#makeout fic

[flowercrowngods]

it's yearning steddie get high with the others and make out about it hours (smut-ish)

Eddie hates being reminded that making promises to himself, and only himself, is pretty much useless if the only person holding him accountable to stick to his promise is one Eddie fucking Munson. Because that guy can’t be trusted. 

Especially not when it comes to Steve and his stupid perfect hair, his stupid perfect dimples, his preppy fucking everything, and — perhaps most importantly — the breathy note his voice gets when the boy replaces his beautiful piece of brain with Eddie’s finest weed. 

Steve in all his sober glory is unbearable at best, sure, that’s old news. But high? When the pained frown he’s not even aware of until he complains about a headache smoothes out and the tension in his shoulders disappears? When his scars no longer pull at every movement and he can hold himself again in the way he used to before everything — broad movements with a clumsy little edge to them that have Eddie’s heartstrings play rope skipping with his sanity.

That. That’s it. That’s it for Eddie. 

And it’s no surprise that it’s also what leaves him helpless in the face of Nancy hopefully suggesting they get high again tomorrow night; all of them. Offering Eddie the chance at getting to see that tension fall away again, and that pale smile be replaced with an easy, genuine, lingering one — dreamy and so fucking pretty. 

Luring Eddie with the most beautiful insanity.

So he says yes, despite having promised himself that he wouldn’t. Not after what happened last time. With Steve all the way up in his space, brushing his hair behind his ear with wonderment, trailing his hand down that lock until he forgot what he was going to say. What he was going to do. 

Forgetting, too, that Eddie was sober, because he wanted to watch Steve without getting caught — but Steve, all high and sweet and tactile, apparently decided to do the same. He looked. And touched. And smiled and breathed and stayed right there. Fingertips dancing around the frayed ends of Eddie’s hair.

Something shifted — first between them, then around them. And then between them again when Eddie stepped back and turned away, in desperate need of a cool drink to stave off the feeling of being caught, of being trapped, of being so fucking gone on the prettiest god-damn boy in all of Indiana. And of having said boy look at him like that. 

They shouldn’t get high again. They shouldn’t. 

But he knows it helps with the pain like their meds never do; he knows it helps Nance sleep better, breathe better, exist in this post-apocalyptic world that doesn’t even remember the apocalypse, whose only reminders lie in the scar tissue of some teenagers and some graves that nobody knows are empty. 

He knows that if he says no, they’ll find someone else to provide; and he doesn’t like the thought of that. Not one bit. 

So it’s not even the thought of Steve’s dazed little smile that gets him to agree, nodding at Nance with an easy smile, saying, “Sure, let’s do it.” 

But it is the thought of Steve’s dazed little smile, his breathy voice, his tactile nature that comes out even more when he’s high out of his mind like he knows he’s floating and needs someone to anchor him, and the memory of that stolen little moment, that makes Eddie curse himself to all hells once Nancy’s blooming smile is out of sight and he’s free of judgment to kick the kitchen counter beside him with a hearty curse. 

He can do it. He can. All he needs to do is not stay sober this time, take the edge off and get out of his head about all of this, because he’s actually far less likely to do anything stupid under the influence, and also not look at Steve All Eyes On Me Harrington. 

Easy. 

Right? 

Totally. 

Except, as it turns out, ignoring Steve is both easier and harder than Eddie expected. The thing is, he’s good at diving into any conversation with just about anyone, making it larger than it needs to be until everyone in the room will give him funny looks but still roll with it, because Eddie Munson is just Like That, right? 

But Steve doesn’t give him funny looks. Oh, they’re far from fun. There’s something in there that reminds Eddie of a kicked puppy in those fleeting moments that he lets his eyes meet Steve’s, never letting them linger, never letting them take him in and hold him and bask in the sunlight that is stored in those… Those beautiful, beautiful eyes. And that pretty, pretty face. 

A face that shouldn’t look so sad. 

He wants to ask what’s wrong, ask him if it’s a bad pain day, ask him if he didn’t sleep last night either, or if something happened. But how is he supposed to ask, to let any words come out of his mouth, when Steve just won’t look away. When he’s looking at Eddie like that again, when the little something that has shifted between them suddenly becomes massive enough to steal all the air away from his lungs and make his arms tingle in a way that he knows will only get better if he gets to wrap them around Steve. 

