurt in front of First Aid and he finds himself fascinated by the injury and immediately concerned with fussing over them in particular, partially because it's his job to pay attention to the wound and partially because there's something about pain and injuries that fascinates him beyond the confines of his job.

First Aid also likes his job, and he likes doing a good job, which means he's not aout to just start banging anyone up to hurt them for the hell of it because his job is to fix them. I don't even imagine sadism is particularly uncommon among doctors, because frankly it only makes sense to me that the characters literally hardwired to cut people open might have something making it so they don't feel bad when they cut someone open. Which would mean it has to be easy for them to maintain an Autobot standard of professionalism, which doesn't really prohibit being buddies with your patients (see: Ratchet) or, like, certain human standards of care around privacy and freedom from experimentation, but does broadly prohibit being needlessly cruel to your patients in a way they themselves aren't on board with. So this doesn't interfere with his job at all, basically; it's just some extra thing he has on the side for the most part.

I think that's all the requisite readings.

In sum, this gives us a guy who relaly likes being around people in pain, who also likes being the guy to help them out of it, and likes to learn. He's encouraged to do all of these things by the people around him, because he's not being concerning about any of it- he's just dedicated to what he does and he's good at it, and getting better every day.

And by the same tokens, you have a guy who really, really badly wants to get to take someone apart over and over, because he wants to see how they work on the insides and he likes the way they look when they're in pain, but he doesn't want to fuck over his friends, comrades, patients, or teammates, and everyone he's interacting with is at least three of those things.

Plus we get G1 First Aid's pacifism, which is a strongly-held ideological standpoint that First Aid maintains - he won't fight, he won't carry weapons, but he will work as a medic. We can interpret that this isn't a squeamishness issue for him by the asme tokens I established earlier - that he's much more okay with getting into the guts of his friends and coworkers than the average person would be - and also by the fact that he was built in a military context and everyone else is a military fighter of some sort. if he were reluctant to hurt people because of anything shy of serious personal convictions, I am convinced that the Autobots around him could have convinced him otherwise. His position is profoundly difficult to maintain in an active war zone, aftr all.

So even beyond standard Autobot ethics, First Aid does not want to hurt people. Yet I reconcile this with saying he is an innate sadist anyway, because they're not mutually exclusive. It really just means that, like, First Aid can want to take people apart all he likes; he's just not going to do it to anyone until someone asks him to.

As an aside, in my corner of fandom anyway, it seems like we talk a lot about characters who kind of throw interpersonal concerns and care for those around them to the wind in order to chase their own hedonistic desires (see: Vortex, Overlord, Motormaster, Megatron, etc) or otherwise, put bluntly, just kind of don't care that much about their partners' and playthings' consent even when they have it. And that can be a lot of fun, obviously; I like them. But as of late my friends who shoot the shit with me about consensual kink in Transformers have been busy or we haven't been talking about it for a while, and I've been missing the other side - the exact same desires and interests, just harnessed, controlled, and managed, not because First Aid has to but because he just, like... feels like it. It's what he wants to do. And, like. yeah the Autobots wouldn't be pleased if he turned out to be some sort of turborapist, lol, but he's the first person to decide he's not going to run around doing harm. I tie it into the pacifism. Part of this reading is because this is my reading; part of this reading is because I want to insert even more contrast between the characters I see First Aid Aid played alongside than I'm already seeing when I finally sit down and write about him myself.

So what this boils down to - all together - is that First Aid wants someone to ask him to take them apart.

And he likes to learn.

So the first person to catch his attention and walk him through opening their chest up is going to get to see him catch his brain on every shiny new edge he's not used to seeing outside of a medical context, and he's going to go over and catalogue every single part and take them out and put them back in and he's going to do it over and over until he can do it without looking and then he's going to do that to everything else, too. He's going to pick up every style of play fast and hard, but I read him landing hard on the "roleplay is kind of silly, I like bodies" side of domination. And I think he'd enjoy domination a lot.

He's a good student and a quick study. He likes to learn. He's enthusiastic and comfortable being taught, too. It would be very easy to turn him into a service top, too, to talk him into being an extension of your own hands and guide him through doing what you want.

But only to a point. Because he's still a pacifist, so you can't use him to hurt someone else, unless they're also asking for it. But, hell, he's part of a combiner team... I bet that would come easy to him, too, once he does have everyone's consent.

In a few thousand years, I think First Aid is going to maybe be one of the biggest kinksters in the entire Autobot faction, or he's going to have extremely narrow and extremely specific tastes. But he's going to get there through experimentation and he's going to get there through his fascination with anything new, which right now is everything.

Last bit is that - I think his instincts are not fine-tuned, self-preservation-wise. I think his social instincts are just as bad. you develop those over time, after all, and through experience, and he doesn't have that. And he's a pacifist because he doesn't want to hurt Decepticons. Very sweet, certainly, but the Decepticons are like... kind of dicks lmfao. The way of things is not very complicated because there are so few Transformers around and alive; eventually First Aid is going to run into a Decepticon. The question is if he ever ends up on good terms with someone from the other faction - or if he already has - or if he gets himself hurt early and learns to avoid them fast. But even with the latter, I don't think that's how he'll stay. I think he wants to experiment. I think he wants to learn and do more and learn more. So eventually he will run into a Decepticon who is also willing to play the way he's willing to play, and they will end up making, if not friends, then at least some sort of positive interaction and First Aid will...

...well, he's never going to stop being curious, huh. That would be boring. But his morals and standards for his behavior are either going to stay ironclad or they won't, and either way it'll be interesting to see what happens. Because there's no bottom to where First Aid might go, eventually.. as long as he's being asked for it.

[box-dwelling]

OK so I am like a day past completing the Ansur dungeon and it's been enough time to let my thoughts on it settle. Spoilers ahead.

For context, first playthrough with a basic tav. I'm a good way through act three and have finished a few of the pc quest lines. Minsc, Jaheria and Astarion are done. I have yet to get the hammer or do the house of grief but I have done sorcerers sundries. Also I haven't refused Ulder yet but it like the next thing I'm doing. Other context is that dnd is a huge special interest of mine. I've been playing for about 7 years straight. Both dming and as pcs and I have played under professional dms before. This does affect how I view the game but it's mostly postively.

Disclaimer, I haven't finished the game so there may be some stuff that ends up being done that I just haven't seen but the quest line says it's over and from what I've read online it doesn't seem like that's the case so.

So let's start off with the pros because I honestly have less to say there

As a dm I can and always do look at the dungeon design. Larian is genuinely really really good at this, and this dungeon is no exception. I loved the puzzles though a few could use some tweaking. They arent all great. But there's ideas there that I will probably introduce in my games some time. A chess puzzle especially is such a great idea. That was so cool and the fact bring gale along means you can get the answer free I'd you don't play chess makes perfect sense. Genuinely great.

I also liked the visual design. I had expected the appearance to be what I was starting to dub in my head as the "character development dungeon aesthetic " given that really in terms of design and function cazadors dungeon, the gauntlet of shar and the sorcerers sundries vaults are very very similar. But this one wasn't and I'm very happy about that. Give me some variety.

The Ansur fight itself, AMAZING. Great boss battle. I loved the hell out of it. I'd have to dig into the code to properly tell but it looked like they used a varient of the colossus fighting rules which while I've actually never run but I have been at tables where it has been run to incredible effect. They're good rules. I'm glad to see them used. It honestly makes me consider running them myself.

Last pro, on the face of it, I like the idea. I like the concept of wylls character development dungeon being about learning about the tenants of being a hero from one he looked up to. That tracks. It's a good place to take his charcater at least in theory.

As for the cons, it's mostly one but it's also a big one that has majorly pissed me off. Because Wyll is in my joint top 3 for favourite characters and they did him so fucking dirty.

I really really hated how they handled the twist with the Emperor. I don't dislike him as a charcater but I think it's at least to me pretty unambiguous that he's a pretty shady and morally grey charcater. Which is fine. In fact, it's actually a pretty interesting way to take Wyll's arc. That he looked up to this hero, internalised his mindset through the chambers and then learns that he was actually a pretty shady morally complex figure that doesn't live up to wylls expectation, that is a GOLD mine of character development. That is absolutely fascinating. Except, it doesn't do that. He barely even comments on it. Just says he's forged into a new hero by the trials while ignoring the person who set them is the very shady figure who has honestly fucked us over a lot.

You know who's another hero wyll probably looked up to? Minsc! And the Emperor is a real fucking bitch about letting him join the party.

This is compounded by the fact his good/bad ending choice rather than being a slow build up like everyone else where they get tempted by power and then have to turn it away, he instead just says "hey I could become grand duke" out of no where and then doesn't even need a persuasion check to get talked out of it like everyone else does.

So, I would be remiss without giving a way I'd fix it. So here is that.

Th ansur dungeon isn't given to us by florrick in the lower city. It's given somewhere else before you get there.

I'd recommend like, it being in a book or something in Wyrms crossing. The location is tied to wyll anyway. Maybe add in his childhood bedroom that he asks to go visit. You can put in some environmental storytelling telling that can expand on his complicated relationship ulder. Maybe the room is bordered up and untouched but when you get inside there evidence of genuine love.

When you get there you get the story of ansurs legend and wyll becomes obsessed with using this as a way to help save the city.

The ansur dungeon then gets basically left untouched. Twist and all.

But at the end of it, rather than just deciding he's going to become grand duke, it becomes a question. He can't become grand duke while Ulder is alive. And Bauldrian the great adventurer became a politician after wards. Give the Emperor a reason to not want ulder alive. Maybe Ulder risks not being able to defeat the elder brain in some way, and tie it into his reaction to Wyll taking a deal with Mizora.

Wyll is now conflicted. If his father dies he can carry on in both his and Bauldrans footsteps. Ulder left his child in command of an army before he was an adult. Can he really be trusted to take care of the city? Of course wyll loves him and of course wyll wants to save him but there's that doubt there. I have been reforged in to bauldarns heir. I could do a better job. I could save more people. He abandoned me. Why should I save him? If he breaks his pact this is also fed into by the fact it puts him at very active threat from mizora. It's not that prevelant. Wyll is wyll he's not that susceptible to corruption but a little bit of doubt, coaxed on by the Emperor is all he needs.

Then the lower city.

Make sure you have to get minsc before continuing his quest line. Have wyll have a reaction to the Emperor 's distrust of minsc. These are two of his childhood hero's fighting. Play that up for some drama.

Then saving ulder becomes the thing that either makes him the blade of avernus or the grand duke. He can either choose to not save his father, take on the title of grand duke and rule the city following in baulderans footsteps or, he can kill mizora and swear his life to killing demons as a the blade of avernus. . Later becoming a ranger just like minsc. Even give minsc a few lines giving him a pep talk about it. Maybe even having him explain that wyll need to be his own kind of hero taking the infulances he has from the past and learning from them to become a better one. If the pact stays he just remains the blade of the frontiers if he saves ulder but can become grand duke if he doesnt.

Then, have ulder apologise and then reconcile. Have wyll learn to actually recognise his father as a flawed man who hurt him but who is also complex. Maybe even have an option for if he chooses to fully reconnect their relationship or not.

The bones of a really really really good story are here. Please, for the love of God, larian actually tell it.

[prolibytherium]

Accidentally went out in public and did several errands with a rainbow dog collar on I'm going to kill myself.

[destructionsys]

i need to. get off of this hellsite..? details in tags but oh. ohhhhh i’m. ohhh.

[mooshkat]

.

[nighty-night-nh]

Would you guys believe me if I said my dumb bisexual ass dropped two sodas because I was too distracted staring at a pretty feeme today, yes or no

[medicinemane]

Side complaint that's slightly related, hate how my mom is basically... incapable of examining any choices she makes as maybe being less than ideal

Oh sure, she'll talk about what a horrible stupid person she is or whatever, but like... heaven forbid she consider that maybe trying to get away from amazon would be good, and that it's not about if it's possible or not, she just plain doesn't want to is the truth

[crowleyholmes]

Aziraphale: *defies God's will and gives away his Holy Weapon to protect 2 humans who God Herself literally just cast out of paradise* *has unwavering faith in a demon's kindness* *lies an archangel in the face* *saves Crowley's life* *is ready to fight Satan himself with basically a Stick* *protects the one person in the universe who has probably mistreated him the most at extreme risk to his own life* *ready to fight 71 demons with a candle holder to protect 2 humans and said person who mistreated him all his existence* *gives up literally everything he loves the most in the world for the slim chance that he might make a dent in a system that brings nothing but suffering hoping to make the world a better place for everyone in it*

People out there (nowhere near me, luckily for everyone involved): *talk shit about Aziraphale*

Me: What the FUCK

[sillysiluriforme]

That one post, about how everyone has an akuma mark- that wouldn't be the case, and if anything that makes it worse. An akuma (or two) a day for several years is 1,000 people, maybe 2,000. Paris has a population of 10 million. So not that many people. But consider the suffering. Being a non-akuma'd person knowing your life is forever changed, possibly in quarantine forever, all because a small handful of people couldn't keep calm. (we know it's not their fault, but blame must land somewhere and hawkmoth is distant and unseen...). To watch as your future, or your children's future crumbles, because no one in or out means limited opportunities. There'd be riots (and more akuma possibilities). But to be one of the targeted? To have the suspicion (because akumas do strike twice, thrice, or more...) and the blame (if you'd just stay calm, if you just said no...). To lose an entire day of your life, watching as everyone you loved looks fearfully or angrily towards you (what did you do? what did you say?), to lose your job (what if it happens again? or was it because of your job?). To watch everything get worse, because of course: Any disruption to Paris would be Catastrophic. The paris region produces a GDP of 1 TRILLION dollars. 1/3rd of France's GDP. A day's disruption could cost billions of dollars. Even if property gets repaired, time still moves forward- a day not worked is a day where things dont get done. Things like road maintenance, court dates, repairs to water pipes, electrical generation, surgeries, and so on. Critical workers would need to get a suicidal level apathy towards akumas, because if they stopped work everytime one appeared then lives would be lost to power shortages, lack of medical care, and water. All the traffic supplying goods every day- even if they don't get inspected going in or out, any changes to that would raise prices in a heartbeat. Refrigeration becomes unreliable, as powerlines could be cut whenever. Education goes rock bottom, as who can focus when something's happening every day? Desperation rises, as there's nowhere to go, goods are more expensive or unavailable, jobs are in short supply because so many places go out of business, or outright leave.

God, forget the holders, forget the akumas, forget the reality warping little-g gods, the sheer decay of Paris would be enough to make this AU nightmarish. If Paris remains under akuma quarantine for long enough, the effects would become exponential. As businesses leave, the money disappears. Goods become critical, as a city that big needs an entire nation to feed it (but without the money, who would bother selling to Paris?). Infrastructure becomes abandoned, as cost cutting and triage prioritizes only critical locations. The government moves elsewhere (how could they function otherwise?) taking jobs, money, and focus away from the city. Homelessness, joblessness, poverty become the norm, as with inconsistent power and deliveries, how can businesses operate? Hawkmoth is murdering the city of love, over his own doomed love.

Paris becomes a colossal burden on the french economy, a nightmarish battleground and a looming threat to the world. The country is left with a hellish choice: Let the city sink on it's own, or be dragged down with it?

[YOU FUCKING GET IT ANON. YOU EXACTLY GET IT.]

[nickssidewitch]

Chris’s Dilemma

Chris Sturniolo has a little crush on one of his YouTube peers Layla, whom he’d only met once before. But what will happen when they finally meet once again to film an episode of the Cut The Cameras podcast?

Warning: SMUT, Sneaky sex, Dom!Chris x Sub!OC (named Layla), p in v, Oral (Male-Receiving), Dry-Humping/Grinding, Doggystyle, Missionary

(if you read this part already, please read Part 2 here)

***

“Get your hand off the fucking napkin holder, Chris,” Nick demanded as he grabbed the object out of his brother’s hands. He placed it onto the table next to him, now further from Chris’s reach. “What are we, kindergarteners?”

Chris stretched his body over his other brother Matt in some way to pick up the napkin holder again, but Matt shoved him from his body, causing Chris to sit back into his seat and cross his arms. He pouted comically, but neither Matt nor Nick were amused.

“Stop being annoying,” Nick said as he glared at Chris. They were all at a pizza shop which was pretty packed, and he didn’t want his pizza experience to be ruined by his pestering brother.

“He’s gonna make us get kicked out or something,” Matt added nonchalantly, taking a sip of his own Pepsi afterwards. “I don’t know why you can’t just sit down and relax for two minutes.”

“I can relax for two minutes,” he shifted his body to Matt and fixed his posture, “Three even.”

“Okay, well why don’t you?” Before Chris could protest, Matt continued, “Starting now.”

Nick smirked. “As if Chris could stay still for 30 seconds. Remember how he acted at Larri’s birthday party?”

Matt nodded and said, “Mind you, we were sober, but you acted like you were wasted off of six shots of tequila.”

“Okay, is it ‘Bash Chris Day’ or something? I can’t have a little fun?” Chris responded, rolling his eyes and still feigning a pout onto his lips childishly.

But Matt simply sighed. “Not at our expense, no.”

Nick scrolled through his phone for a bit before he exclaimed, “Ugh, she’s so pretty. I love her fit here,” he said as he pointed at his screen to the picture of one of her outfits.

Chris wiped his mouth and took a glimpse at Nick’s phone, but he was unable to see who Nick was referring to. “Who?”

Nick turned his phone to show his brothers the Instagram picture.

Matt’s eyes focused on the picture for a second before recognizing the familiar face. “Oh, Layla? Yeah. Aw, is that her kitty?”

“Layla?” Chris' eyes widened a bit before he sipped his drink. “We met her at Larri’s party, right?”

Matt nodded. “She’s so cool. And guess what?”

There was a pause that silenced the space before Chris furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t like when you do that shit.”

Matt looked around confused. “What?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Fucking say ‘guess what?’ and pause for an answer like we’re in a fucking episode of Dora The Explorer. Just say what you wanna say.” He took a bite of his pizza as he finished his statement, and Nick could be heard chuckling from across the table.

Matt rolled his own eyes before biting his slice. “Anyways” he moved swiftly on, “Layla DMed me the day after the party and said she plays Pokemon Go!, so she added me as a friend. She sent me a Gift and-”

“I deadass do not give a fuck about your game, bro.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “But it’s cool that you guys hung out a little.”