He can’t. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask. But he doesn’t look away either, and he knows he’s already lost. He knows he broke this promise he made to himself. 

But it’s fine, maybe, if the slight twitch in the corners of Steve’s lips is anything to go by. Like he, too, wants to say something but can’t. Like he knows Eddie is the same. Like his heart is racing, too, and he tried not to look but they’re so stupid and looked anyway and now they can’t— 

“Guys?” Robin interrupts their little moment, the bubble bursting with a loud snap of her fingers that makes Eddie physically flinch. 

He looks at her, spooked to shit and gasping because he does not do well with sudden loud noises or the impromptu bursting of bubbles — not after everything that happened. 

“Shit, sorry, oh my God!” Robin’s there immediately, reaching for his hand, Nancy laying hers on his shoulder, Jonathan making himself known with a gentle little, “You’re fine, man.” 

Eddie regains his footing and breathes away the panic, thinking that maybe getting high today wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He hands Robin the baggie and stuffs his hands into his pockets, making himself a little smaller by muscle memory alone. 

Steve’s hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades — reassuring and warm. Like a flower, Eddie rises to follow it. He catches Steve’s smile out of the corner of his eyes and wants to rest his face against it. Wants to feel it against his skin. Wants to feel it shift into something deeper. Something real. 

God, he’s so hopeless. 

Good thing that Robin’s got the blunt under control, because Eddie does not trust his hands right now. 

They grab the snacks and drinks and head outside to where Steve and Robin laid out pillows and blankets on the lawn, framed with dimly glowing white Christmas lights that Robin insists upon whenever they do this. Makes it feel a little less fucked up for her. Like we’re doing this because we want to, and not because we need it to sleep or to cope with the pain or whatever, you know? Put pretty lights anywhere, and it’s a choice. 

Eddie has to admit that she has a point there, but the truth is he’ll smoke anywhere, fairy lights or no. Although there’s something, a capital-s Something about watching Steve framed by a thousand little lights smoothing out the worry lines on that beautiful face and making him seem all the more angelic for it. 

Eddie actually called him angel once — the first time they did it like this. Made Steve smile like nothing else Eddie’s said to him since. Or anyone else for that matter. If he were any better at feeling the ground beneath his feet and the air in his lungs, he’d call him that again. Make him smile like that again. 

But the ground is shifting and air is always scarce these days, with Steve’s hands on his body so fleetingly, so accidentally leaving marks on scar tissue, making Eddie wish he could feel more of Steve’s warmth there. 

Making him wish he could ask. Touch me higher. Lower. Longer. Make it last. Make it count. Let me feel it, just for a second. Let me feel it where they didn’t steal chunks of my skin and my soul and, apparently, my sanity. 

Argyle is the first to spread out on the blankets with a hearty groan that leaves everyone with a fond smile, gathering around him in a semi circle of amusement. He makes grabby hands at Robin, or maybe at the unlit joints she’s safekeeping — but either way, she follows suit, cuddling up to Argyle and in turn making grabby hands at Steve, who does as he’s told and laughs in that gentle, melodic way that they so seldomly hear these days. 

Steve’s eyes fall on Eddie then, but a surge of worry and panic overcomes him, half expecting Steve to follow Robbie’s and Argyle’s example and reach for Eddie next. Or not reach for him. Either way, Eddie doesn’t want to find out, his heart beating in his chest at the endless possibilities stowed away in his overactive imagination. Instead of waiting for Steve’s next move, he sits down right here at the opposite end of the blanket, reaching for one of the pillows so he can hug it to his chest and have something to hold on to, just to keep his hands busy. 

“Just don’t crush the goods there, birdie,” he grins, watching Nancy and Johnathan find a place to sit, too. He scoots over to make room for them, moving further from Steve in the process and feeling the distance in his chest. It’s so stupid. Fucked up, really. 

“Oh, the goods are plenty safe, my dude,” Argyle says, earning himself a giggly groan from Robin that sounds a lot like, Gross!

Jonathan throws a pillow in Argyle’s face, which he deftly catches with just as salacious a grin. 

Eddie tunes them out for a moment as he catches Steve’s eyes boring into him. He cocks an eyebrow and inclines his head, silently asking him what’s up in way less magical a way than he has with Robin. 

He doesn’t really expect Steve to react in any way other than maybe a shrug or a brief, reassuring smile that really has no meaning other than, I’m fine, except for all the ways you know I’m not. 

But Steve doesn’t smile. And he doesn’t shrug. He keeps his eyes on Eddie and fucking pouts. Looks like he’s not even aware of it, his eyes a little glazed already, seeming far away. Far away and right here and looking so fucking sad about it. About the few feet between them and Eddie being all the way over there. 

It’s a bit like the moment they shared earlier, with Steve looking so sad and Eddie wanting to do something about it. He couldn’t then. But now… 

Eddie’s breath hitches a little as he mirrors Steve’s position, falling backwards and leaning on his elbows., never once dropping his eyes. Stretching out his legs until he can nudge Steve’s ankle with his foot. Watching as those eyes snap down to the briefest contact in surprise, watching as Steve looks caught. And watching, too, as his lips twitch and his foot slowly, incrementally moves closer to Eddie’s like he can’t help it. Like he needs to touch him. Always, always needs to touch him. 

And Eddie can feel it there, so he doesn’t move away. He wants to hold his hand, wants to run his fingers through his hair and for Steve to do the same. He wants to breathe him in, wants to live in a Steve-filled world and feel welcomed in it. 

But he can’t. Because they’re not like that. And because this moment is not like that. And Steve is… Well, he is like that, he’s pretty sure. But maybe not for Eddie. Maybe not like that. 

Steve’s foot is warm against his, pristine white baseball socks so stark a contrast against Eddie’s;  threadbare and black, with more holes than fabric these days. He can’t really help the wave of embarrassment that washes over him, or the urge to pull back his feet and hide them in his shoes again. Sacrifice the warmth for safety.

But then Steve seems to notice just a second after Eddie does, and he smiles. Huffs a little with it, like it just bubbles out of him. Eddie wants to lean across the blanket and chase it. Chase the fondness and keep it there forever. 

And that’s another thing about Steve that is so very fucked up: he doesn’t let Eddie hide. He doesn’t let him trade warmth for security, because — smile in place — Steve slowly moves his feet along the side of Eddie’s like he’s playing fucking Connect the Dots with the holes in his socks. It’s ridiculous. 

It’s ridiculous, and Eddie is helpless. He’s so gone, a hundred percent. He’s so fucked up over that silly boy and the way he smiles at the most lamest of things. 

It’s not his fault that he leaves his feet where they are, the warmth of Steve’s slow, teasing touch shooting electricity up his legs that leaves him with goosebumps and a sudden case of uncomfortably tight jeans.

He’s glad there’s still a pillow in his lap. And he’s glad, too, that the night is dark enough, the fairy lights not bright enough, to reveal the flush rising to his cheeks as it feels like the bravest thing he’s ever done stay like this. To have Steve looking at him like this. Eyes hooded and intense. Like he sees right through Eddie. Like he likes what he sees. 

With a dull click, Robin’s Zippo pulls him back to reality in what must be the gentlest of ways, and Eddie manages a smile as he watches her gently place the doobie between Steve’s lips before she lights it, one hand on his cheek. Their faces light up, leaving the rest of the world in the dark, and Eddie is struck with how good they are together. 

There’s something in the way she lights the joint for him, some kind of love language from the girl who burnt down the hell dimension below them and left it in ashes, and the boy who held her hand through it. 

She holds his eyes as the flame dies and something passes between them as Steve slowly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Takes that first hit. 

Eddie’s smile falters as he watches, the glowing cherry coming to life and lighting up Steve’s face, revealing that relaxed little smile on his lips as he holds it in for five, six, seven before exhaling  around it in a slow, drawn-out way. He blows it in Robin’s face like he always does, and Robin laughs and shoves him back, like she always does. 

And Eddie wants to trade her place. Like he always does. Eyes transfixed on Steve as he takes the next hit and pulls the joint from between his lips. Holding his breath again. And Eddie wants to be held like that. Wants to fill Steve’s lungs like that, wants to leave an aftertaste that is both sweeter and biting as he does to Steve what that first hit does to him. Leaving him all soft and gentle and so, so at ease, his eyes droopy and all those lines of pain and worry smoothed out by him. Eddie. On his lips. In his mouth. Fuck, anywhere, really. Everywhere. 