Nick’s eyes looked over at Chris, and he noticed the hint of scarlet painted on his cheeks. He never said a word though, as not to make Chris feel pressured to say how he felt in front of the two of them. He knew how Chris was when it came to girls that he liked. He didn’t want Chris to run away from someone again. So, he pocketed any questions he had about the way Chris felt about Layla to bring up for another time privately.

Instead, Nick started a new conversation. “Guys, you know how we haven’t had a guest on the podcast in a while?” The other boys nodded. “Well, I have a few options of who we could ask. I mean, I hate asking people, but at least these people are our friends. So, if they say no, we don’t have to feel awkward about it.”

Chris nodded his head. “True.”

Nick looked down at his phone and started to swipe, searching through his Notes app to bring up his list of potential guests. “Okay, so we have Vinnie Hacker first. We met him earlier this year and he seemed pretty cool.”

Matt chuckled under his breath. “The internet would fucking freak if he did a video with us.”

Chris sipped his Pepsi and smirked. “Just imagine the 4 Italian Stallions of the internet collabing. Wild.” His smirk began to shift to a big smile, but he noticed the two pairs of judging eyes coming from his brothers.

“Please don’t call us ‘Italian Stallions’ ever again in your life,” Nick said as he sighed. He began to go through his options again, listing a couple more influencers and a few singers and rappers that they had known until Nick finally landed onto Layla’s name. “Aaand since we brought her up before, maybe Layla. She DMed me saying that if we ever wanted to collaborate, she would be up for it. And she seems like such a sweet girl. Very opinionated, which is a plus.”

“Of course that’s a plus for you,” Matt interrupted Nick.

Nick sucked his teeth. “Okay, whatever that means. Should I text her back and ask if she’s willing to join us for this week’s pod?”

The other brothers gave each other a look before nodding in agreement. She was a Youtuber just like them. Her content was relatively similar in terms of doing random vlogs and videos with her family and friends, with the addition of makeup tutorials, fashion hauls, and other things. She would be a perfect fit.

Nick smiled. “Okay! I’ll text her right now!”, he stated and got straight to texting Layla.

“I hope she says yes,” Matt said. “Who knows? Maybe we can become friends.”

“Yeah,” Chris replied a bit dully. “Maybe.”

He hoped.

***

The boys got home later that evening and went into their respective rooms. Matt played Fortnite, Nick decided to do some editing for their next Youtube video and some computer storage cleaning, and Chris… Well, he was pacing back and forth in his room. Why was he doing this? He was thinking about Layla.

As said before, he and his brothers met Layla at Larri’s party a few weeks ago. Larri was the one who pulled her over to them, giving them her introduction in her place. She looked over at Chris, giving him the prettiest, yet shyest smile. She hugged each of his brothers, and for some reason, the hug between the two of them seemed longer than theirs. He wondered if she had done that on purpose.

Their conversation was a pretty decent one. Very normal. Flowed smoothly. Something that Chris didn’t really expect from influencers in LA. Usually, everyone in LA is trying to outdo everyone else around them, asking them things about their lives that they could probably use as ammunition later on if their “friendships” were in peril. He hated that shit so much.

But with Layla, she just felt genuine. She seemed like she wasn’t the type of person to put herself on a pedestal. She just seemed normal. That night at the party, she talked to them about normal things like what she liked to do in her spare time and that she wasn’t necessarily a party person anyway. Chris learned she was a few years older than him, was from North Carolina (thank God, another East-Coaster, he thought to himself, relieved), had some siblings, and had a black and white cat named Knight. He remembers her pretty-sounding, delicate voice telling her, “I would let you meet him one day,” ending her statement with the cutest, shyest chuckle.

And Layla was fucking gorgeous, too. Her deep brown eyes were warm and inviting. He couldn’t stop looking into them the night they met. She had the cutest little button nose, pretty lips, and a great sense of style that he honestly envied.

She was just so perfect. He didn’t know much about her personally yet, but he was absolutely ready to learn more.

Actually, was he ready? If he was actually ready, he wouldn’t be pacing back and forth in his room the way he was now. His heart wouldn’t be pounding the way it was now. He wouldn’t be trying to script what to say to her in his head right now. Fuck…

***

There was a knock on Nick’s bedroom door.

Nick took his headphones off and rested them around his neck. “Yes?”

“Hey,” Chris said to Nick as he slowly creaked the door open. “I just,” he sighed and shook his head to ease himself a bit, “I can’t sleep.”

Nick’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but he didn’t question Chris any further. “You can come sleep with me,” he suggested, noticing the anxiety in his brother’s face as Chris opened his bedroom door. They had slept in the same room before, so this wasn’t any weird to him. He shuffled to one side of his bed to make room for Chris, clearing off anything on that side and placing it on his nightstand. “What’s wrong?”

Chris sighed. “I don’t know. I know I’m a bit anxious, I just don’t know what’s making me feel that way.” He couldn’t look up at Nick; something made him feel too embarrassed to look him in the eyes.

Nick looked over at Chris with a concerned expression. “Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?”

Chris shook his head and sighed.

“Good, because I would’ve kicked their ass.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “Is there something coming up that you’re nervous about?”

His brother seemed to jump at the last question, as if he was caught red-handed. “Well, kinda-sorta.” Chris brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, a sort of self-soothing gesture.

“Kinda-sorta?” Nick chuckled. “What is it? The meeting with Laura tomorrow morning?”

“No…” Chris’s face hid in his knees. “The other thing tomorrow…”

Nick sat for a moment to think before suddenly remembering recording a podcast episode with Layla on that day. “The podcast episode with Layla?”

Chris nodded, still hiding his face. “Mhm.”

“What? Why?” Before Chris even responded, Nick’s memories suddenly flashed back to the time at the pizza shop. Chris seemed so smitten by her being brought up. The way his face reddened, the way he tried to seem not as interested as he actually was- it all made sense. And now was the time he could ask him about it.

“Chris…” He threw one of his arms around Chris’s upper back and placed the hand onto his shoulder, “I feel like I know why you’re so nervous about that.”

Chris’s head jolted from between his knees, and he brought his eyes to look into Nick’s, his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. “Yeah, I like her. A lot. Which is weird because I’ve only met her once. But, I don’t even know how to express that. Do I even like her?”

Nick rubbed Chris’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re good. I understand what you’re saying.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Chris said, sighing as he leaned into Nick’s body.

“No, I’m not.” Nick paused. “Well, kinda? But, that doesn’t mean what you’re feeling is invalid.”

Chris didn’t respond.

Nick continued, “Listen, you liking her after meeting her in-person once isn’t a bad or weird thing. It’s just the way you feel, which is valid and genuine. I personally wouldn’t say you’re ‘in love’ with her yet. It’s a crush. But, you just need to talk to her to get to know her more. Maybe that will help you assess your feelings better.”

“But, how?” Chris silently yelled, throwing his arms down onto the mattress in frustration. “I can’t just walk up to her tomorrow and be like, ‘Hey, I think I like you, but I don’t really know yet. Can I please get to know you so that I can get back to you with updates later?’”

An imaginary lightbulb went off in Nick’s head. “I have an idea.”

Chris sighed. “Like what?”

Nick became giddy over the plan he had and immediately went into details. “Okay, so she’s coming over tomorrow. How about I find some way to make you guys spend time together? Alone. Without me and Matt.”

Chris looked at Nick puzzled. “How would that happen? Wouldn’t that be awkward?”

“Not if the excuse is reasonable!” Nick grinned.

Chris chuckled. “And what’s the excuse you have in mind?”

Nick scratched the back of his head, chuckling nervously as he processed Chris’s question. “I… uh… haven’t come up with one yet. But, when it does come up, trust me, it will be great!”

“Y’know what, Nick?” Chris smirked. That’s not that dumb of an idea.”

Nick smiled back. “I would prefer a ‘Nick, you’re such a mastermind’, but I guess this suffices.”

“Suffices?”

Nick’s smile immediately dropped and he rolled his eyes. “Ugh, just go to bed.”

“You’re not gonna cuddle with me?” Chris asked, pouting and making grabby-hands like a child that needed physical affection from their parents.

“What is up with you and pouting lately? And no, I’m doing something on my computer. You’ll be okay.”

Chris sighed and turned to face the other side of the room. He curled himself into a comfortable position, and managed to fall asleep soundly. That talk with Nick definitely calmed him down a bit.

Nick looked over to his brother and smiled, rubbing Chris’s back as he felt him sleep soundly. Fuck, I gotta think of the plan…, he thought.

***

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The sound of Layla’s alarm went off, and Layla awakened from her deep sleep, her hand reaching out to turn it off. Today was the day of her collaboration with the triplets, and she was not wasting any time to put herself together.

She quickly did her morning routine, using the best-looking products she had and wore her best makeup. She went to her closet and pulled out her best outfit. Her cat Knight walked over to his bag of food, as he usually did in the morning, which Layla knew was his signal to feed him. As soon as she walked over, he meowed and stared at her as she poured his food into his bowl. She looked down at him and the smile on her face went away as she realized she would have to be away from him for the day.

Layla lived alone after moving from South Carolina to LA, and usually she would have one of her LA friends watch him. Unfortunately, they were all pretty busy, so she didn’t have anyone. So, she thought of an idea. “Hey, Knighty. You wanna come with mommy to work?”

Knight looked up at her and meowed.

Layla pulled out her phone and facetimed Nick. After a few rings, he picked up the phone with a smile on his face. She could hear rustling and the clanging of metal in the background from Nick’s side.

“Oh, sorry about the noise. The washing machine is broken so we’re trying to fix it- Chris, no, don’t hammer the fucking outlet, are you dumb?!”

“It’s coming out of the wall!” Chris could be heard responding in the background.

“No, put the fucking hammer down!!” Nick could be seen leaving the frame of his camera, followed by a small slapping sound, which Layla could assume that he slapped Chris. “We don’t even need a hammer!”

Layla chuckled before Nick came back on frame. “Sorry about that, Layla. Chris was being a complete idiot,” he visibly rolled his eyes, “So what’s up?”

“Okay, so I have a bit of a problem…”

Nick’s eyes widened a bit. “Uh-oh, what’s wrong?”

“So I don’t have anyone to watch my cat, and I don’t wanna leave him alone. So…”

“OH MY GOD!” Matt’s face popped up on screen over Nick’s shoulder. “Please bring him over! I wanna meet him so bad… Please?”

His slightly whiny tone of voice amused Layla. “Only if all of you are fine with it. I don’t just wanna bring some random animal at your ho-”

“Please… I swear Chris is fine with it, right Chris?” He paused to look away from the camera, presumably to look at Chris for a response, then turned back to face the screen, “Yep, he’s okay with it! And I know Nick is, too.” Matt looked down at Nick, rubbing his shoulder slightly forcefully in a way to persuade him.

Nick swatted Matt’s hand from his shoulder. “Yes, you can bring him over. You didn’t have to ask, but thanks for doing it anyway. Some people would have a pet snake and just bring it over without asking like a weirdo.” He smiled at the screen.

Layla smiled back, “Thank you, guys. I'll be seeing you later!”

Then there was a loud thud. “Matt…” Nick’s eyes glared off-camera. “Anyways, see ya later, Layla!” He smiled and waved until the call ended.

Layla went on the rest of the morning thinking about what would happen later. She was so excited to see the boys again and get to know them. Especially Chris.

She first watched the brothers last year when she came across a compilation of their funny moments on Tiktok. They were so funny, and she could relate to them with so many opinions and ideas.

When she met the brothers for the first time at Larri’s party, they were so nice to her and had such a great vibe. But Chris was unique. He immediately stood out to her. His energy, his charisma, his pretty face, his smile, his style- they all made her melt. He even smelled so fucking good, despite the “stinky” jokes that his brothers teased him about all the time. She couldn’t wait to smell him again.

***

Layla finally made it to the boys’ house, and she texted them of her arrival. She stepped out of the Uber with Knight’s crate in her hand, and walked down their yard, where she finally saw Nick standing outside waiting for her. He smiled so brightly and immediately extended his arms for a hug.

“Oh my god, hey!!” He said as he hugged her. “How are you? You look great, by the way!”

Layla smiled. “Thank you so much! You look good too!” She replied. “I’ve been alright, work’s just been taking up some of my free time. But otherwise, things have been fine.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I know you edit all your videos, and I definitely know how exhausting that is. Unfortunately, those two don’t know how to fuckin’ edit”, he rolled his eyes playfully at the mention of his brothers before continuing, “And you’ve been traveling a lot too, so that’s double exhausting.” He chuckled, making her let out a small giggle in tandem. “Well, I won’t keep you standing outside in this heat for any longer.”

Standing like a proud magician introducing his opening act as he opened the house’s door, Nick exclaimed with the widest grin on his face, “And welcome to our humble abode!”

Layla put Knight’s cage down and looked up at the sight. It had a modern look to it, a monochrome color scheme, and little things of the boys’ that scattered in the living room and on the kitchen island. Their home was sweet and simple, but the real charm was the fact that she instantly felt safe there. Something about it, whether it was the smell of clean linen with a hint of cologne, or the little items that you could figure out which belonged to which sibling, or if it was the simple fact that it was owned by these three well-mannered men, Layla just instantly felt safe. And she could tell that her cat felt this same security as well, as he had made a straight B-line to their couch as soon as she opened his cage, laying on one of the throw pillows and getting himself comfortable as if he were at his own home.

It was something about Layla’s presence that made Chris feel safe as well. He didn’t know her for a long time, of course. It was weird, but it just felt normal. She felt normal. She wasn’t some crazy obsessed fan who knew his every move, how many pairs of shoes he owned, or what his favorite Lil Skies song was. She was just a normal girl who happened to do a similar job to him. A normal girl with the most beautiful face that he wished he could stare at for a very long time. Was he the weirdo? Maybe.

“Hey Layla!” Matt said as he walked down the stairs, Chris following right behind him.

Chris smiled slightly, nervousness creeping up his spine as he inched closer to Layla and Nick.

“Hey, guys!” Layla walked up to Matt as he walked into the living room and they shared a quick hug. “How’ve you been, Matt?”

Matt smiled. “Everything’s fine with me…” He started to look around as if he were looking for something.

“Knight’s over there, Matt,” Nick said with a deadpan tone, pointing towards the couch. It was quite comedic for Layla to see Matt be interested in the cat more than anything else in that moment.

Matt’s eyes widened as well as his smile as he walked straight towards the couch and sat down beside the cat. He put his hand in front of Knight’s nose to allow him to get used to his scent. After a couple of sniffs, Knight nuzzled Matt’s hand and climbed onto his lap, getting right back to sleep as Matt stroked his fur.

Layla smiled at the sight. “Aw, that’s too cute! I’ll have to take a photo!”

Nick replied, “I’ll take one and send it to you.”

“Thank you!” Layla responded before turning to face Chris, who stood awkwardly as if he were caught doing something naughty.

And to some extent, he was doing something naughty. He stared at her the entire time through Matt and Knight’s wholesome interaction. He loved seeing how heartfelt she was at the sight. Her eyes smiled alongside her beautiful lips. When she turned back around to face him, he shot his face down towards the ground feeling guilty, hence the awkward pose.

Layla walked up to Chris with extended arms and hugged him tightly, their embrace lasting longer than the ones she shared with Nick and Matt, and quite similar to the hugs they shared at Larri’s party.

Nick watched Chris and Layla’s hug, a smile hidden between his lips. He didn’t want to make it obvious how much he knew of Chris’s feelings for her. It would ruin his whole plan of getting them together in the first place.

“How’ve you been, Layla?” Chris asked, his voice having a bit of a flirty tone that he hoped she didn’t pick up on.

Layla did pick up on it. She thought it was sexy since the first time she watched him in videos, and thought it was even sexier in person. She replied to his question the same way she replied to Nick’s earlier, but reciprocated a tinge of the same flirtatiousness underneath. “I’ve been good. Kinda tired because of work, but overall I’m okay.”

Chris smirked warmly. “That’s good. Glad to see you again.”

Layla nodded and gulped at the sight of his smirk- it was hot. “Y-you, too.”

After this, Nick and Layla walked around the living room and kitchen area, having a mini chat and a tiny tour of the areas, while Matt and Chris walked upstairs to the podcast room. They made sure the room was spick-and-span for their guest beforehand, but they just wanted to do a little check-up of their set-up before the podcast session officially started.

“She seems so sweet. I’m glad she said yes to this.” Matt wiped down the table with a disinfecting towel, smiling to himself as he thought of how well the day would go.

Chris distractedly responded. “Yeah…”

Matt picked up on Chris’s distracted tone and looked over at him. He noticed the concerning nervous look on his face. “You alright, Chris?”

“Yeah,” he answered a bit irritated, “I’m good, Matt.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “I was just askin’. Get the stick outta your ass.”

Chris sighed. “Sorry, I’m just focusing right now.”

“Focusing on… dusting?”

Chris looked down at the duster in his hand and rolled his eyes as he put it down. “No,” he paused for a moment to think of a better excuse than admitting his crush on Layla, “I’m focusing on the podcast questions we’re gonna ask Layla.” Perfect.

Matt chuckled, “Well that’s a first. You never think of the questions.”

“Well, maybe I’m growing,” Chris said with a smile at the end. He felt bad to lie to Matt, but with Nick knowing of his secret, telling Matt would feel like too much.

“Ooookay?” Matt reacted confused, but went along with it as they continued to prepare the room.

***

Throughout the filming of the episode, Layla could feel Chris’s gaze on her, like the heat of a fire warming against her skin. Everytime she looked over at him, his blue eyes, piercing yet soft, would be directed towards her. All of her answers to his questions as well as his brothers’ weren’t left unanswered. She could feel that he was actually interested in whatever she had to say.

And he was truly intrigued by the conversations they were having, never missing a beat to interject on a topic that he felt passionate about. That’s what Layla loved about him: his passion. She loved how hype he would get whenever they spoke on things he enjoyed like music, food, and their childhoods. His body would shift and jolt in a way that really portrayed how excited he was about those topics, and Layla was elated to see it.