He follows Steve on his exhale, his head getting a little dizzy with the lack of air, but still he is slow to breathe in again. It feels strangely intimate, watching him like this. Watching as that tension falls away and he hums a little around the bud — relaxed and relieved and appreciative. It feels like they’re the only people left in this town, in this state, maybe in the whole world. 

Eddie wants to stay alone like this forever, chase Steve’s breath and wish it would hit his face like that, caress his cheeks until the air around them claims it and erases all traces of Steve; but not from Eddie’s skin. Never from his skin. 

But they’re not alone. And Steve opens his eyes. And Eddie is caught. 

Still he doesn’t move, doesn’t look away as Steve blows out the smoke, sweet and earthy in the air between them as it slowly finds its way to him across the blanket. He imagines that he can feel it as the smell grows stronger, imagines the smoke to feel warm against his cheek as he breathes it all in, holding those hazel eyes in the dark that refuse to look away from him. 

It’s like that moment the other day in Steve’s kitchen when he was so close Eddie could smell all of him, frozen as he was, rooted to the spot — too scared to move and reveal himself, reveal all of himself, all the ugly truths and dreams. His wishes. His desires. 

Why do you keep looking? Eddie wants to ask. What are you looking to find? Am I just an experiment to you, are you looking at yourself through my eyes? Say something. Anything. 

But Steve doesn’t. He never does. Steve Harrington isn’t really the type to just say what’s on his mind, too used to Robin by his side to just read it all and react in her own way. Too used to Dustin, who’d do the talking for him. Too used to just letting his eyes, his arms, his posture convey his message. 

Too used to people knowing him. Getting a good read on him. But not Eddie, because Eddie never learned how to fucking read people like Steve Harrington cast in pretty light and relaxation. Angry, he can read him no problem. When he’s pissed, when he’s annoyed, when he’s sad. Tense. Worried. 

But not this. Never this. This intensity, this steady gaze resting only on him. He never looks at Robin like that, and he doesn’t fucking look at anyone else lately. 

It’s driving Eddie insane. 

It’s too much. 

He snaps when Steve passes the joint back to Robin, and sits up to pull his feet back to himself, covering them with his hands to pretend the warmth is still there. Frowns at the holes in his socks, feeling more exposed than ever. He curls in on himself a little, pretending to be very fascinated with a little thread that’s come loose in the blanket beneath him while the others hold casual conversation around him. 

This was a bad idea. He’s so fucked. 

Part of him debates if he should leave, if he should just call it a day and bid them goodnight. The other part of him wants to just close the distance between him and Steve and settle in beside him so the weight of that gaze won’t fucking wear him down any more. 

But knowing Steve, that wouldn’t work. 

Knowing Steve, nothing works. 

Feeling pathetic and small, Eddie lets himself fall to his side, hiding his face behind Nancy, whose hand comes to rest in his hair, combing through it just a little bit. Allowing him to collect himself. This isn’t new, and they don’t really question when Eddie just randomly lies down anywhere, or if he just stops talking all of a sudden. 

It’s why they do this, after all. No judgment. No questions. Just the sweet, sweet release of Mary Jane. 

It helps, having her hands in his hair like this, grounding him. It helps, finding no question or worry in her eyes as she looks down at him with a little smile — her way of including him in the conversation. He smiles back, just a little bit, and closes his eyes to better focus on her hand rather than the moment. She chuckles when he begins to purr, and then the smile stays a little longer. 

After a while, when she offers him the joint, Eddie shifts to lie on his back and gazes up to find the clouds have cleared and revealed the night sky behind them. It’s pretty, the summer sky, and he takes a long drag trying to think of nothing else. A hot wave of smoke hits his lungs, and it tickles a bit just like it always does, but the urge to cough it back out has been gone for years. These days, his lungs allow the warm embrace of the smoke and allow him to hold his breath as long as he wants, feeling a pleasant buzz after the fifth drag. It’s the good stuff after all. Munson’s Finest. 

He passes the joint back to Nancy, too comfortable to get up and pass it to anyone else, trusting her to do it without complaint. She does. She’s an angel like that. Puts her hand back in his hair and plays with his overgrown bangs a little while Eddie just stares up at the sky. 