However, Chris did notice that whenever he was the one to speak to Layla, whether it was asking her questions or interjecting his own opinions that he had hoped she picked up on, Layla would stumble on her words. He didn’t think it was any sort of nervousness, and definitely did not suspect the stuttering to be caused by her being frustrated with some sort of crush on him that he didn’t know about (although that absolutely was the reason why she stuttered). But he thought her stammering, especially in their interactions, was adorable regardless and didn’t mind it.

The four of them went on to discuss their favorite places and pastimes in their hometowns, how it compared to LA life, and interjecting some funny (more so embarrassing) moments from their lives in the conversations. The boys asked questions about Layla’s influencer career and how her life’s journey had been to this point as well as her plans for the future. It wasn’t a bad video at all.

***

The podcast finally ended. Nick rose from his seat, taking a couple of stretches before finally standing to put his sneakers back on. Matt followed in suit, holding his cup in his hand, making sure not to spill the contents of it as he picked up his sweater from beside him. Chris noticed his brothers gathering their contents and his eyebrow rose. “Where are you two going?”

Matt zipped his hoodie up and dug his empty in his pocket searching for his keys. “Nick texted me during the pod and said that he wanted to go to Chick-Fil-A for some food.”

“I got the munchies,” Nick inserted.

Layla stood up from her seat and grabbed her purse. “Oh, okay, I’ll follow you guys, if that’s okay. I’m kind of hungry-”

Nick quickly looked over at Layla and suggested, “No, no, no! You can stay here!” He noticed the anxiousness of his voice and quickly cleared his throat before continuing, “Me and Matt will get the food. You’re our guest, right?”

Layla nodded, albeit a bit confused by the suggestion.

Nick smiled. “Yeah, soooo,” elongating the “so” for emphasis, “you can stay here! Chris will take care of you. Right, Chris?”

Chris’s cheeks became a sharp shade of red after processing what his brother had said. Take care of her? What the fuck was Nick saying? Noticing everyone’s eyes on him as he was stunned by Nick’s words, Chris cleared his throat and replied, “Yeah, Layla. I’ll stay here with you.”

Layla was just as stunned by what was happening- moreso, what was about to happen. She was going to be left alone. With Chris. The guy she’d been thinking about since she first met him. No, she was thinking about him since she first came across his content. And now they’re alone. Together. In his house. And he looks good. And smells good. And-

The sound of the door squeaking open interrupted her thoughts. “‘Kay, guys, see ya later! Don’t freak Layla out too much, Chris,” Nick said.

“Shut up!” Chris snapped back at his brother jokingly, watching him and Matt leave before hearing the door shut.

It was just the two of them now. Chris and Layla.Together. Alone.

And yet, silence.

Until Chris said, “Hey.”

Layla smiled. “Hey.”

They were still sitting across from each other still in the podcast room, so there was no way for them not to notice each other’s presence.

Chris didn’t want to ignore her anyway. It would be rude of him to go on his phone and distract himself. She was a guest- he had to be a good enough host for her. Also, how could he ignore such a beautiful lady in front of him? He had to say something. “So, what do you wanna do?”

Layla shifted in her seat, making herself comfortable- or at least trying to. “I don’t know.” She chuckled to herself. “What do you wanna do?”

Ugh, why would she phrase the question back to me??, He thought. “Um… Well, I don’t know. Maybe we can just talk?”

“About what?” Layla lifted an eyebrow curiously.

Chris’s cheeks started to tint with red. “Maybe…” he raised a finger as he came up with an idea, “20 Questions?”

Layla laughed, and the reaction caused Chris’s cheeks to redden even more with embarrassment. He tried to cover it up with an explanation. “I know, it’s a stupid idea but maybe it can help us get to know each other personally? Unless you don’t want to-”

“Okay, go for it.” Layla smiled as she leaned back in her chair, now sitting as if she was ready for any questions he would hit her with.

Chris was shocked at her readiness. “Oh, wow, okay!” He bit his lip as the gears started to turn in his head, and the screwing of his face made Layla blush. “I gotta think of a question…” He took - couple of seconds and then-

“Alright,” the boy started. “What was your first impression of me?” Chris asked, leaning back into his chair similarly to her, and smirked. A ballsy question, yes, but one he was genuinely curious about.

Layla turned her head away from him slightly to avoid the sight of his smirk. Every fucking face he makes is so sexy, she thought to herself. “First impression? Like in person or in videos?”

Chris tried to keep eye contact with her, tilting his head a bit forward to get back in her field of view. “Either.” He shrugged, not out of disinterest, but rather the opposite, absolutely wanting to hear both perspectives of her thoughts.

She smiled as she thought about him. “I thought you were a good guy. At least when I started watching the videos.”

He raised one of his eyebrows, but the smirk remained as he let out a small scoff. “Just a ‘good guy’?”

Layla shifted her legs in her seat, the scoff and smirk combo making her a bit… aroused. “Okay, a great guy. Is that better?”

Chris laughed. “I’ll take it.” He paused before continuing, “And in person?” Here’s where it gets juicy.

Layla chuckled involuntarily out of nervousness before she answered. “You were bigger than I expected.”

Chris looked at her curiously. “Bigger?” He thought for a moment and then chuckled. He had the urge to make a joke, a rather inappropriate one along the lines of ‘you know what else is big?’, but the urge quickly subsided and led to a teasing question. “What- did you think I was that short?”

Layla immediately defended herself. “No, no! You just seem so… ‘skinny white boy from the Northeast’-esque. If that makes sense. Like Timothee Chalamet, y’know?”

“Hm. Okay,” he replied, but kept up the teasing aura. “ So you mean bigger as in more muscular? Or bigger as in thicker… like I got a fat ass?”

Layla rolled her eyes. “Let’s go with the first one ‘cause that second one is a reach.”

Chris fake-frowned. “You don’t think I got cake?”

Layla scoffed. “Shut up! Just take the compliment!”

Chris laughed as he felt Layla kick him playfully under the table. “I’ll tell you what I first thought about you.”

Layla placed her elbows on the table and put her face in her hands as she looked at Chris intriguingly. “Ooh, I’m excited.”

Chris’s teasing smirk softened into a warm smile as he began to think of the times he first came across her and her content. “Well, I knew of you before Larri’s party through little clips of you on TikTok. You just had this inviting smile and warm energy that automatically drew me in. I would see you in little funny compilations from your vlogs and GRWM videos, and your humor was kinda similar to mine. I was intrigued by you. And that’s when I started watching your videos.”

As he spoke, Layla thought about how she came across him- literally almost the same way. It was interesting. A coincidence? Maybe. A lot of people around their age come across people like that. But it was cute regardless.

Chris went on. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about when I watch your makeup tutorials or fashion try-on hauls or whatever…” he let out a small laugh then continued, “But I don’t mind it. Just your energy, your laughter, your beauty- both inside and out- were enough to get me hooked on you.”

It seemed as if Chris was genuinely pouring his heart out. “And in person, whoaaaa,” he leaned back in his chair in a way that emphasized his whoa, “The first time I met you in person, your beauty was just 10 times more intense. Like, you were pretty on my phone screen, but in person? Right up close? Wow. Amazing.” His cheeks tinted red again. “And you’re a great hugger. Your perfume just stayed in my nose for days after that.”

Chris was so caught up in his proclamation that when he finally noticed the girl’s beautiful cheeks becoming tinted with blush, he stopped himself from getting deeper and called her out jokingly to cut the tension. “You’re blushing!”

Layla lowered her head when she saw his finger point at her. “Blushing? I’m brown-skinned, how could you tell?”

“Your cheeks are a bit of a…” he leaned in closer to her, and she could definitely feel the heat now; it was obvious to the both of them, “They’re a chestnut color. Mahogany, if you will.”

“‘Mahogany if you will’”, Layla couldn’t help but mock the words from his lips. “You’re stupid, you know that?”

“Yeah?” He leaned back against his chair. “Is that another trait about me that you forgot to mention?”

She nodded and a teasing grin popped up on her face. Yes, she was teasing him now, but the grin was a bit more of a facade as to how she truly felt in that moment: aroused.

It was almost as if Chris knew of her growing desire as he continued to press her. “And what else?”

Layla noticed the same stupid, smug smirk on his face as he egged her on. “You’re stupid, and sloppy, and weird.”

“Uh-huh…” His irises seemed to grow darker as the tension between them became more palpable. “What else? Any positives?”

Silence.

“I’m waiting.” He sang in a teasing tone.

“Well, you’re…” One of Chris’s eyebrows rose in intrigue as she continued, “… creative.”

“Thank you! Well, I was waiting for ‘handsome’, but ‘creative’ is good enough.” He suddenly realized his flirtatious nature and questioned himself, What the fuck am I saying?

“‘Good enough?’” Layla scoffed playfully. “Well I’ll give you something even better than handsome then, since you’re so desperate.” She stood up suddenly and walked towards him, bending herself down to face him up close. She leaned into his ear, her breath brushing by the skin of its helix. “You’re sexy.”

What the fuck. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck- was all that repeated in Chris’s mind. What. The. Fuck. Sexy? Me??

As if reading his mind, Layla added, “Yeah. You’re sexy. Your eyes, your lips- even your nose is sexy,” Layla’s tone sounded like she was admitting this nonchalantly, but as she realized the impact of her statements, her eyes began to widen and her heartbeat gradually sped up.

“Damn.” That’s all Chris could say at that moment. One explicative that was enough to express his shock. Damn. His eyes widened and if he didn’t have some sort of control of his reaction, his jaw would’ve fallen to the floor.

He fully faced her as he turned his body around, his nose now nearly touching hers. Their faces were nearly centimeters apart. If a kiss didn’t happen now, there wouldn’t be another chance.

So Chris kissed her. His lips pressed against her abruptly, yet with a hint of tenderness that allowed Layla to feel comfortable and not pressured to reciprocate it. Layla leaned into the kiss, her eyes closed and lips enveloped into the passion of the moment. Although the kiss lasted at most 10 seconds before Chris pulled away, there was an undeniable spark between them and a force that almost pulled them back into each other again. Almost.

Chris moved his head backward to look at Layla and her reaction to his sudden action. She looked pleased, but he wanted to really make sure. Really, really make sure. His hand caressed her face with a gentle touch, his thumb rubbing her cheek.

“Just fucking kiss me again”, Layla said in response, rolling her eyes at the boy before she could feel his hand grip onto her jaw and pull her into his lips. They were soft and tasted like cherry lip balm, the flavor shocking Layla, but she didn’t mind as she melted into his grasp and allowed him to take a hold of her face and mind. She then climbed on top of him, her legs now wrapped around his waist as she sat on his lap.

Chris’s hands felt an urge to roam her body like they were already on her face, but he controlled himself, not wanting to cross any boundaries without her permission. Feeling heated, he began to remove his sweater and Layla helped him with this as she saw him struggle with his movements as he focused on the passion of the kiss.

Chris sighed as they pulled away from their kiss for a second to process what was happening. “Fuck, I haven’t kissed anyone like that in a while. I feel so…”

“So what?”

“So… good. Layla, I need you. Fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Chris,” Layla placed her hand on his chin, rubbing it in soft movements in a subtle way to soothe him. She could tell he was getting a bit anxious. But she could also feel how much he wanted to move the moment even further. “Chris, you’re okay. You’re with me, alright? Do you need me?”

Chris nodded, not being able to say much other than a “mm-hm”.

“Tell me what exactly you need me to do. I’ll take care of you,” Layla pressed her forehead against his and stared into his eyes, making sure that any changes in his face weren’t due to any discomfort or unease. “I promise, I will take care of you. Just tell me what you need.”

Chris’s breath hitched in his throat. He never thought he would get this nervous about a girl. Like ever. At least not in a long time. But, Layla? Fuck, she was something else. He watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed at a slow pace, which he took as a signal in his own consciousness to control his own breathing and relax. He would need to if he really wanted this moment to progress. “I need you to make me feel good. I need you to feel good, too.”

Layla began to move her hips back and forth against Chris’s lap, small breaths of pleasure escaping her lips as the ache between her legs was now being soothed by his touch. He watched her for a minute, taking the time to really process what was happening. His hands slowly started to grasp her hips, not yet applying pressure, but just holding onto her to get used to the way she felt in his hands. The girl bit her lip and started to whimper as she grinded down with more desperation, which Chris took as a sign to kiss her forehead and her cheek to soothe her a bit. He looked into her eyes and bit his own lip, nodding as he watched her pleasure herself with his body. “There you go… you look so pretty like that.”

Layla moaned in response at his praise, and Chris smiled as he began to help her grind on his lap, his hands gripping onto her hips and moving them back and forth. Their breathing escalated, sending them both in a spiral as they started to both find an orgasm subconsciously.

But Chris stepped out of the moment as soon as he felt himself nearing the precipice. He didn’t want to end this moment prematurely. “Get on your knees,” was all he instructed her as his eyebrows furrowed in sexual frustration. He wanted to make this beautiful girl in front of him unravel herself before he would with the limited amount of time they had alone together.

His sudden request caught Layla off guard, causing her eyes to widen and her actions to freeze. She looked at him in a way that she could recalibrate herself to actually take his commands, and finally did, getting off of him and settling onto her knees. Her widened eyes looked into his again, awaiting for another command. Something about the man in front of her and the situation they were in made her desire to be submissive in this moment.

Layla began to pull his pants down to his ankles but left his boxers by his thighs for precaution if someone happened to walk in. She wouldn’t wanna traumatize his brothers with the sight of her gagging on his dick.

“Yeah, pull my dick out, fuck…” He threw his head back as he felt the air of the room hit his bare cock. “Fuckkk…” He needed to feel her lips around him- or anything for that matter- right now.

Layla immediately started to rub his shaft, both of her hands around it as she began to move them up and down. She gathered some of the precum leaking from his tip to lubricate him somehow, but it wasn’t enough for Chris.

“Spit on my dick, please,” he requested with pouty lips, his head still thrown back, but his fingers found their way in Layla’s hair for some sort of comfort. “Just spit on it-” her saliva landed on his dick and she began to rub it in- “Good girl…” He ran his fingers through her hair in appraisal.

“Look at that pretty fuckin’ face…” Chris purred as he brought the same hand down in her hair down to caress her jaw, his thumb rubbing soothingly against her cheek. He noticed her looking back at the door repeatedly when she first kneeled down, and wanted to reassure her. “I see you wanting to look at the door, but don’t worry about anyone barging in here. We’ll hear the front door from up here when they get back,” he explained to further comfort her before getting her to do anything further.

Layla smiled and nodded at Chris as she continued to massage his shaft, causing him to bring his hand back to her hair and tug on it a bit. “O-okay,” he stammered, “I want you to suck me off, okay? Use those cute fuckin’ lips of yours on my dick.”

He watched as the woman kneeling before him wrapped her plump, glossed lips around the head of his dick, the contact making him unconsciously buck into her mouth a bit deeper than they both expected. He quickly stabilized himself onto the chair and anchored his feet on the ground, hoping to control his body from making that mistake again.

Layla began to bob her head up and down his shaft, each and every repetitive motion causing him to wince and groan in pleasure. It was a pleasure he hadn’t felt from another person in a while; a pleasure he had to mimic with his own right hand, the same right hand he was using to grip onto Layla’s hair. He was in bliss, but he knew he couldn’t be there for a long time.

In realization of their limited time, Chris started to apply force with the hand gripping her hair, helping her to bob on his dick with more vigor. He bit his lip and curled his toes in his shoes as he could feel her tongue dance around the skin of his shaft, exciting every nerve that existed there. When the tip of her tongue would find its way back to the tip of his dick, licking around the hole, now that was heaven. And her lips? Fuck. Plump, cushiony, comfortable, kissable. He didn’t know what she was wearing that made them feel so warm, almost spicy, whenever she kissed his dick. Maybe it was that lip plumper she said she liked to wear in one of those old videos she did? Regardless, it was working its magic.

Layla felt equally as pleased, the feeling of his dick in her mouth making her moan and salivate around him. She knew she couldn’t get too sloppy since at any moment, anyone could walk through the doors and ruin her moment. But the feeling of his warm and slightly salty length and the outline of the veins that adorned it were enough to keep her going.

“Oh, you’re too good at this, baby,” he complimented her with a moan as she continued her movements. “Wish I got to feel you do this sooner. Feels like this is what I’ve been missing out on my whole life- Ah!” He let out a small yelp as Layla took it upon herself to bring his tip to the back of her throat.

Layla held him in the back of her throat, thrusting her head up and down to let him hit the opening of her esophagus. She let out little coughs as she did this, and her legs opened wider underneath her, allowing her to play with herself as she grew more hungry to feel him inside of her pussy.

Chris brought his head up from its laid back position and noticed her hand repeating circular motions between her sprawled out legs. He snickered, clearly entertained by her desperate attempts to please herself. “‘You having fun down there, princess?”

Layla only moaned in response as she continued to deepthroat him and grind against her fingers at once. The sound of her moan was heaven, and he wanted to open the gates in her pussy to hear even more.

“Okay, princess, this feels good and all but,” he used his hand to guide her off of his dick, her lips making a pop as they let him go, “I wanna fuck you so badly. And I know you want me too, right Layla?”

Layla moaned, “Uh-huh, please?” She couldn’t get many words out in her current state, but the blissed-out look on her face and the lust in her eyes spoke for her. She pouted at him as she watched him stand up from his chair, studying his body and face to figure out what they would do next.

Chris grasped both of her hands with his, helping her up from her knees. He quickly grabbed her face and kissed her, his lips missing the feeling of hers on them. Before she could even get comfortable in the kiss, he shifted her body so that she was now bent over the podcast table. Her pretty back and ass were the only thing in his view, and it was delectable.

Chris held onto his cock as he positioned it in front of her pussy’s entrance. He rubbed it between the lips, teasing her hole with his cockhead. Layla backed herself up against him and whined, wanting to feel him inside of her as the ache between her legs couldn’t handle the teasing any longer. But Chris shushed her and slapped his dick against her clit a couple of times, almost in some way to punish her, causing her body to jolt and her mouth to let out a little cry. “Shh, it’s okay. You’ll get it; just relax, mama.”

Layla bit her lip as she felt him tease her a bit more, constantly pushing only the tip in and then pulling it out just before her pussy could even grasp him. She whined and moaned and whimpered some more until finally, he pushed himself inside.

The girl let out a long, drawled moan, probably one of the loudest she’d ever made, and Chris groaned at the sensations happening around him. From the sound of the moan, to the feeling of her pussy wrapping around him and coating his dick, to the sight of this girl’s beautiful body, he didn’t know if he would last long.

Chris began his thrusts in her, staccato with a slightly fast tempo, which filled the room with noises of bodies interlocking with each other in a hungry dance of desire. Her ass made little ripples that made contact with his pelvis, and that was a delicious sight to see. Chris groaned and cursed underneath his breath as he felt her pussy tighten around him more with every second that passed. The feeling of her walls gliding against him caused a friction that heated up his entire body.

Layla was in a trance. She moaned with every thrust and leaned her face and upper body against the table as she felt her body not have control anymore. Chris’s thrusts were what she had hoped from him: exuberant and needy, but with a subtle praising hit against her G-spot that made her feel like the luckiest woman on Earth. In the chase of her nearing orgasm, Layla started to thrust back into him, matching her movements with his own.

The man noticed this and slapped one of her buttocks, making Layla yelp underneath him. He repeated this a couple more times, wanting to hear her beautiful cries like he was hitting the replay button of his favorite song. “Fuck, Layla, throw that fucking ass back on me, yes,” he moaned, bringing another slap to the already sore skin of the right side of her ass. “You’re just too fuckin’ pretty, you know that?” Chris asked rhetorically, and he leaned his body over Layla’s, his chest now to her back. One of his hands gripped her jaw, which was wet with some drool that ran from her o-shaped lips, and the other on her shoulder as he continued to make sharp thrusts against her G-spot. She tightened around him at his praise almost instantly, causing Chris to wince and tighten his clasp against her face. “Prettier when I’m balls deep inside of you, too.”

Layla moaned, doing her ever-best to throw herself back onto him. The contact of their skin became louder as the impact grew harder. She was close to her first orgasm.

And Chris knew this, as he felt her clench around him even tighter and saw her body thrust into him more impatiently. Chris couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t handle her. The way she felt against him, the way she moaned, the way her head would tilt backwards and he could see her eyes roll back in pleasure and a little drool run down from her mouth and onto the hand grasping her jaw- it was all too much. He did his best to hold back his orgasm, though. He wanted to make his pretty girl feel good. She deserved it. He bit his lip and then encouraged her, “Let it out for me, Layla… Let yourself go for me, okay?” He brought his hand, once gripped to her jaw, down underneath her stomach and its fingers found themselves between her legs, rubbing her clit to aid in her search for her orgasm.

Then, finally, she threw her head back and moaned loudly as she came around him. Chris noticed the cream that slid down his shaft as he began to pull out of her slowly, and if didn’t have control of himself, he would have cum from that sight alone.

But, Chris turned Layla’s body around and lifted her on top of the table, making her lay down and spread out for him as he got her ready for their next position. He checked the clock in the corner of the room for a second, seeing the time read 5:36. It’s been 20 minutes, which was longer than his brother’s usually took for a run to Chick-Fil-A, but he couldn’t help but to think that his and Layla’s extended period of alone time was all due to Nick’s impeccable plan. He owed Nick one for real.

Chris’s attention went back onto Layla as he gazed into her lustful eyes. She was still having her orgasm the way she was biting her lip and holding back a moan, and this made him chuckle to himself. He didn’t know he could make a pretty girl cum like that.

He leaned down and kissed Layla again, feigning thrusts between the lips of her pussy with his dick as he sucked her tongue. Layla moaned into the kiss, and Chris almost seemed to inhale her sounds of pleasure as he kissed her.

He removed his lips from her mouth and looked down, puckering them to spit onto her pussy. He tapped his dick against her pussy as he had done minutes before to tease her again, but he didn’t want to take long as it backfired and caused him to tease himself. So, he finally placed himself back inside of her cavern and moaned at the feeling of her wrapping herself around him again.

Layla cried out a moan and threw her head back as he started his thrusts again. She grasped her tits which were still covered by her shirt, and let out a “fuck” as she began to play with then.

Chris noticed her actions and helped her, pulling her shirt down and making her tits pop out from above it, and guided her hand back onto her tits with his own hands grasping onto hers. They both played with breasts in tandem, bringing a new-founded level of intimacy to their heated fuck session.

Suddenly, Layla’s fingers removed themselves from gripping her breasts to fully interlock with Chris’s hands. Chris’s heart jumped as he looked down and saw her do this. He didn’t expect it. He didn’t expect her to be so romantic in the midst of their sex. But, he loved it. Did this mean that she wanted to be romantic with him? Was she hinting at this being more than just about the sex? Or did she do this for her own comfort and self-soothing?

He felt his heart beat even faster from all of this thinking, so he distracted himself by increasing the pace of his thrusts and delving himself deeper in her warmth, feeling her tighten around him again. He then noticed her eyes open and looked into his, almost like she wanted something from him. “What else do you want me to do, mama?” He could hear Layla let out something that could have been words, but unfortunately came out as little sporadic whimpers. He watched as she ran her hand down her body and tenderly grazed against her clit, making a lightbulb go off in his head. “Rub your clit?” She moaned in response and threw her head back as Chris allowed his thumb to apply pressure and rub at her flesh. “It’s okay, I got you, baby,” he cooed.

Chris smirked as he saw her face scrunch up in pleasure as his thumb moved circles on her clit. She looked so adorable and sexy like this. “There you go! Oh, beautiful girl, look at your face! You like feeling me rub your pretty little clitty?” He heard her let out a cute whine in reply. He chuckled. “Good girl…”

Creeeaak! The entrance door of the house creaked open, and the two of them could hear the rustling of Nick and Matt walking into the house.

Chris’s face paled. “We don’t have much time, fuck.” He used the opportunity to increase his thrusts, but angled himself in a way where his skin wouldn’t slap against hers with force that could cause any loud noises.

He began to praise her more, knowing that she was a mess whenever he complimented her, and also knowing that it would make her near her orgasm faster. “You’re a pretty girl?”

Layla nodded and brought her thumb in between her teeth, biting down on it as she felt him go faster against her G-spot. “Mhm.”

Chris leaned down to her face, his nose tip-to-tip with her own, his eyes looking like they were staring directly into her soul, and the timbre of his voice verberating against her eardrums. “No, I wanna hear you fucking say it to me. Tell me you’re a pretty girl.”

“I- I-” Layla moaned quietly before she noticed Chris’s eyes becoming more frustrated as he came close to his own orgasm. She continued, “I’m a pretty girl.”

“Mm-hm, yes, you are..,” Chris agreed with a nod and a kiss, his lips missing hers due to his dazed state of nearing his climax. “Fuck, I gotta hear you cum, baby. You have such pretty moans- c’mon,” he grunted as he slapped her pussy with his fingers and then spread her pussy’s labia with his fingers.

Everything happening caused Layla’s back to arch and body to shake as she orgasmed. Chris felt her clench around him and looked down to watch the cream escape from her hole. “There you go… Good girl. Let it all out for me.”

Layla groaned as she moved her body to ride out her orgasm on Chris’s dick, causing Chris’s own body to shake. His balls clenched as he began to have his orgasm, but he made sure to pull out before making any of his cum slip inside of her. His white liquid shot out onto the outside of her pussy and a bit on her stomach, the feeling of it landing on her causing Layla to look down at the sight. Chris laughed quietly as he watched her. “Yeah, that feels good?” Layla nodded and he smiled proudly.

The two suddenly heard footsteps growing louder as Nick and Matt walked up the stairs. “Shit, shit, shit,” Chris grabbed a baby wipe and began to wipe her up, using a paper towel from the center of the table to dry her off. They helped each other to fix their clothes and look at least somewhat presentable.

“Hey, we’re baaack!” Nick sang as he swung the door open and walked into the room. He and Matt stood by the door, but Nick surveyed the area suspiciously, noticing the disarray of Chris’s hair and the way the table. “What are you two still doing here? Chris, I told you to make her comfortable.” He glared over at Chris, not because of Chris and Layla still in the room, but because of what he suspected happened in that room while he and Matt were away. It could take an idiot to know what happened, and unfortunately, he was Boo-Boo the Fool.

But Chris shrugged and responded to Nick’s question with zero hesitation. “Layla and I just got caught up in conversation.” He stood up and stretched, looking at Nick and Matt with a normal, unfazed face. He made sure he did his best not to look like he just had the best orgasm of his life.

And it worked, moreso when it came to Matthew. He didn’t suspect a thing, not even a hint of a crush between Chris and Layla in the first place. When he looked around the room, he noticed everybody giving each other looks and practically speaking with their eyes, but he didn’t fully understand why. So, he brushed off his confusion and spoke. “Okay, so we bought food for everybody. We can eat downstairs or in here; whatever works for you.*

“We can eat here,” Layla suggested. She looked over at Chris and noticed his entire body stiffen for a couple of seconds before he sat back down in his seat and nodded in agreement.

Nick smiled at Layla before looking at Chris, his eyebrows furrowing only a small bit at him as a hidden signal to his brother that he knew something was up. “Okay, let’s set everything up.”

Chris walked over to Nick and helped him get all of the food and drinks from the bag, before Nick gave him a small pinch on his arm. “We need to talk after this,” he whispered to him at a low pitch, so low to the point Chris could hear him growl. Chris chuckled and winked before walking off to set the table, taunting Nick in a way to tell him that he already knew what Nick wanted to talk to him about later.

All of them began to eat and shared casual conversations amongst each other, the energy of the room being calm and casual; quite the juxtaposition to how heated and desperate it felt a few minutes before Nick and Matt came back.

And Chris and Layla were very aware of this. The two shared a look that only they could understand- a certain smirk with a glint of satisfaction and requited feelings for each other in their eyes- and continued eating their food.

[loppsided]

d. lizewski as your boyfriend

summary: dating dave lizewski headcanons!

pairing: dave lizewski x fem!reader

wc: 407

warnings: smut at the end

a/n: omg!! thank you guys so much for 100 followers that so cool. but also tell me why my friend read my last fic chy im so embarrassed, if ur reading this hai heh. heres a little drabble with some smutty stuff as a filler until i can make a real fic again. likes and reblogs appreciated!

clingy as hell! this goes hand and hand with him being a jealous bf, hes always holding some part of you, because he wants people to know your his and also because he loves touching you

hes a jealous boyf cuz hes a little insecure, not growing up with a lot of female attention then bagging a beautiful girl like you can make him doubt himself

but you always reassure him, telling him hes the best thing to happen to you and he returns those feelings

you cleaning him up after he gets off patrol and him being completely covered in bruises and marks

scolding him on how dangerous being kick ass is and if he isn't gonna be more careful, you want him to stop

it taking him forever to admit to you he was kickass cause he didn't want you to judge him

comic book dates where you buy dinner and a new comic book and he tells you every detail about it

random rants while watching his favorite shows or movies on what's accurate and what's not

him sneaking into your window late at night to cuddle

him bragging to his friends about how perfect you are and how your the best girl in town

make out sessions after school in alleys behind dumpsters

movie nights at his place, you two are curled up on his bed with a bowl of popcorn but by the end of the movie, the popcorn's on the floor, and your both making out

definitely a hand holder like he'll hold your hand wherever, he doesn't care who see's

loves pda cause he likes when you show him off

threatens to beat up anyone who messes with you, but you decline with a giggle

nsfw below the cut

loves make out sessions, could literally eat your face for hours

definitely whimpers lmfao hes such a crybaby when hes about to cum

you guys took each others v cards, so even though your first time was super sloppy and you didnt exactly finish, it was still so amazing and romantic

def a tits guy, will just stare at them for as long as possible

hes one of those gross tongue kissers that doesn't really ease into the kiss, he just shoves his tongue down your throat *you dont really mind that tho*

him fucking you in his suit, it turns him on so bad, him being fully clothed while ur bare in front of him

DEFINITELY A MUNCH literally will eat you out for hours asking "is this good?"

[teddybeartoji]

彡 HE'S ANNOYING AND BEAUTIFUL AND HE'S GOING TO RUIN YOUR FUCKING DAY

☆. contains: satoru gojo x gn!reader; con-artists au, crack, he's stupid, he also has a massive fucking crush on you (and you're no better btw), reader smokes a cigarette gasp!! oh and reader is wearing a suit wc: 2.2k

+ a few hours later...

the spring sun warms your skin as sit on a little bench on top of the hill that overlooks your destination. a castle – it's fancy, fanciest you've ever seen. it's fucking massive and you can't help but wonder, how it would feel to sprint through the long beautiful hallways of the place...

way too many super cars are lined up in front of it and their various colors are making your eyes hurt. people in stunning dresses and equally stunning suits spill out of the machines and they laugh and roar, smoke blowing from their noses and lips as they flex their expensive pipes and cigarette holders. bald men with terrible mustaches flood your vision and you decide that you've had enough for the moment and let your head fall back. this is your last chance to recharge before the work begins.

digging in your inner suit pocket, you pull out a silver cigarette case with a beautiful engraving on it. memories reside in the little crevices of the art and the thoughts make a sentimental (albeit an annoying one. you'd never do this in front of him.) smile tug at the corners of your lips. the tiny machine was part of a set, a gift for you.

you try not to think about that for too long.

patting the side of your upper thigh, you dig out a lighter. it's just a plastic one; it's old as hell and it has definitely seen better days. but despite its tired look, you still consider it a friend, a partner, a helping hand.

you grab a cig from the box and place it between your lips before pocket the case again. the lighter is warm in your hands as you stare at the design on it. swirls and lines run all across the silver, dancing and merging together. a lot of memories are buried in the cracks of them and a sentimental smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

click! click! click!

perhaps today is the day you'll lay it to rest. there's no fire, no heat, but you're not mad. the cigarette hangs from your lips and you let out a sigh. you lean back onto your hand and close your eyes; if you won't get your final energy boost from nicotine, the sun will have to do it.

a gust of wind brushes over your skin, it cards through your hair and you feel alive. the laughter from down below finds it way up to you and it makes you crack a grin yourself – these rich pricks won't know what hit them. this'll be an easy job, no sweat. in and out, it'll only take a few hours tops if everything goes without a hitc—

click!

time slows.

cracking open an eye, you watch the stick catch fire.

engravings in silver – a perfect match to the ones on the case that's hiding comfortably in your chest pocket. right beside your heart. pale, slender fingers and manicured nails, a perfectly fitted sleeve – it's him. trailing up his arm with your eye, his cologne fills your nostrils and you realize that he's standing way closer than you thought.

it takes a mere two seconds and you craning your neck to meet his eyes. they match the clear sky, the only difference being that while birds twirl and dance in the blue ocean up above your heads, little stars twinkle in his.

satoru gojo.

and his stupid fucking smile.

you hate him.

he snaps the little silver machine shut before placing it back into his pocket with one swift move. his pearly white teeth shine under the blinding sun and the sight of his dimples makes your stomach churn. silly butterflies.

staring up at him, you hollow your cheeks and breathe in the smoke. it travels through your mouth and makes its way deep into your lungs. he's patient. the grey fog fills your organs and you let it simmer before letting out out again. you blow it at him but he doesn't budge; your eyes look so pretty in this light. he watches your lips curl into a pretty little smirk and then he's already being blessed with your saccharine voice. "gojo."

he does a dramatic bow as he stands before you – his one hand behind his back and the other on his heart. "my beloved."

the hum and the eye roll you award him with warm his insides. he straightens his spine and locks both his hands behind him, almost making him look like an innocent, virtuous person. it's that charming smile of his that's able to save him from just about everything. his ability to bare his teeth in the most endearing way pisses you off.

it really fucking does.

he twirls on his heel and the gentle gust of wind ruffles his snowy hair. he eyes the castle below and the little ant-people that buzz in front of it.

"you got an invite?" he asks in a sing-song voice. he seems excited. that's a bad thing for you. he will ruin your plans, you already know it.

"i did not."

you don't need to see his face to know that his smile has stretched even wider. you hate it. he quirps a little "hm" before spinning back around. his hand dips into his inner suit pocket and returns with an ivory envelope. his eyelashes flutter shut as he dramatically fans his face with it.

you hate him.

"that's too bad. they have this cool new system – they give you a keycard. they check it at the door, of course, but after that you can just go wild with it." he paces around in front of you while you just inhale the smoke back into your lungs as a way to alleviate the fact that he's going to ramble about a fucking key card. "there are tiers, you see. the smaller guys just get to use it as the invite while others..."

he turns to you with a big grin. "can actually open some super secret doors."

he flicks the envelope just to show it off some more and you wish you could suffocate him with the cigarette smoke. or maybe you should just push him off this damn hill instead.

"not that you would know anything about it though..." his words trail off as his eyes snake their way up from the ground and to your pretty face.

"and you're one of the big guys then, i presume?"

your remark is like water off a duck's back. it's the exact opposite actually – it only eggs him on. he watches the smoke slip from between your lips as you try to bite him back, he watches your chest fall; you look handsome in your suit. he's never seen you in an outfit like this - sure, he's seen you in some fancy fits before but this... takes the crown for sure.

you almost look like you belong here, though he skeptical on whether you'd think of that as a compliment or not. he doesn't say it, opting for something else.

"you look good– "

"you look good."

damn.

you blink up at him, he blinks down on you. he fiddles with his fingers behind his back and he bites back the comment he wants to make about you complimenting him, about you two speaking at the same time. something about being partners, something-something.

he does look good.

he's also wearing a gorgeous black suit on top of a pearly white shirt and a matching black bowtie adorns his neck, and it looks like he did try to style his hair just a little, but you know him – you know he likes it when the wind messes it up. he always says it makes him look more rugged.

you assume he doesn't know what the word means.

silence falls upon the two of you, engulfing you in this comfortable little bubble. your lips wrap around the cigarette again and he pockets the envelope in his hand.