Steve’s talking, but the words don’t really translate. It doesn’t matter, though. Just hearing his voice is enough for Eddie to sort of drift into a pleasant sphere of nothingness, his chest tightening a little with it. Always, always tight when he hears that voice. Like his heart has grown three times its size and his ribcage didn’t get the memo that Eddie Munson is hopelessly, helplessly, endlessly gone for a boy who refuses to look away. 

The thing is, Steve has always looked. Always. Even in the Upside Down. The first time, and the second. And then, the third. And Eddie wants it to mean something. Wants it to mean everything, or at least carry that possibility. 

But there’s no way to find out. There’s only him and the stars and Nancy Wheeler’s hand in his hair after his life took several wrong turns that left him with more scar tissue than skin these days, and the horrible realisation that, after the world ended and rebuilt, he can fall in love. That he can want. That he can have these cravings that he’d always heard everyone else talk about, wondering if that was just another layer of freak to him, or if he was simply Like That. 

They’re lonely realisations, he finds. Alienating, in a way. Because not only does he not know how to navigate Harrington, no, he’s a riddle even to himself right now. 

All he knows is that he wants to touch. To hold. To kiss. To crawl into him, on top of him, beneath him, and pull his own name from those lips in tiny little gasps that have nothing in common with the frantic gasps of panic after their first stint with the hell dimension. He wants a do-over. He wants a chance. A real fucking chance to have all these smiles, all these looks mean something. 

Arm outstretched, he reaches for the blunt again, taking it from whomever has it right now, aiming to shut off his brain a little more. Not to suppress it, but to shut it off. Even if that means he has to finish this thing. It’s fine. They have more. They always have more, because Jon and Argyle have an unreal fucking tolerance. 

With a chuckle, Nancy bypasses his hand and puts the joint between his lips and ignores his indignant hum. 

“Treat yourself”, she says, her voice wonderfully slow and lower in pitch. “I’ll be right back, yeah?” 

“‘Kay.” 

The warmth of her hand leaves his scalp, and with her body gone — getting up in way too swift a motion even for sober people — the night air seems a little colder. Eddie shivers a little, refusing to look at anyone, and just takes drag after drag, deciding he’ll finish this one. It’s his weed after all. 

By the sounds of it, Robin is already lighting the next one. Good girl. Smart girl. Best fucking girl in the whole wide world. 

Thick clouds of hot smoke waft through his lungs and all the way through his body up to his brain, leaving his arms and legs with a tingling feeling and his head with a pleasant buzz and tunes out most everything else around him. It’s great. It’s good. It’s wonderful. 

It’s why he doesn’t realise that the air is warm again and a body shielding him from everyone else until there’s a hand in his hair again. He opens his eyes to snark at Wheeler, but— 

It’s not Wheeler. It’s Steve. Knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on top as he smiles down at Eddie. 

Neither of them says a word, but Eddie’s breath hitches. Stops, stutters. Just like his heart. And yet all he can do is stare up. Wonder if it’s real. Wonder if it’s real. 

“Is this okay?” Steve whispers, fingers barely touching Eddie’s skin as he sort of plays with his hair. 

After a beat or two, Eddie nods, careful not to move too much. Careful not to chase those fingers and all the things they could mean. 

“Good.” 

And then Steve pulls the joint from between Eddie’s lips, and Eddie wants to warn him because this one’s close to the end and bound to be stronger, but it doesn’t seem to faze Steve as he just sucks in the smoke like it’s the first lungful of air he gets after a long day stuck inside. Smiling around the bud as it dies between his lips, he presses it into the grass beside him, extinguishing the last of it. 

He exhales, and Eddie can make out a tiny cloud of smoke against the night sky, watching as it wanders toward him. He waits for Steve to say something. There is what feels like intent in the movements of his hand, in the sudden appearance by his side, and in the way he— he fucking looks at him again. The sky is full of stars, the backyard full of fairy lights, and Steve Harrington is looking at him. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks at last, breaking the silence, wondering if his voice always sounds so small, so quiet, so endlessly tiny. Wondering if Steve even heard. 

But he did, because he smiles again. He did, because his hand stills. Touches Eddie’s skin. His scalp, his temple. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking from Eddie’s eyes to his own hand with something akin to wonder. Or marvel. 