"y'think so?"

he asks for praise so nonchalantly that you almost give in. "...maybe."

satoru's chest puff up and his eyes light up even more than ever – you regret your decision to tell him that. his lips part but you don't give him a chance to tease you any further.

you shake the cigarette butt before pushing yourself off the bench. satoru observes you, always so excited about everything you do. he can't tear his eyes from you. placing the cig back between your lips, you approach the man in front of you in a confident stride.

without locking eyes with him, you take your place a little bit too close in front of him and casually reach for his tie. satoru's breath hitches at the sudden proximity but he doesn't back away. you tug at the edges of it, your eyebrows furrowing in the process. you look cute, all concentrated and everything. his smile makes its way back onto his lips as he stares at you and his hands twitch at his sides.

smoke dances in the air as you take your time to fix his tie; the sun melts the two of you together as the silence settles around you again. the breeze plays with his hair some more, it grazes the apples of your cheeks and it's refreshing. this feels like the old times.

"smoking kills, you know."

his voice is barely above a whisper and you snort at him. "so do cars, dipshit."

"hm, douche."

you send a sharp glare at him and he doesn't even try to hold his ever-growing grin. the stupid fucking butterflies in your stomach are making you sick. he's about to say something ridiculous again, so you rush to give his earlobe a gentle-not-so-gentle tug. you laugh at the way he winces and the way his skin turns a dark shade of pink in a matter of seconds; it manages to bloom all over his ears and the apples of his cheeks before he decides to swat your hand away.

your eyes and the tingling pain in his ear are enough to distract him from your wandering hands. skilled fingers dip under the front of his suit jacket as you lean forward to whisper to him. "it's touché."

his eyes glue themselves onto the cigarette in your mouth, between your pretty lips, giving you more than enough time to swipe the envelope from his chest pocket with ease.

"right..."

dusting off some imaginary dust from his shoulder, you cock your head to the side and take the cigarette from your lips while giving him another good look. how could you not? despite his god-awful personality and his tendency to screw up every single one of your plans in one way or another – he's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. from this angle you could count the freckles that are scattered across his nose and cheeks, hell – you could count his damn eyelashes if you really wanted to.

(you kind of do.)

while he's being bewitched by you and your eyes and your perfume and the damn smoking stick in your hand, you hide the envelope behind your back. you make use of the promiximity between you two, your own body concealing the movement of you tucking the thing under your own suit jacket and into the waistband of your pants. you're here to steal afterall.

satoru rubs his ear and feigns a pout. it's the fakest one you've seen yet, but then a dopey smile makes it's way onto his lips and for a second you think that your plan didn't work, that he felt it, that he saw it—

"you know... if you wanted satoru to just get you an invite, you should've just said so, sweetheart."

...

you stare at him with a blank face and he shines right back at you. he plucks the cigarette from your hand and throws it to the ground, stomping on the thing, he puts out the light with the heel of his foot.

"but... since you didn't ask for it, since you didn't ask for satoru's help... you'll have to find your own way in, yeah?" he's way too smug, too arrongant and the only thing that's making you feel better is the thought of him being shut out from the party because he doesn't have the invite. anymore.

"stop referring to yourself in third person, it makes you look stupid."

"you don't think i look stupid in the first place then?"

.............

you can't wait for this day to be over.

"alright. go now. run along, little prince." you give his shoulder a shove but he refuses to back away, leaning closer a little instead.

"are you gonna be okay out here, hm? all alone? no keycard or nothing?"

even his breath smells good. you want to punch him.

"don't worry about me, gojo. i'm sure i'll figure something out."

"ahh! you always do! and that's why you're the greatest, baby!" wincing at the volume of his tone, you clench your jaw and press your teeth together. satoru loves it when you do that. "don't take too long, okay? i'll miss you."

he offers you another fake pout and turns around on his heel, but not before giving you a wink. he looks over his shoulder for the last time and...

"don't forget to throw away the cig! littering isn't sexy!"

he's so overbearingly annoying and he will so ruin your fucking plans.

[evilminji]

Okay, but... now I'm wondering >.>

@the-witchhunter We talked about Danny being Morningstar's feral, probably engineering oils and ectoplasmic goo covered, mad scientist/himbo hybrid (attack) purse dog. His special lil guy.

But!

I seek your Knowledge(TM).

From second hand accounts? He seems to HATE the hypocrisy. The blaming HIM for humanity's own choices. The rat race and endless song n dance of "Righteous Good VS. Cartoonish Evil". Because it let's humanity paint themselves the helpless victims. Because it's all surface level. Because it is not so easy to escape the ugliness of your Sins, yet they keep trying to scapegoat him.

Fuck um.

He was tired of it.

But? He still has CONSIDERABLE POWER. It's probably written down. And the Ring Of Rage? Is proooobably not the loveliest of artifacts? I imagine, like the Crown, it's NOT leaving Danny alone. One of those "we don't CARE if there is no throne left to sit upon, you WILL wear us, as King" sort of systems.

It genuinely would not and DOES NOT matter, if not a single soul in all the Zone bows to him. Did he defeat the previous holder of their Right To Rulership? Yes or No.

If No, fuck off.

If Yes, new monarch.

Is it hurting him? Not the rings problem. Nor the Crown's. Heavy is the weight, etc etc. But! DANNY would certainly care. He is... is ANGRY all the time now. Has no idea who would even MAKE this bullshit ring. Why JUST Rage? Yeah, it makes ghosts stronger, but at what COST?

He can't even get rid of it!

......by himself.

Luckily, he's still clear headed enough to know that he's NOT in this by himself. And it's amazing what "mom, dad, this ring is trying to drive me insane. Help me" in a terrified and tearful voice, can brush over. No one threatens their baby and all that.

It would honestly be hilarious, seeing the extended Fenton clan decend like LOCUSTS on Pariahs Keep, searching for clues, terrifying the local ghosts, if... if he wasn't so tired.

God he's so tired.

It's Aunt Alecia who... "politely encourages" a passing scholar to lend them the book they need. Took the poor sucker right out of the sky. Guy never stood a chance. RIP.

He learns he has to head..... over? Like... 27 that-ish way, then up. Huh. 27 WHAT?

Realities, apparently. He's in the wrong bundle. Branch? Neighborhood? Eh. Clan Fenton rolls back out, he packs his bags, and hilariously enough? Goes off to the devils night club. Hopes he likes rings. Or hates them.

Thankfully, being "king" means the Zone? Kinda... humors him? Like... it still has RULES(tm). He can... can FEEL that now. But it's willing to bend some for him, if he asks. And anything NOT against the rules? If it's in the right mood? He need only ask. It's weird. Being suddenly so powerful, yet NOT, at the same time.

Cause none of it's his.

All he has is the Zone's attention. The ability to ask pretty please. If you don't mind. And then? The highways between... ALL will just? Shift and change for him. He can see how it went to Pariah's head. The Zone is pretty agreeable. Is by nature Amoral, cause it's not a Being, it's... well, it's the Zone.

And everyone wants him to ask things. Do things. Demand this or that. Use this power.

Maybe he doesn't WANT too! Maybe he didn't WANT to be king! Doesn't he have the right to say NO? To refuse? Why do they think he OWES them service? An eternity of politics and people trying to kill him, for something he never wanted in the FIRST PLACE.

He's so tired.

The nightclub's pretty cool.

So he comes to ask, politely of course, cause the guy's probably busy, if Morningstar could... dunno, fix or destroy it? Want a ring, maybe? Also he heard you MADE the stars. Huge fan of all of that. Can I ask about the process? Or are you in the middle of something?

And? Lucifer? Turns around, from where he's Leaning Seductive Yet Elegantly(tm) to see... scrawny. Tiny corpse child. No... half? Corpse? Alive. Dying. Alive yet dying. Huh. Well, that is different. And here he didn't think he'd get see anything NEW. You, child, are NOT a zombie. What are you?

Halfa.

I have no idea what that is. What do you want?

He gets shown the ugliest, crudest, peice of shit ring imaginable. A genuine foul little curse. Really stinks up the place. He destroys it, obviously. This club has STANDARDS. Hope that wasn't important?

Kid just smiles the biggest fangy lil grin. No. No it was not.

Obvious, lie, but cute lil teeth. He'll allow it.

He gets dragged into talking about the stars. And talking. And talking. Mostly bragging and explaining. Kid hangs off his every word. Follows him around as he makes his rounds. Asks good questions. Completely focused, dispite the booze and barely dressed dancing all around him.

Lucifer can't help notice the crown.

Lovely little thing. Space ice and star dust, glittering like jewels and light catching the mist. If he remembers right... that one iiiiiis..... not Limbo, it's.... Zone! That crown is the Zone, it changes to suit the wearer. He recognizes the vibe. Awfully young, aren't you?

And.... it all burst forth. He didn't even need to press. Use persuasive words and honeyed tones. Like an inflamed, festering wound. The merest brush is enough to spill everything.

Negligence, greed, blood lust. Bigotry and xenophobia. A tyrants endless quest for power. Ah, humans. They truly don't change do they? Realities away, dead or alive. Now they're harrasing a child. He honestly looks miserable. Whereas just a moment before, listening to Lucifer talk about his work on the stars, his soul practically GLOWED with light. A tiny little star unto himself.

.......maybe it's the big ol "I'm you BIGGEST FAN" eyes. The sad wet cat aura. Perhaps the scrawny "could snap you like a twig" teenager, all elbows and knees. The fact he is, in fact, NOT human; for all that he once was. But?? The kid? Is... not terrible company.

He'd even go so far as to say? It's like having a pet intern.

He can sleep on the couch.

Tell you what, you stay here? I'll keep taking about stars and YOU can do the chores I don't feel like doing. I'll take care of you and all that.

And Danny? Honestly was sold at the word "stars" but? This sounds like a phenomenally terrible idea... and he has yet to meet one of THOSE he hasn't made out sloppy still with, so deal! But as a minor, that DOES make you his new gaurdian for the next four-ish years. He's legally obligated to finish schooling.

Ah.

.....well shit.

(Just? Local stressed 14-15 year old Ghost King does RESPONSIBILE thing and finds Adultier Adult. With more qualified Adult powers. Unfortunately for everyone, the adult is Lucifer Morningstar, night club owner. Even MORE Unfortunately, said ghost kind has pack bonded with the Nice Star Man, who saved him from the Bad Ring, and effectively offered to let him crash on his swanky couchs.

Now Morningstar has to? Somewhat VAGUELY pretend he gives a shit local schooling system, as he puts his charge INTO it. Actively giving waking terrors to the magical community. What evil plot is afoot? Where did he get this tiny minor death god? What is his end goal FOR said child?

No one knooooows~

But Lucifer is just doing this cause he's a Being of his word. He hates the tedious minor chores he'll be foisting off onto Danny. And? Most importantly? Look at that face. *shoujo sparkly eyes of Star Sempai Noticed Me!* it's like having a golden retriever puppy. Ffs he has STANDARDS.)

(It'd be hilarious to watch the hostile 5th dimensional chess DC characters have going on in the background, all while? Danny is like? Man! Isn't this universe GREAT? Everyone here is so CHILL! And nice to me! I'm so relaxed now! Finally, I can finish my education in peace.)

@hdgnj @hypewinter @lolottes @babbling-babull @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Kill and make up (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you and your husband discover that Celebrimbor has escaped with the Nine, and it brings out the uglier side of your relationship

Warnings: evil!reader, brief eye injury, intense argument between spouses: reader and Sauron aren’t physically violent with each other (only like a hand grab and a shove), but they scream and throw things towards each other (he does it by accident, she does it on purpose, neither get hit); seeing and touching a severed finger, sadistic tendencies, lots of violence, murder, allusions to smut, fucked up relationship dynamics (as usual with these two but this may be the most deranged one I’ve written to date)

Note: part of the evil!reader collection. For context, reader has been married/soulbound to Sauron since before Adar killed him and infiltrated herself in Eregion as a smith while she waited for his return.

Sometimes you wonder if, when you and your husband bound yourselves to one another and part of his power was bestowed upon you, he had not let some of his short temper trickle into you as well.

But you never were entirely level-headed, even before Morgoth took you. The difference now is that you have tasted the fulfillment of giving in to your more violent urges in the past, which makes for even greater frustration when you must, for practical reasons, withhold.

Hence why you are now striding down the chaos-filled streets of Eregion, rather than watching over Celebrimbor whilst your husband commands the city’s defences. You do not trust yourself to leave him intact so he can finish the Nine unless you take the time to cool down after the little stunt he tried to pull on you.

He was only just applying the final touches to the very last of the Rings, and not a moment too soon. The siege had gone on into the night, and soon there may not be much of Eregion’s people left for your husband to promise he would spare so long as Celebrimbor provides him with the Rings. You meant it as a gesture of encouragement, truly—the way you idly fiddled with the keys to Celebrimbor’s shackles as you sat by his side, all but dangling his freedom before his eyes.

He must have noticed, though he did his best not to glance your way. You supposed he was taking some refuge in the work, throwing himself into it so that he might forget his less than savoury circumstances. That was fine by you. The thoughts in his mind were of little consequence, so long as his hands performed their duty with their usual skill.

And skilled they were indeed. Your eyes had drifted to the distance, glazed over with boredom at some point after your husband had left you alone with Celebrimbor, but you were pulled out of your little reveries of ruling Middle-Earth when you realized eight of the Nine now stood each in their holder on the other side of Celebrimbor, all shiny and brand new. Your fiddling with the keys had stopped then, and you stood to walk there and lean over Celebrimbor’s shoulder, touching the cool metal of one Ring in awe as you admired them.

“You have outdone yourself, really,” you praised, and meant it. The designs of the Rings varied, but they all possessed the same utterly impeccable kind of beauty, and the fact that you knew they had been made with your husband’s precious blood... you would wear and cherish them forever yourself if they weren’t meant for more practical purposes.

Celebrimbor, however, didn’t seem as proud of his own work.

“I had little choice,” he muttered, not looking away from the Ring in his hand.

You straightened yourself with a little sigh, and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“This really is a pity,” you confessed. “I always hated being your so-called ‘subject’, but I can’t say you ever gave me another reason to dislike you. And your talents are bound to prove most useful in the future as well.”

At that, he looked up at you with a fresh kind of disbelief in his eyes.

“Am I to be your prisoner for the rest of my days, then?” he asked, nearly a challenge.

“That would be quite bothersome for everyone involved, wouldn’t it?” you said, perfectly pragmatic. “Hopefully, we can come to... understand each other. My husband and I are more than willing to make some allies of your value.”

By which you meant conveniently skilled or powerful beings who would serve your purposes blindly, much like you expected the Orcs to do, but the word ‘ally’ had a better ring to it.

It was plain to see in Celebrimbor’s eyes that he was hardly convinced, though, as he kept his stubborn silence. The time was fast approaching when your true conquest of Middle-Earth would begin, and it was never too early to plant the seeds for the network of opportune connections you planned on weaving all throughout it.

But also, you did enjoy being the equivalent of a cat playing with a mouse.

“How about a peace offering, then?” you said, plastering an inviting smile on your face. “A little show of good faith, to prove that your suffering in itself is far from our end in all this. Once you finish the Nine,” you made a show of holding up the keys, then tucking them safely away in a discreet pocket at the waist of your dress, “I leave you free to roam about the room, and merely lock the doors behind me whilst I deliver the Rings to my husband. Not that you’d make it two steps into the streets without being dragged back here by your own guards, but, as I said—in good faith—I shall spare you the humiliation of trying.”

There was a slight furrow in Celebrimbor’s brow as he hesitated. How confusing it must have been for him, to reconcile the kind tone of your voice he’d heard so many times with the cruel reality of who you are.

“Well,” he said tentatively, “I suppose that would be a bit better than my... current position.”

You gave him a bright smile, satisfied you had managed to bring him in agreement with you for the first time since he learned the truth. That was how it began—small victories, little ‘yeses’ here and there, until the intended target settled into a collaboration, or rather subservience, that was most convenient to your plans.

As you passed by Celebrimbor to return to your seat, he turned around on his stool and grabbed your hand, calling your name with sudden urgency. Your instinct was to shake off the touch, but, with only a tick in your jaw, you stopped to indulge him. You were playing nice, after all.

“Was truly all of it a lie?” he asked in a disheartened breath. “Was there no part of you that... wanted this life you have made for yourself here with us? The craft and the friendship we shared?”

He was quite the pitiful sight, looking up at you with that glint of hope in his eyes. You were quite sure that had been snuffed out the moment you had told him the story of how the bond between you and your husband had been forged, the salvation you had found in it from Morgoth’s cruelty, erasing all doubts that you and him might ever betray one another now.

Even Celebrimbor wouldn’t be so foolish as to believe he might still sway you with his words. You suspected what he was truly after—but you played along. In fact, you even stepped a little closer, and held up the hand with which he had grabbed yours, patting his knuckles condescendingly.

“Why would I want to serve you as a smith of Eregion,” you said, “when I could be served by all others?”

Celebrimbor’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, containing the nervous tremble of his voice as he spoke, “I may have been Lord of Eregion, and as such above you in station, but I never thought of you as anything less than my peer and my companion. Sauron—your husband,” he corrected, perceiving your ire at the less than savoury Elvish term, “he may believe even himself when he claims to consider you his equal, but with time... with the Rings...” He sighed, closing his eyes as if it pained him to speak the words, but in the end met your gaze and said with all the sincerity he could muster, “I do not wish to see you hurt.”

You tilted your head and knitted your brow in sympathy, softening your gaze as well as your voice.

“Oh, Celebrimbor,” you sighed, “have you come to care for me so much that my fate still concerns you after all I’ve put you through?”

“I’m afraid I have,” he confessed quietly.

You were meant to be surprised, intrigued, perhaps even touched. Distracted, in any case, your focus drawn to his face and the one hand of his you held within your grasp. That was his intent, which you had sensed since the very beginning of his entreating speech. He had some reason to believe his idea would work. His smith’s fingers are, after all, nimble and quick, as his craft demand them to be. But unlike you, he is a stranger to deceit and the mere attempt at it suits him ill. The only reason he succeeded in his little misguided endeavour was because you preferred to end his satisfaction, rather than prevent it altogether.

“They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,” you all but purred to him. “Alas, you have not the talent for treachery that I do.”

With that, you wrenched your hand from his and grabbed his other one. His struggle was brief and futile as you forced that fist to open, and retrieved the keys he had just subtly slipped out of your pocket.

Any trace of poorly feigned concern vanished from his face, replaced by the frustration of defeat. You tsk-ed to yourself as you shoved the keys back into your pocket.

“And here I thought you were becoming reasonable,” you lamented, leaning against the table by his side with your other hand planted onto your hip, much like an irritated teacher. “What did you imagine? That you would unlock yourself when my back was turned and then... what? Outrun me? Fight me? I know you’ve never seen that particular side of me, but I assure you, I am as skilled in combat as you are in your craft.”

He couldn’t hold your scolding gaze. He turned back towards the table and leaned his elbows on it, resting his forehead upon his clenched fists, no doubt trying to stave off a stress-induced headache and crushing sense of hopelessness. Still, to ensure he knew better than to underestimate you next time, you intended to grab his chin and make him look you in the eye as you made one final threat, but he spoke before you had the chance to.

“In that case,” he admitted, lifting his head, “I suppose I was going about it all wrong.”

This time, you didn’t see it coming. By the time you jumped out of the way, he had already grabbed a small recipient on the table and projected the powdered metal inside straight into your eyes—real powdered metal, not the blood your husband had passed as mithril. The burn of the fine shards in your eyes was instant, forced them shut and ripped a cry from your throat as you scrambled away, one hand covering them—

Celebrimbor grabbed that elbow to yank you into his lap, but that only made it all the easier to drive it into his ribs, knocking the breath and a short scream out of him. You needed no eyesight for that—only sharp instincts and red-hot anger, and you had quite enough of both. He hadn’t even managed to find your pocket again before you escaped his grasp and stumbled out of his reach, even without seeing where you were going.

A quick thinker, the bastard. The moment he understood he could not defeat you by sheer strength or deceit, he had attempted to blind you instead.

With a string of anguished grunts, you fumbled around blindly until you knocked into what must have been the railing to the upper side of the forge where you and Celebrimbor were, with enough force that you might have toppled over it if you hadn’t caught yourself. Gripping the metal, you squeezed your already shut eyes, and tried to concentrate through the pain and mend the damage. You may not have had to do it in recent years, but you’d had enough such experience under Morgoth’s rule. Gradually, the burn dimmed, and the metal in your eyes dissolved, and you were left shaking with wrath as you opened your eyes.

In different circumstances, you might have slowly turned towards him first, made him cower in terror under your murderous gaze before you sprung into action. But you were beyond such theatrics now. With the swiftness of a snake lunging to sink its fangs into a victim, you whipped around, marched over to Celebrimbor and grabbed his throat so quickly he didn’t even get to gasp before your other hand yanked his head back by the hair.

“You are going to regret that,” you growled. Rage boiled within you, a furious thirst for revenge, an all-consuming urge to return the pain he had given you tenfold and hear him scream—

But the Nine were not finished.

It was with tremendous self-restraint that you slowly lowered your face an inch away from Celebrimbor’s, your ragged breath hitting his quivering lips.

“...later,” you whispered viciously. “Finish!”

He gasped for the breath you had denied him the moment you released him with a shove, nearly falling from his chair with the force of it. No amount of deep breathing in his presence would stop the blood roaring in your ears. So, you stormed down the stairs and out of the forge, slamming the doors shut behind you without even locking them.

He was in shackles, after all.

As you reenter the forge room some time later, you are pleased to say you have regained your composure. Nothing like a stroll through a raging battle to calm the senses, especially when you were briefly treated to the sight of your beloved standing upon a distant rampart, tall and fair as he commanded the forces of Eregion.

If not for the need to maintain appearances, you’d have called for his attention through your bond and blown him a loving kiss from below.

“All right, Celebrimbor,” you say now, shutting the doors behind you, “I believe we must clarify some—”

He’s gone.

Heart pounding, you practically fly across the room, running up the stairs to the empty desk where Celebrimbor had been sitting before. Your husband could not have freed him. Could he? You had only just seen him outside, and the Rings are gone as well. Had they been finished, surely he would have reached for you through your bond the moment he had learned of it, called you to bask in the victory at his side. You scramble through every object on the desk, turning them over, opening cases, looking for any sign of the Rings.

Something squelches beneath your foot. But before you lower your gaze all the way down there, something else catches your eye on the floor—Celebrimbor’s shackle. Still locked. Blood-stained.

Entirely mechanical, you reach down and pinch the wet thing beneath the sole of your foot between two fingers, lifting it to your eyes to confirm your suspicion of what it is.

A severed finger.

When you wish to, or when the circumstances demand such a thing, you have many more vicious and sophisticated ways of expressing anger than mere spoken words. However, at times such a predicament arises where you are simply reduced to plain old foul language.

“Fuck,” you breathe out.

If the Rings were not finished, that is going to be a problem. But you have a feeling that they are, which is precisely why Celebrimbor has resorted to such a desperate gesture to withhold them from you and your husband.

Speaking of whom—his familiar steps are echoing down the hall.

Nearly releasing another expletive, you rush right back the way you came, down the stairs and across the room and out the door just in the nick of time to slam it shut before your husband would have stepped inside. He halts before you, taken aback.

“Love,” you greet him with a small smile. He’s seen enough of those to know which ones are fake. Not to mention the slight tremor in your voice, the alarm you’re attempting to conceal on your end of the bond, and—if those weren’t quite enough—the severed digit in your grasp which you seem to have acquired in your husband’s absence.

It’s endearing, really, how your skills of deception vanish like smoke in the wind when it comes to fooling your husband in any regard.

“I see our friend has upset you once more,” he remarks calmly, eyeing the finger in your hand. “However, I should hope you allowed him to finish the Rings before you claimed your little trophy, beloved.”

His smile is ever-so-slightly tense, his tone ever-so-slighty warning, and you are a lot more than slightly flustered to realize that in your haste, it had slipped your mind to do something so simple as to toss away the bloody finger in your hand.

You do so now, furiously wiping off the mess on your dress for lack of a better outlet for your nerves.

“I did not...” you begin. “Celebrimbor has apparently...”

“What is it?” your husband demands briskly. He knows something is wrong, wrong enough to have you acting so flustered, and that can only mean it will anger him beyond belief.

You release a sharp sigh, and quite frankly, give up. There is no way to break the news to him gently. So, you fix your husband with as stern a look as you can. “If you could just refrain from tearing this whole place to the ground—”

But he has already pushed past you and burst into the forge room.

“—that would be nice,” you finish to the empty hall, then follow him inside.

“Where is he?” your husband growls, storming up the stairs and staring at the empty desk with wide, crazed eyes as he shouts, “Where are the Rings?”

“He must have taken them,” you tell him, angered but far more level-headed than him as you climb the stairs as well. “They were nearly finished, and—”

An entire wooden cabinet clatters to the ground, furiously toppled by your husband. But the sound is barely the buzz of a fly compared to the deafening roar that tears out of his throat. You halt near the top of the stairs and wince, waiting for the sound to die down. No doubt it echoed to every Elf below, even through the ruckus of battle.

This... is the sort of thing you were hoping to avoid.

How nice of you to inform Celebrimbor that his absence has been noticed, you think, simply because such quips are in your nature. You know better than to say it—but you are both fraught with powerful emotions, and your bond turns volatile, and things slip through. You know he’s felt the reproach the moment his furious gaze turns upon you.

“Perhaps I should ask...” he says, eerily quiet as he approaches you, “where were you?”

Someone else might have fled, or fallen to their knees to plead for mercy under such a withering glare. You, however, have the luxury of knowing that you are the only being who has or ever will remain perfectly unscathed despite incurring your husband’s wrath. So, you climb the last of the steps and meet his gaze head on, unintimidated by such theatrics.

“Celebrimbor attempted a most distasteful treachery,” you declare, arms crossed defiantly as your husband comes to tower above you. “He tried to steal the keys to his shackles by blinding me with powdered metal. I knew better than to risk damaging his precious fingers—or worse—in retaliation before his work was finished. As such, I stepped outside.”

“You left him alone,” your husband fumes in disbelief, “because you couldn’t keep your daggers sheathed?”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “You’ve made far more strategically inconvenient kills for far less. I was merely being practical.”

“Practical, you say?” he mocks, whipping away and striding back to Celebrimbor’s work table. “Pray tell, how come you were within his reach to begin with?” He proceeds to toss every item away and open every possible compartment, his voice growing to a hoarse shout with each accusation he spits. “Were you perhaps taunting him, goading him, playing with your food as you can never seem to refrain from doing?”

“Oh, so when you do it, it’s fine,” you raise your voice right back, uncrossing your arms so you can gesture as frantically as he behaves while he moves to deface another table. “When I do it, it’s irresponsible.”

“What is irresponsible,” he points a finger at you, “is that you left the Nine and our most valuable asset unattended so you could go for a stroll!”

You’ve seen dragons with less fire on their hottest breath than that of the rage ignited in your chest. You surge towards him and snatch his accusatory finger in a death grip.

“I needed a break,” you scream in his face, “and he was in shackles! And he’s obsessed with his craft—which very much requires hands! How was I to imagine he’d be idiotic enough to chop off his own fucking finger?!”

“Enough!” he roars over your screech, prying your hand from around his with a powerful shove. Your calf hits Celebrimbor’s desk stool as you shuffle back, and you kick it with a yell and a burst of your power that sends it flying over the railing and splintering to pieces on the steps all the way at the entrance to the forge room. The same destructive force is behind the glare with which you fix your husband.

Forget not tearing this place to the ground. You feel as if you could crack every table in two with your bare hands, you could shatter all the windows with nothing but a shriek, you could crumble the stone floors with the stomp of your foot, you could— you could—

You turn on your heel and storm away. The moment you do, your husband demands in a gruff shout, “Where are you going?”

“To fix this!” you snarl. You whip around to face him, your voice dropping to mocking sweetness before it builds right back into a hoarse scream. “But please, do keep smashing to pieces every single object in your sight. I’m sure Celebrimbor simply stashed the Rings in some hidden corner whilst he went for a nine-fingered stroll in the rubble!”

With that, you leave again. The sounds of destruction resume behind you, but you block them out the same way you do your husband’s inflamed end of your bond. Until you’ve nearly reached the stairs, and some glass object hits the railing with a loud smash, shattering to pieces. Relatively close to you.

You don’t even look down. You simply stop, take a breath in the sudden silence. Turn around. Then, chin high, perfectly poised and in the most controlled of tones, you ask your husband:

“Did you just throw that in my direction?”

Rage rolls off him in waves—but he has ceased his rampage, and there is the subtlest hesitant crease of his brow as he looks at you.

“Don’t be absurd,” he says stiffly. “I was hardly even looking your way—”

But then he’s dodging a projectile—a metal case you had picked off the ground and chucked his way in the blink of an eye.

“You weren’t looking?” you growl, already snatching a creasing hammer from the table to throw his way next. “You weren’t looking? Well, I am!”

He catches the hammer, swats away the chisel that follows with his power, advancing through the enemy fire until he can grip your wrists and pull them to his chest to stop you from gathering further ammunition.

“Save you energy, love,” he growls as you struggle in his grip. “Try as you might, you cannot harm my flesh.”

“I know! That’s why I’m trying!”

You wrest yourself out of his hold, chest heaving as you stumble back a couple of steps. For a moment, your ragged breaths are all there is. But the storm is far from over, and the moment you open your mouths again, your voices escalate into screams once more.

“You, on the other hand,” you accuse, nearly in tears, “the moment my back was turned—”

“You know very well I cannot hurt you!”

“But you wish to hurt me?”

“I wish to hurt something!”

“So do I!”

Your roar echoes in the chamber, your throat raw, your every muscle trembling with rage. You cannot harm my flesh. But you could harm his soul. You could, simply by doubting him. You have. It brings no satisfaction. It isn’t what you want. What you want is for him to kneel and beg forgiveness for his words, or maybe to fuck you so hard you forget he ever said them at all.

But you can have neither, because you are no longer alone.

They must have arrived when you and your husband were at the height of your screaming match, thus why you only now turn your heads to see them entering the room—ten or so guards, led by Captain Malendol and, supported by him as he limps to a stop, Celebrimbor himself.

“Marital spat?” he derides flatly, a shred of defiance in his voice even as he cradles his thumb-less left hand to his chest. From the appalled way in which Malendol looks at you, it’s plain to see that Celebrimbor has somehow regained the trust of his guards and exposed you for who you are, once and for all. Or perhaps the glimpse he’d caught of your lover’s quarrel had been proof enough. Either way, you’re so ablaze with rage, you can’t even bask in the grand reveal.

“Foreplay,” you reply dryly—and there is, after all, a bit of satisfaction in the various degrees of shock and discomfort that flash across the guards’ faces.

“Where are the Rings?” your husband demands, ice cold as he passes by you and descends the stairs.

“Not here,” Celebrimbor answers. “They will be far  from your reach by now.”

“Oh, come now, Celebrimbor,” you coax with all the goodwill of a viper as you join your husband down the stairs. “It was such a silly thing you did to that precious hand of yours. If you return the Rings, maybe we can find a way to mend it.”

His eyes shine with tears, which he holds proudly back.

“The loss shall be well worth it,” he says, pained, “so long as it ensures that neither of you will ever touch a Ring again.”

You grit your teeth, his audacity adding fuel to the already blazing fire of your rage. Whatever retort you and your husband might have made, you are rudely interrupted.

“Seize them!” Malendol orders, and his soldiers march forward. “By order of the true Lord of Eregion, you, Sauron and—”

The words die in his throat. He’s choked out, jaw slack and quivering as he struggles against your husband’s power. The soldiers halt, gazes shifting hesitantly between you and your husband and their captain.

“I believe you’ve spoken my wife’s name quite enough times already,” your husband says. Any other time, you would be delighted. With Mirdania gone, it’s time for the Elf whose affections you had entertained only closely enough to grate your husband’s nerves to meet his own end. Perfect symmetry, mutual satisfaction. But you are beyond being assuaged by such games in this moment.

You grip your husband’s arm, and fix him with a gaze which demands that he meet it. It would be so easy for him to flick that wrist of his and have the guards fall upon their own swords. But that would leave the issue of your unconsummated lust for violence, and when such a volatile feeling bounced off each other in an endless loop through the bond without release, it led to nothing good, not even for you.

So, staring in your husband’s eyes, you hiss, “Let us hurt something.”

You need not say a word more. Your husband narrows his eyes at you briefly, but the suggestion immediately sinks in. Malendol sputters a panicked breath as his throat is released from your husband’s power, a look of even deeper dread than before written on his face, but he repeats his order.

“Seize them!”

And his soldiers, now valiantly joined by their captain, advance on you once more. The sight of them circling you with swords drawn as you and your husband stand back to back is quite invigorating. It even brings a little smile and a quip to your lips.

“Might you be so kind as to lend me that?” You point to the sword of the guard facing you.

And answer your own question—with lightning-fast mayhem.

A concealed dagger is brandished from your sleeve and you swiftly send it flying to its new home in the guard’s skull. A quick pull of your power draws the hilt of his sword to your hand whilst your other imitates the dagger-throw and sword-stealing with another guard, and by the time three others have attacked, you have more than enough steel in your hands to meet their own with a loud clang. Behind you, similar sounds of confrontation are made by your husband and his own side of opponents.

It is to be noted that the ensuing fight is by no means a desperate struggle for escape on you and your husband’s part. In fact, the guards are hardly your main focus, even as you single-handedly hold your own against several of them at the same time and, over the course of the following few minutes, decimate them one by one. You simply wish to feel your bones rattle with each blow you land, to hear the tearing of flesh under your blade, to give yourself an outlet of your anger whom you have no reservation to make bleed, when the true source of your rage is quite off-limits in that regard—and driven by the same compulsion to inflict pain as you.

Now, you can really have a go at each other.

“You realize,” your husband begins between easily placed parries, wielding a guard’s sword to which he had helped himself, “this only serves to prove my point.”

You glance briefly at him, kicking a guard in the shin whilst you block another’s blade. “Which is?”

“There is work,” he grabs one by the helmet, “and there is play,” then slits his throat before attacking another. “And you, my love, tend to confuse them.”

“Yet here you are,” you retort through grunts of effort, “indulging me as though you take no joy in it yourself.” You are as triumphant in your words as you are in thrusting your sword into a guard’s gut. But your husband does not relent.

“There would be nothing to indulge,” he growls, “if you hadn’t allowed the Rings to be taken!”

With a furious wave of his hand, a guard flies out the window, screaming on his long way down.

“Maybe the Rings would not have been taken, had you not grown negligent with your illusion in the first place!” you growl right back, snapping a neck. “Maybe if you had spared a thought to the way candles function, we would not be here!”

Your husband crushes a skull. “You have not the slightest idea of the skill required to maintain such an intricate illusion. You had one simple task of—”

“One simple task? One?” A well-placed kick relieves a guard of the future children he might have had, if you didn’t cut his throat next. “Was it one simple task to spend centuries insinuating myself by Celebrimbor’s side—”

“Not this again—”

“Yes, this again! This, forever!” you scream over the guard whose leg you break. “I put myself through years of suffering based on nothing but blind faith that you would return!”

“And yet,” your husband presses on cruelly, plunging his blade into a heart, “you could not perform the simple task of ensuring Celebrimbor remained in his shackles.”

You slash a throat, screaming. Speaking of Celebrimbor—in the quick glimpse you catch of him, he looks like he might be questioning his reality all over again in the face of your ‘marital spat’.

And he thought you licking your husband’s blood was deranged.

A guard nearly stabs you in the side, and you resume fighting fueled by a brand new bout of anger.

“You do this... every time!” you yell at your husband. “The moment something doesn’t go to plan, you blame everything and everyone but yourself.” Having stripped the guard of his weapon and helmet, you are now in the process of forcing him to his knees. “And since I’m the closest at hand, you blame me!” For good measure, you emphasize each word with a smash of the guard’s head into a nearby table. “Every,” smash, “single,” smash, “time!”

Smash and thud, when the guard’s limp body hits the ground.

Your husband watches, his lips twitching into a snarl as he flings a guard into a wall.

“Very well,” he grunts. “We are both to blame. But if you could restrain your sadistic tendencies—”

“Oh, please! Nothing gets you harder than your wife wreaking havoc, even when it’s in defiance of you. Especially then.” You put a guard in a chokehold, throwing your husband a most flirtatious smile. “If it was in my nature to ‘restrain my sadistic tendencies’, you would not have wed me.”

Snap goes the guard’s neck. Another struggles on the ground, much like a roach beneath your husband’s boot on his chest.