And Eddie shivers again when that hand travels down. Caressing his cheek, definitely with intent. Electricity shoots through his body again, and the intensity in Steve’s eyes leaves him with goosebumps. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Barely even swallows as Steve bites his lip absently and moves on, trailing from Eddie’s cheek down to his... 

He’s touching his lips, and Eddie doesn’t breathe. Steve runs his forefinger along Eddie’s bottom lip, and in another world would he open his mouth and nip on his fingers or gasp at the touch and be better at this, be so much better at everything. But in this one, he lies motionless as Steve just fucking… explores. 

And his touch is so light, it’s so gentle, so sweet on the rough scar tissue, and yet so absent, it doesn’t have to mean anything. He could pull back his hands now and claim that Eddie had something there. He could pull back and live his life unchanged. Leave Eddie behind in this state of paralysis, changed irrevocably, and be safe. 

But that’s not what Steve does. 

Steve was never one to choose safety over bravery, and he has the scars to prove it now. The permanent stiffness of his back that barely lets him feel anything these days. The set in his jaw when he breathes through the pains phantom and real, the crease between his brows when the memory pains flare up. 

But his back is hunched in comfort now rather than in pain, and his shoulders are at ease. His lips are lightly ajar around a barely-there smile, and the skin between his eyes is smooth. Eddie wants to reach out and trace it, wants to caress it in the hopes that it’ll stay smooth forever. 

He’s so pretty. Golden light catching his skin in all the right ways, leaving him positively glowing with that look he gives Eddie. That look. 

Eddie’s never felt so exposed. So vulnerable. Laid bare, ready for dissection and willing to be taken apart in the hopes of letting him find what he wants and take it. Rip it right out of his chest. Now that he has Steve’s hand on his skin in the lightest of touches that’s anything but fleeting, he knows he would let him take anything he wants. Knows he would be helpless to stop him. 

Helpless in the face of that gaze that trails down to his lips now, if only to follow his fingers. 

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, barely moving his mouth at all around that single syllable. 

Golden hazel eyes flit back to his, and they widen a little. Like suddenly it’s Steve who’s caught. 

What are you doing? Eddie wants to ask. What are we doing? Don’t stop. Never stop. 

But words are for moments lighter than this one. Words are not meant for a world that’s changing. 

Maybe that is why Steve puts his hand on Eddie’s chin, tipping it up and turning his face toward him in a gesture so tender it’s almost possessive. Electricity shoots through Eddie again and the air between them is sizzling with it, sizzling because Steve is moving, shifting, dipping his head, his hand coming to rest on Eddie’s throat to keep him from moving away — except there is no force in his touch, and Eddie could still run. 

He could. He should, maybe. Like last time. 

But he is suspended in time, chained to the ground by the weight of Steve’s gaze and the hand on his throat, and his heart is beating so hard, so fast, that he is sure Steve can feel it. Imagines that those fingers move to find his pulse. Imagines that they find their home there, imagines that they hear the tales of stolen hearts and desires that leave his blood rushing. 

Imagines that Steve falters a little, hovering just above Eddie. Dreams of it all, dreams that this is real and that he can have this, just for tonight. He nods, and it’s a tiny little thing, far from enough to ruin this moment or wake him from his dream.

But then Steve captures his lips with such care that Eddie snaps back into his body and realises that this is no dream. Steve is kissing him. Hovers above him with one arm resting in the grass above Eddie’s head, his other hand pulling Eddie’s face towards himself and being oh so gentle about it. 

A whimper escapes him when this new reality settles inside his body, leaving him reeling and pulled towards a world of possibilities as those lips, those warm lips, rest so indulgently against his. 

No longer chained, Eddie carefully lifts a hand to Steve’s head, because Steve can feel him there, too, and because he doesn’t want this to end. Because he needs to touch. All night, all week, all this time he has needed to touch. To cradle. To hold. 

To keep. 

Steve hums, and those lips pull into a smile before closing around Eddie’s bottom lip. The first touch of Steve’s tongue has jolts of electricity and arousal zinging through Eddie’s body again, lingering this time and making a home in his legs that begin to tingle with want. 

Eddie opens his mouth, tilting his head a little to get a better angle, and is rewarded with the careful, addictive touch of Steve’s tongue against his. It makes Steve smile again, just for a second — but long enough to make Eddie’s heart jump. 