��If I wished only to sate my carnal desires,” he rasps out, “I would have wed no one at all.”

He crushes said chest as he steps over it to lunge at another guard. You cackle like a mad woman as you break a nose. “You are a Maia! You had no carnal desire until I invented it!” You feel the retort on his tongue, no doubt a claim that you are exaggerating—which maybe you are, but not in what you say next, between the occasional pants and grunts of the fight.

“There was always me, or no one—and from the moment you first had me, you could never go back to not having me.” Your current opponent drops to the ground, his heart pierced by your blade. “So blame me all you want, love. I could inconvenience you a thousand times, and you’d adore me still.”

There is no retort. No screams, or clangs of metal, or broken bones, or any noise at all—for all your foes are dead, and your fight consummated. All that is left is you and your husband, standing before each other in the aftermath of your destruction. Panting, covered in blood. Sated.

Gazes locked, you move towards each other, sparing not the slightest of glances to the rubble and bodies over which you step until you are close enough to breathe each other’s air. Weapons lowered to your sides, you do not touch, or speak. One last confrontation, to see which one of you will break first.

“I spoke in anger,” your husband yields.

As he very well should. Still, you eye him with a not-quite-convinced look. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

“What is yours?” he challenges, but his words have no true bite. Not anymore.

It would be less of an apology and more of something you would have done anyway, but the timing is poetically symbolic when the guard whose chest your husband had crushed under his boot suddenly takes a whizzing breath. Captain Malendol himsef, as a quick glance tells you, is still alive—barely—and picking himself off the ground a few feet to your side with staggering resolve.

He raises his sword, charging towards you with one last, valiant cry, and manages the great feat of having his throat swiftly cut by with your blade. A most tragically heroic sight, surely, but you wouldn’t know, since you never once took your eyes off your husband’s while you did it.

The captain’s armored body clatters to the ground, the same time as your weapons. Your husband’s eyes dart to him, visibly satisfied, but not fully so. His gaze meets yours, then lowers to your lips, and he leans in—only half the way, in invitation.

With an indulgent little hum, you close the distance and give him a kiss. No more than a little peck, really. A token of reconciliation. Something clicks back into place within you as the tension in your bond subsides, and you feel a matching sense of relief on your husband’s end of it. Fighting each other always feels like tearing out your own flesh, yet you do it anyway, with lethal consequences—to others, of course.

Towards others, in fact, is the only direction in which you and your beloved should ever direct your fury, as you feel him agree now that you have finally murdered your way to making up.

“Look at us,” you lament, “blaming each other, when the fault is all his.”

The last word is as venomous as the look with which you then fix Celebrimbor, glued to the same spot where he had been standing since he entered. Defiance and terror battle in his eyes as he stares back, mouth slightly open in disbelief at your display, surely aware that any attempt to escape would only end in more suffering than is already in store for him—should he refuse to obey your husband’s command, that is.

“How right you are, my love,” your husband says as you face Celebrimbor, standing as one once more. “You will give us the Nine,” he orders darkly.

Celebrimbor shuts his mouth, clenches his jaw, as if that would be enough to keep the secret of the Nine’s whereabouts locked behind his lips. His eyes dart to the fallen soldiers decorating the floor of his once beautiful forge, and you can practically hear him resolve to ensure that those sacrifices will not have been in vain.

“Oh, my love...” A most wicked smile blooms on your lips. “I think he wants us to play with him, too.”

Your husband’s voice is lethal.

“He shall have his wish.”

Previous fic with same reader -> Old wounds

Next fic with same reader -> Defied

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember and @steddiesongfics.

No Loose Ends

Week #3 Prompt: Sneaking Around | Word Count: 6500 | Rating: E | POV: Steve | CW: Post S4, Sexual Content, Underage Recreational Alcohol and Weed Use | Tags: Eddie Munson Lives, Florida!!!, Hiding Out, Healing, Steve & The Boys of Corroded Coffin Taking Care of Eddie, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bisexual Eddie Munson

Song inspiration to fill the @steddiesongfics prompt is FLORIDA!!! by Taylor Swift feat. Florence & The Machine:

Little did you know, Your home's really only the town you'll get arrested, So you pack your life away, Just to wait out the shitstorm back in Texas Indiana

Steve's almost eight hours into the twelve hour drive, when he starts looking for another gas station. The smaller the better. One with a cashier who would rather be anywhere else other than at work behind the counter, and who in turn, won't be paying any attention to anything going on around them.

Not that he's wanted, or being looked for, because he's not. He's just being extra careful. Trying to garner no additional eyes on his car, or himself, if possible. No speeding, no rolling through stop signs. He's never driven this carefully in his entire life, and he feels tense from it.

It gives him a glimpse of what it might be like, sometime in the future, if he's in charge of hauling around six of his own little nuggets.

But that's not today. Today he's just in charge of one, well two, other people.

And himself. But he's used to being in charge of himself, since he has been, since basically forever.

If everything goes smoothly tonight, nobody's even gonna realize he's been out of town. Only Robin knows, and she's running interference with everybody else. Giving excuses for why they haven't seen him all day. Just buying him the time to get down, and back, without being missed.

The next filling station is a little raggedy, but exactly what he wants. Probably no cameras. Perfect.

He parks alongside the pump, and pulls up on the handle, starting to fill his tank. He looks in the backseat, and the bundled up figure moves under the blanket, shifting. It's dark under the poorly-lit canopy, three of the six fluorescent bulbs are out, and it makes it look just a little bit spooky. But even better, unless you were looking for him, you'd never see the slightly moving lump in the backseat.

And nobody's looking for him. Not anymore.

Thank fucking god.

Steve pays for the gas, and grabs drinks. Back in the car, he puts his own Coke in the cup holder, then lays the Mountain Dew in the backseat floorboard for when Eddie wakes up, and finally slides the Dr. Pepper into the passenger side cup holder.

He doesn't know Gareth Jones, not really, and it has taken everything he has to trust him. But Eddie couldn't be left alone, not yet, and Steve had asked who could they trust, and Gareth had been Eddie's answer.

Now he's asleep, head against the window, and Steve pulls back out onto the two-lane road, and keeps heading south.

They pull up in the driveway of the dark house, and Steve kills the engine.

"We're here," he says, and Eddie stirs in the backseat.

Eddie can barely walk. Once they've gotten him out of the car, he can only shuffle along, blanket over his shoulders. Together, they hold him up on both sides. The sand surrounding the beach house is not making it easier for him to move, Steve can tell. Steve has to try three keys before the door swings open, but they get him inside. Steve's not satisfied until Eddie's on the couch of his grandparent's vacation home in Destin, the city they swear is gonna become a tourist hot spot in the coming years.

So, the elder Harringtons scooped up a waterfront home that they only use once or twice a year, swearing it's an investment they'll be able to turn a profit on in the future. Steve doesn't care about that, but he is glad they have it right now, so they have a place Eddie can lay low. 

It's a little musty from being shut-up, but it'll do. 

Especially since there's no chance anybody in his family will turn up, since they're all in Europe right now without him. That left it just sitting empty, the perfect place to stash Eddie long enough to wait out the shitstorm back in Indiana.

Nobody knows he survived. Not the public, and barely any of their friends. Not even Wayne. Not yet. It's easier to keep a secret when you don't know the truth, as guilty as that makes Steve feel. 

But right now, he can't dwell on that. Today, Steve's gonna try to get him holed up in here, and then figure out a more permanent solution once Eddie's back on his feet. 

He can't dwell on the rest of them, or his guilt will eat him alive. Knowing Wayne's mourning his nephew. Knowing that Dustin is going through hell. Steve hopes they'll both forgive him, when the truth comes out. Eddie swears Wayne will. Says he'll understand. Says he'll only be relieved that Eddie's safe, and well. 

Steve hopes that's true. 

He knows he'll be in for an ass-chewing from Dustin, but that's nothing new. He can handle that.

Steve gets Eddie situated. A blanket. Some pillows. A drink. All while Gareth looks around the house, snooping, and it sets Steve on edge. He's a kid. Is he really gonna trust a kid to keep Eddie safe? Alive? He supposes he is. It's not like he has any other choice.

Gareth's older than Steve was when he got involved in the Upside Down. But still. Kid.

Steve can't stay long. He takes a nap, and then gets back on the road before he's missed. Back in his bed in Hawkins before anyone has started asking any real questions that Robin can't deflect.

A week later, when Steve steps out of his front door, Pop Tart in his mouth, he nearly chokes when he sees two guys leaning against his car. Jeff and…the other one. Steve's drawing a blank. They're Eddie's friends, but as far as Steve knew, they'd evacuated with the rest of the town. 

Out of the way, not a concern. But, here they are.

People are starting to come back, Steve's noticed, now that the town is rebuilding after the earthquake damage. If they have houses to return to, lots of them are doing just that.

He should have expected this.

Well, not this. Because they shouldn't know Eddie's alive or that Steve might be a person to talk to about anything.

"Uh, hey?" Steve says as he pulls the dry pastry out of his mouth, trying to chew it up, and buy himself some time.

"Where's Gareth?" the one that isn't Jeff asks. 

"Um, Gareth who?" Steve asks.

Jeff laughs, showing a mouth full of braces. 

"Gareth Jones. He's not with his mom, and she thinks he's with you."

Steve tenses. That little shit. Gareth told his mom the truth? What the fuck? For real. That wasn't the plan. At all. 

What a dumbass kid. He can't believe he has to trust him with Eddie's safety. Clearly, he's doing a bang-up job.

Steve looks around, "Don't see him, do you?" Steve asks, sliding back into his King Steve persona easier than he'd imagine he'd be able to after a few years.

"Harrington," Jeff says. 

"He's not with me," Steve says, which is true. "I don't even know him." Also true. 

"If you have Eddie. If he's out there somewhere, you're gonna take us to him," the other one says. Goldie? Steve thinks his name is Goldie. Goldwin, maybe? Gareth was talking, and he's sure he mentioned him, but Gareth talked a lot. Steve zoned out. 

"Or we're going to the cops."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't actually think they'll do that, but fuck, what does he know? He cannot risk that. He'd rather tell them what he knows, than have any officials poking holes in their story.

He makes a decision, one he hopes he won't regret.

"Okay, Goldie, get in," Steve says, resigned to this, but Jeff laughs loudly, mouth open as the guy who is probably not Goldie by his reaction, jabs Jeff in the ribs with his elbow.

"Goodie," Jeff corrects, "but that was closer than most get."

In the car, Steve squeezes the steering wheel. 

"Where is he?" Jeff asks. 

"Florida," Steve answers.

"Florida?" Goodie demands, and Steve just nods.

"He's healing. Gareth's with him. You can't tell anyone," Steve stresses. "If the government finds out. They'll, well. Dispose of him, I reckon. No loose ends."

And Steve starts from the beginning.

They worked out a schedule. Every week they'll switch. And somehow Steve is stuck making the long fucking haul in the dead of night, with one of them in his passenger seat. It's awkward. He doesn't know them, and they definitely don't like him.

This week it's Jeff Williams. Honestly, he's nice enough, but Steve runs out of things to say before they hit the Indiana state line.

The long haul back has Gareth jabbering nonstop about what they did this week. All Steve really wants to hear is updates on Eddie. Is he getting better? Are his wounds healing? Still no infection? Did you help him change the bandages he can't reach? Can he climb the stairs yet?

But he's having trouble getting those answers. He does learn all about the new Accept album, though. Whoever the fuck that is.

The third week is even worse, because hauling around Goodie Goodwin is like having an angry bear locked in the car with him. A brown bear, not a black one. He's fucking pissed, and snarky, and only belligerently agreeing to help for Eddie's sake. Not for Steve's. He's made that abundantly clear. 

He hates Steve, in case Steve needs it spelled out for him. 

Steve does not. 

It's definitely clear.

Super duper clear.

Crystal clear.

And that's fine. Eddie just needs a babysitter, and an angry bear will do, so long as Eddie trusts said bear, and he seems to, for whatever reason.

When they fucking finally pull up, after a twelve hour drive that felt more like twenty-four, Eddie's sitting on the covered porch, the color finally seeping back in his face. Goodie sits down in the glider right next to Eddie, and steals Eddie's lit cigarette right from his mouth. Eddie leans against his shoulder, face pressed into his very weather inappropriate leather jacket, and smiles.

Oh, so now he's a gentle giant. 

Fucking dickhead.

Hauling Jeff back to Hawkins is a breath of fresh air after twelve hours of having Chernabog in the passenger seat. And he actually gives helpful information. Eddie's doing great. He's made some real progress, and he probably doesn't need a babysitter much longer. He's getting out of the woods.

Steve wishes he knew that before he had to spend time in the car with Goodie, but it's still good news, even if Steve had to suffer.

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay alone this week?" Steve asks, and he doesn't know what he'll do if the answer is no. Leave Goodie for a second week of duty? Stay himself?

"I'm fine, Harrington," Eddie promises, and Steve nods.

"Okay, then. I'll be back next weekend," Steve assures.

Steve worries about Eddie being alone the whole next week, and it's a long drive by himself, but not as long as it was with Goodie refusing to make even the smallest of small talk. 

Goodie didn't say a word for the eight hundred miles back to Hawkins.

Honestly, it was actually an improvement from the ride down.

When Steve pulls up the house, Eddie's on the porch again, and Steve wonders if this is where he spends most of his time. There don't seem to be any neighbors here right now close enough to see him, and even if there were, they wouldn't know the Harringtons well enough to be sure Eddie didn't belong. 

"Harrington," Eddie says, foot pushing slowly, keeping himself in a soft sway on the porch glider.

Steve sits down next to him, and then Eddie keeps them moving, the breeze coming through the porch, and not feeling bad at all. 

"Ocean air is healing, you know," Eddie says as if he's serious, and Steve smiles.

"Is the gulf considered an ocean?" Steve asks.

And Eddie just shrugs and grins back, shaking another pack of cigarettes out of the fresh carton Steve brought him. Steve feels like a pack mule, hauling food and smokes and beer, back and forth across several states.

"Closest thing I've ever seen to one, at least," Eddie says, and Steve has the fleeting thought that someday, Steve will change that. 

He doesn't know why. They aren't really friends or anything. Just two people that were thrown together to fight back against evil. They don't exactly have a whole hell of a lot in common beyond that.

They get into the beer, and Eddie pulls out a joint. It's fun, and relaxing, honestly. Doing a whole lot of nothing. It feels like a mini vacation, and like Steve's settled for the first time in weeks, months. So, he stays an extra day, and then another, because they're having so much fun. Robin will cover for him. She will. But he's really gotta go in the morning. 

"Your friend Goodie hates me," Steve says. 

"All bark, no bite," Eddie laughs. 

Steve doesn't know about that. He seemed pretty nippy to him. 

The next week, he brings the decks of cards Eddie had asked for, and now they sit around the round table on the porch, and play hand after hand, going through a case of beer and cigarette after cigarette. It's fun, and unexpected, and Steve's pretty sure next week, he's gonna find a way to stay longer. 

He's tipsy, they both are, as they stumble up the stairs towards their rooms. He's got his hands on Eddie, the excuse that he's helping him not fall, but he's pretty sure that's not the whole reason.

He doesn't examine it too much.

They're just having fun, and that's a nice change of pace from the shitshow that Hawkins has been over the past few years.

He wants to stay. 

As his head hits the pillow, and he rolls over onto his belly, he tries to devise a plan to make that happen, even as he's drifting.

The kids aren't happy about it when he says he's going to be traveling with his parents for a while, and they'd really be pissed if they knew that he was actually sneaking back to Florida to hole up with a very much still alive Eddie Munson. 

He's gonna have to pay for lying about this, to a lot of people that really love Eddie. Steve knows it. But, he'd do it again. Eddie's safe. He's healing up. Every week he's been more mobile, more agile, more…Eddie.

Sure, it's not as if Steve knew him well before all this. But they went to school together. He knows what Eddie Munson is all about, and it's definitely not being quietly introverted on a couch.

When he gets there, he lugs in his huge suitcase, and takes back over the empty room across the hall from the one Eddie's been staying in. 

And then they spend their time laying on the beach, or getting drunk, or stoned, as Eddie's body slowly finishes stitching itself back together. He still aches, and so does Steve, but it's not too bad anymore. There are no more bandaids, ointments or creams. No more antibiotics. They hurt, sure, but they're getting by better now.

Eddie wants to venture into the water, and with no open wounds, Steve can't find a reason to say no. Eddie had had to watch from the porch that first week as Gareth ran across the sand, wading out into the water.

Now, it's his turn. 

Steve by his side, making sure he's okay. Strong enough. They didn't go through all this just for Eddie to drown.

Steve's getting concerned that he can't quit touching Eddie, but Eddie doesn't seem interested in making him stop.

They're wet, and wrapped in towels, but it feels inevitable when Steve pushes Eddie towards the bathroom, and into the shower. Inevitable when he turns to leave, and Eddie snags his hand, pulling him back towards the tub. Inevitable as he washes his body, trying to not only ignore his own half-hard dick, but Eddie's too.

It's still inevitable as he slips on his clean underwear, and crawls into Eddie's bed instead of his own, and finally presses their lips together. 

Eddie kisses back, and hands roam across bare skin. Eddie's fingers trailing his back, making Steve squeeze his eyes shut. He didn't realize how long it's been since someone touched him like that.

Neither of them take it further than that, but they do find themselves, lips kiss-swollen and laying together, breathing heavily in the quiet of the room, and Steve doesn't even know how they've gotten to this point.

One day Eddie was just some guy, then he was wanted on trumped up murder charges, and now, well, this.

"What's the plan? I can't stay here forever," Eddie says into the darkness, and Steve thinks maybe he could. They both could. They'd be safer that way. Hawkins can fuck off. It's their hometown, but not home anymore. Just a place that would arrest Eddie and throw away the key, given half the chance. 

"We could," Steve says, and Eddie meets his eyes.

"You know you can't. And your grandparents will turn up eventually, and be less than thrilled to see me here."

"They won't be back until winter, and even that's iffy," Steve reassures, more himself than Eddie, he's pretty sure.

They could sneak around for months, until the snow birds fly south, and nobody would know. 

That's all Steve thinks about as he falls asleep, Eddie's arm slung over his stomach.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Steve jerks, sitting bolt upright in bed. Eddie doesn't even stir beside him.

Gareth Jones is standing at the foot of the bed, and Jeff and Goodie are in the doorway. Steve's heart is hammering in his chest. There's no explaining this away as anything other than exactly what it is. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Eddie," Steve says, nudging him with his elbow. Eddie still doesn't budge, but his foot is sticking out of the comforter, and Gareth runs his knuckle up Eddie's bare sole.

Eddie's awake then, jerking his whole leg backwards.

"Jesus H. Christ, kid!" Eddie screeches, pulling the sheet up to his neck as if he's trying to protect his precious modesty. It's fucking endearing. 

Terrifying, but endearing.

Steve must be staring at Gareth, because the kid shrugs, "He was late to school. A lot. Wayne asked me to start getting him there before he was a fifth year senior from tardies alone. The bottom of the foot is foolproof."

And Steve's hammering heart slows, just a little. Nobody is screaming, there's no fight breaking out. Nobody's being called names. He's not sure how to take this. They've been caught in bed, but nobody is really reacting to that. 

It's just a best friend explaining how to get Eddie awake. Robin would know how to do that for him, too.

"What are you doing here?" Steve finally asks. 

"We thought we'd come give you a break," Jeff says from the doorway. 

"Doesn't look like you want it though," Goodie adds, and it's the nicest thing he's ever said to Steve, Steve's pretty sure.

"Our parents think we're at a band camp," Gareth adds, "before school starts back up for me."

"Band camp," Eddie laughs, flopping back against the pillows, "Go wait downstairs."

And they listen. 

Steve just lays there next to him, finally saying, "Well."

Eddie laughs, then turns to face Steve, "They knew about me. I mean, the theory of me. It's not like I was getting any action. From boys or girls. But they're cool. Freaks gather together."

Steve chuckles, but Eddie keeps talking, "I'm sorry they know about you without you okaying it first, though."

It's fine. Honestly. Like, if they aren't gonna kick his ass? Everything's fine. Sneaking around always ends this way. Steve knows it. You always get caught by someone. He just didn't predict it to be so soon, or here.

"How'd they even get in here?" Steve asks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He's pretty sure he locked the door when they went to bed.

"That's probably my bad. I taught Goodie to pick locks."

"Another Munson family trick?" Steve asks, pulling his jeans on, sliding up the zipper.

"Yep," Eddie answers, "the school would sometimes forget to leave the room unlocked for us to have Hellfire. So, I taught him to open it, since I have a bit of a tendency to run late."

Steve laughs, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Regret it now, though," Eddie says dryly, and Steve holds open the bedroom door for him.

Gareth and Goodie are sitting around the kitchen table, already helping themselves to the beer they found in the fridge. Cards dealt. Waiting.

Jeff's cooking a massive skillet of eggs and there's toast piled high on a plate.

Beer and eggs. That's something. Breakfast of champions.

"You can fuck him, but Eddie is my card partner," Gareth says, pushing a waiting hand of cards towards Eddie.

Fair enough.

Steve snags a plate, and is more interested in eating than cards, anyway.

"We can't have set partners with five of us," Jeff says. "It's just gotta happen as the game unfolds."

Gareth starts to argue, and it's like they totally moved on from what they all saw upstairs. Steve feels off-kilter, but he takes another bite of toast.

Maybe these guys are Eddie's version of Robin. That's the only thing that makes any sense. 

Steve picks up his cards, and starts organizing them in his hand. He isn't even sure what they're playing, but he guesses he'll figure it out. There were lots of card parties in the Harrington household growing up. He probably knows whatever they're gonna throw at him, as long as it isn't something they've straight made up.

Which is possible, he's sure, knowing Eddie.

But that's about the extent of the discussion about what they walked in on earlier. 

Jeff turns over a card.

"Eldest, auction is in your hands," Jeff says, and Eddie looks down at his cards.

"Order it up," Eddie says, eating eggs and playing at the same time.

"Trumped up, just like your murder charges," Goodie says, and everybody laughs. 

"That doesn't even make sense," Jeff says.

"You just wanted to say it," Gareth adds, and Goodie takes his needling pretty damn well, all things considered.

And Steve smiles, happy that this is something they can all joke and laugh about. That as fucking terrible as it all was, is, that they can still make light of it to cope.

That's not nothing. That Eddie wasn't lost to it. That he's here to be gently ribbed. That his friends believe in his innocence, totally.

Eddie names his card, and Gareth plays it, becoming Eddie's partner. 

They continue to play, and things do not go Gareth's way, which Goodie seems to be enjoying.

And later, Goodie smirks, "I'm in the barn."

Gareth heaves a big sigh, "Damn. I'm gonna get skunked." 

And everybody laughs at his misfortune.

They stay. Camp out in all the rooms in the house, staking their claim. And it's actually a lot of fun. Like a high school house party that just doesn't end in a fist fight on the lawn. Steve hasn't been this relaxed since, well, before. Before 1983. Before monsters and the Upside Down came crashing into his life. 

He embraces this break, this chance to just be. He's not a kid anymore. Not in age, and definitely not in life experience. 

He lays on the beach, catching a tan.

These couple of weeks have felt as close to a vacation as he's gotten in years, and he lets the worry of the past slide off his back. 

Steve supplies the beer, Goodie has a few pre-rolls left, so they smoke, drink, and play cards. Steve watches them fight over the stereo, and he learns to recognize the new Accept album by ear with time. 

They swim, except for Goodie, because apparently he's scared of gators. Even if they tell him that the gulf isn't a swamp, and the chances of him being taken down by a gator are extremely unlikely. Not impossible, gators gonna gate, but it's not like it's super plausible. 

Goodie doesn't care. He's not doing it, and says no amount of peer pressure will work on him. So, he sits on the porch, beer on his knee. Cigarette in hand. 

So much for him being big and bad, Steve thinks. 

Today, girls have suddenly appeared down the beach. Screaming and laughing, and they all watch them intently. Taking in the bikinis. The bouncing boobies. Not one of them above watching a free show. 

They have a volleyball that comes bouncing in their direction, leading the girls to finally notice them and approach. Apparently Steve's the only one with a working voice, though. He learns there are a pair of sisters staying in their grandparents' beach house with their friends. One last hurrah before going back to, or for a couple of the girls starting, college. 

University of Nebraska. Go, Cornhuskers. Apparently.

Since Steve's the only one engaging like a normal human, they're paying extra attention to him. One in particular. And she's cute. But he politely rebuffed her attention the best he could, and then watched Eddie do the same.

Goodie builds a little bonfire, and Steve is kind of impressed. He doesn't even know where he got the wood at. 

Of course, Steve was less impressed when he was sent off for the stuff to make s'mores.

Eddie followed him, and as nervous as Steve is any time Eddie pokes his head out of the house, it's probably fine. Honestly. They are so far from Hawkins. 

Eddie does wait in the car at the grocery store, but then digs through the bag to see what Steve bought. 

Graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows. Steve's not sure what else Eddie expected, honestly. It's s'mores.

By the time they get back, one of the girls has taken a shine to Gareth, and now Steve and Eddie are watching him blush and blunder through what Steve thinks could be considered flirting, maybe. 

It's honestly a good show. 

For some reason, she isn't put off by Gareth's awkwardness, and later that night, with the window to his room open, Steve can hear Gareth talking to her down below on the porch. 

He's not as bad as Steve once thought, none of them are.

Just like Eddie.

Steve should have realized that earlier, he's pretty sure. First impressions are almost never right about anyone.

And their partying continues, just now there are girls involved. The group, growing. 

Goodie's suddenly not as scared of gators, apparently. Because there's a girl on his back out in the water. 

Steve sees Gareth dip under the water, and knows where this is going, and sure enough, he must snag Goodie's foot, which causes a commotion. 

Steve misses Robin. He sits there considering if there's any way he could get Mrs. Buckley to let her join them, but can't think of an excuse that would seem plausible. Unless Robin also wants to go to fake band camp, too.

Steve's lounging on the steps, leaned back, his elbows braced against the wood. Watching from behind his sunglasses. 

Gareth sits next to him. 

Two of the girls are hitting around a volleyball. Bouncing along the sand. 

"Boobies," Steve says. 

"Boobies," Gareth echoes, then laughs. 

They sit and watch a few seconds longer, then Gareth says, "Eddie doesn't have those, you know." 

"I know," Steve answers. "I like both. I'm okay with that. Are you?" 

"Yeah. Eddie does too," Gareth says, then turns and looks at Steve fully. 

Steve turns to see what he's doing. 

"Thanks. For saving him. I know we've been kinda shitty at times, but we owe you." 

They don't owe him anything, but he still teases, "Don't worry. Someday I'll collect." 

Gareth slaps him on the shoulder, and then inserts himself in the volleyball game down below.

The next morning, Steve's shaving at the sink, bathroom door open, when Gareth appears in the doorway. 

Then says nothing. 

Steve keeps shaving, waiting to see what this is. Finally asking, "Eddie okay?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, he's fine. Um, I have a question." 

Steve meets his eyes in the mirror. Still waiting.

"Do you have a condom I can borrow?" 

Steve grins, "Maybe. But not borrow. I definitely don't want it back."

Gareth rolls his eyes, "Very funny. Eddie told me to ask you. I regret that decision, now." 

Steve reaches over and gets his bathroom bag, and tosses it to Gareth, "Help yourself."

"Thanks," Gareth says, as he digs through it, finding what he was looking for. And then takes the whole box. Little shit.

But Steve lets him. He'd rather Gareth have more than he needs, instead of less. Steve can buy more. He's not embarrassed at all. 

"Play safe," Steve says as Gareth tosses his bag back, it thumping against Steve's bare chest.

Gareth doesn't come home that night, and by mid-afternoon the next day and still no sight of him, Eddie is sending Steve down to check on him. 

He's fine. Just laying on the couch in the girls' house, hand up the shirt of the petite, blonde one. 

"Check in with Eddie later," Steve says, startling him. "You know how he worries." 

Gareth laughs, and gives Steve a little salute and then a dismissive shooing away motion. 

Another girl is at the top of the staircase, and lifts the hem of her shirt, flashing him. 

"If only I wasn't already spoken for, sweetheart," he says, holding his hands to his heart, as if he's wounded by this admission. 

And she's laughing, and seems charmed, not offended, which is what he'd hoped for. He hasn't made anything official with Eddie, and they have definitely cooled their jets since Eddie's friends arrived, even if they all know. 

Steve walks down the sand, and Eddie is waiting on the porch.

"Well?" Eddie asks.

"I saw some tits," Steve says, sitting down next to him, "and Gareth's fine."

Eddie laughs, and briefly slides his hand through Steve's arm, squeezing his elbow.

In no time at all, the girls are packing up their cars, and Gareth is acting like he's about to become a war widow. 

Steve gets it. He does. Your first, you don't forget. But this should have been a little summer fling for him, not a pending broken heart. 

It's not like Gareth doesn't have to go soon, too. Labor day is quickly approaching.

Gareth is pretty pissed off that summer has slipped away, and now he has to go back to school. One more year. The youngest. Without him, they could probably stay indefinitely. 

And he's very unhappy about that fact.

But, he's made it his life's mission to make it clear to all of them that while he has to go back to high school for another year, at least he's not a virgin anymore. 

They're all sick of hearing it, and Steve's grateful it isn't gonna be him stuck in the car for twelve hours with him this time.

Eddie has given Gareth very explicit, detailed instructions on how to run Hellfire. How to keep it going for the other sheepies. Sure, the name will likely have to be changed. It's far too tainted now. And they might even if they have to do it in private, away from that godforsaken school, but Eddie wants that to happen, if need be.

A few days later, it's their turn to leave, and they're dragging feet, Gareth especially. 

"Are you ever coming home?" Gareth asks Eddie, standing next to his mom's borrowed minivan.

Eddie looks at Steve, and Steve doesn't have the heart to answer that. 

But no. Eddie's probably not.

Alone, once again, Steve follows Eddie up the staircase, his hand resting in the small of his back. As if Eddie still needs help with his balance. He doesn't, but Steve wants to touch him, nonetheless.

Steve watches as Eddie pulls his shirt over his head. He's gotten a bit of a tan while his friends were here, and he looks healthier, finally. Steve's hands find his bare skin, squeezing his sides. Eddie laughs, hair falling into his face. 

And Steve wants. 

He kisses him like he means it, then pulls back. During his last beer run, he'd done some other stocking up as well. He pulls the plastic sack out of the nightstand. New boxes of condoms and K-Y jelly. He shakes them out onto the bed.

"You wanna?" Steve asks, and Eddie looks at them, cheeks going a little red, but he nods.

There's a little confusion on the expectations here, but Steve rolls over onto his belly. This is what he wants. He's never had it, but he wants it, anyway.

"I've never, have you ever?" Eddie asks, holding the tube in hand, flipping the cap open and shut, over and over again.

Steve shakes his head, "No."

There's a learning curve. It's kinda steep, but at least they can laugh about it. They can figure it out together, and now that Eddie's finally got two fingers in him, Steve thinks they're finally getting somewhere. 

It's an odd feeling, honestly. He isn't sure what he feels about it, other than full.

But he's gonna ride this out. See where it goes.

Now up on his knees, the blunt head of Eddie's cock is definitely bigger than his fingers, and Steve hangs his head down between his shoulders, and sucks in a sharp breath.

Eddie stills, "You still okay?"

There's a hand on Steve's ass, and he focuses on that point of contact. Like everything is in that warm touch, and nowhere else.

"It's a lot," Steve admits. Because it is.

"Want me to stop?" Eddie asks, his other hand now trailing up Steve's spine.

"No. No. Just, more lube, I think. And go slow," which Steve knows is an ask. He's pretty sure Eddie's barely been moving at all.

Eddie slides out, and now Steve feels left open, and missing something. It's so fucking weird. There's more lube, and more fingers, and even more lube. Steve feels it dripping out of him, he's pretty sure. 

But then Eddie's pressing in again, and it seems to go a little easier. He feels the head of his cock pop past his rim, right into him, and he groans, fisting at the sheets underneath him. It's good, and the rest of the slide feels easier.

Eddie eventually stills.

"You all in?" Steve asks. He's not sure what he'll do if there's more.

"Fuck, yes," Eddie answers, and then Steve can feels his fingertips brushing along his hole as it's stretched around his cock, buried deep inside. "Look at you."

Steve can't do that, but wishes he could.

"You good?" Eddie asks.

Yeah. Steve thinks he's good, "Yeah. Yeah. You can move. Slow. Go slow. But fuck me."

And Eddie does. It's a little hesitant, and uneven, but he draws back, and then slides deep again. And again. Until he's found a nice rhythm. Steve feels insane, and whiny, and so fucking needy. 

He didn't expect how much he'd enjoy this. He kinda just thought he'd be taking one for the team.

Fuck that. He's taking this for himself. Happily, greedily.

It doesn't last long. Steve knows how that goes. The first time you slide into a body that's allowing, welcoming, you inside. It's overwhelming, and feels good in a way you can't even begin to expect.

Eddie shoves deep one more time, and comes with a noise that is nearly enough to send Steve over the edge, untouched. 

When he pulls out, Steve feels empty. Cracked open, and then Eddie rolls him over onto his back, slick hand finding his cock, eyes locked straight on Steve's, and Steve melts into it. He looks at Eddie. Into his dark eyes, his hand gripping Eddie's scarred waist, holding on.

It's a firm slide up, and back down, and Steve can feel his orgasm building. And when he tenses and comes, splattering his own belly and chest, he feels so fucking good. Eddie eventually lets go, cleans him up, and then curls into his side.

Fingers dancing along his skin, and Steve suspects, going from mole to mole.

He's gonna fall in love with him, hell, probably already has.

"We gotta do something. Make a plan. We can't stay hidden here forever," Eddie eventually says, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut. "Even if I want to."

Steve knows. He knows that's true.

"Okay. I'll figure it out."

Steve paces on the porch, worried. He eyes the nailbat leaning against the railing, waiting, in case he needs it. He's scared he's made a mistake. Scared that it's gonna be helicopters, spotlights, and a whole fucking army decending on them.

It's not.

It's Dr. Sam Owens. Alone, with a briefcase.

Two hours later, Eddie Munson has a whole new identity, and a small tote bag of cash. A payout Steve hadn't even known to ask for, but Owens had brought as a peace offering to keep Eddie quiet if he'll just slink off and not expose all their secrets. 

Wayne's paperwork is on the counter, if he wants it. 

Jeff and Goodie are bringing Wayne out next week. That's the plan anyway. If they can lure him into the car. 

Eddie can't return to Hawkins with his new identity, but he can leave the beach house. Can leave Florida. He can go anywhere he wants, now.

Dr. Owens is descending the steps, nearly onto the sand, when Steve hurries out onto the porch. 

"Hey, wait!"

Dr. Owens turns around, and Steve suddenly isn't sure what to say.

"Yes?"

"Um. What would it take, to get me that kind of paperwork?"

Owens smirks, just a little, and reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a manilla envelope. 

Steve takes it.

"How did you know?" Steve asks.

"I've had eyes on you from the moment you ferreted him out of Hawkins."

Steve swallows. Nods.

Looks down at the envelope he's gripping tight. He could disappear, too. If he wants. He'd have to find some way to loop in Robin, of course, but he could just…go. 

Wherever Eddie wants. 

"Thank you," Steve says. 

"We think the activity in Hawkins has ceased. Once they finish rebuilding, it should be back to business as usual." 

Steve nods again. But it'll never be the same. Can't be. But the town will be able to start over. Have proven that's the plan. Hell, they've already figured out a way to start school on time and everything. 

Dr. Owens gives him one last look, and then he's gone.

Eddie's standing on the porch, and as Steve climbs the steps, Eddie holds open the door, asking, "What's next?"

Steve turns the lock, "Anything you want."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesmuttyseptember and @steddiesongfics to follow along with the filth and fun! 💦🎵

Notes: In the 1980's Destin was just starting to turn into the vacation city it now is. It went from fishing village to a resort city.

Accept's album Russian Roulette was released on April 21, 1986. As we're all aware, Eddie was wearing an Accept pin on his battle vest during S4.