He chases those lips when they pull back, capturing them with a little hum as he realises he comes more and more unchained, regaining feeling and control over his body, his mind, his scared little heart. Steve doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate, pushing Eddie’s head down into the grass again with an urgency that Eddie is beginning to understand matches the hunger he’s feeling. 

The hunger that is reserved only for Steve. It leaves him breathless, leaves him with the sudden need to gasp for air, but then Steve’s tongue is in his mouth again and maybe he doesn’t need to breathe ever again. 

He loses himself in the wet slide of their tongues that feels so sensual it’s almost obscene, and all he can do is tangle his fingers in Steve’s hair and keep him right where he is while Eddie himself lies boneless, all the blood rushing down, down, down. Every nip of Steve’s teeth as he devours Eddie so entirely and yet so innocently, so sweetly, so carefully, and every time he sucks on his lips or his tongue results in another wave of intense arousal. And Eddie is stuck in the riptide of it. 

It doesn’t take long for the first moan to break the silence, a gasped little thing, almost like an afterthought, and he’s not sure if that was him or Steve; but he doesn’t really care either way, because he’s so hard, he feels like he can come from just Steve sucking on his tongue alone. 

And isn’t that an enticing thought. 

“Steve,” he whispers, not entirely sure what he’s going to say, or if that’s really all he needs to say. All that’s left to say. Steve, Steve, Steve. 

The only response he gets is a breathy little, “Fuck,” and it sounds like a revelation. Like an epiphany. And Eddie wants to hear it again, wants to swallow all the little noises and murmurs and everything Steve will give him. 

“You’re so—“ Steve begins, interrupting himself with another deep, hungry kiss. “Fuck. You’re…” 

“Yeah?” Eddie counters, breaking the kiss by pulling on Steve’s hair a little. “I’m what?” 

Steve hesitates, panting breaths dancing over Eddie’s skin and he smells so fucking good. Eddie wants to lick the aftershave and perfume and sweat off his neck and keep the taste on his tongue for days. Dark, blown eyes wander over his face, and the hand that was on his throat comes up to rest on his cheek again in a gesture so gentle that it almost gives him whiplash. The hunger is gone — or, not gone, but unimportant now. 

Steve smiles, hazy but genuine and so, so sweet, eyes zeroing in on Eddie’s no doubt swollen lips. 

“Been wanting to do that forever.” 

Eddie’s heart jumps, falters, falls. Just a little. Just the rest of the way. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Wanna kiss you forever.” 

“Yeah, well,” Eddie breathes, voice barely there because his breath has well and truly been taken away, and this moment feels so fragile. So easily broken by quick movements or thoughts that are just a little too loud, just a little too soon. “‘M not gonna stop you.” 

Steve’s eyes snap back to his, and there’s something in there that not even the weed could ease away. “Yeah?” 

Eddie nods, frowning a little, wondering what makes him so unsure. 

“Cool,” Steve says, and it’s almost nonchalant and definitely charming in that way he always is. Makes Eddie laugh a little, his other hand coming up to wipe a strand hair out of his eyes. “So…” He trails off. 

“Hmm?” 

“Wanna stay here? Or go inside, or…” 

And then it’s not arousal that overcomes him but worry. And guilt. And a bit of fear, because that’s not what this is for him. Not like this. Not when they’re high, not for the first time. 

He swallows, schooling his face to cooperate and not give it all away right now, not give away how helplessly gone he is for that boy and how he would do anything Steve wants, how he would take anything he can get and try to make it be enough. But instead of choosing the easy thing and betraying himself, he moves his hand from Steve’s hair to his cheek, melting at the way Steve leans into it, moving his face to press a kiss to Eddie’s palm. 

“Steve,” he says, and his voice is shaky again. And small. So, so small. “That’s not what this is for me. I don’t… I wanna kiss you forever. And more. Much more. But not… I don’t—“ 

“Not while we’re high? Inebriated?” He says the word with a chuckle, referencing the way Robin will always use big words when she’s hammered. There’s a gentle sort of understanding on his face after the chuckle, though, and Eddie melts a little again. “Wanna do it right, hmm? Wanna treat me right and make sure I won’t regret it, angel?” 

Eddie whimpers at the sudden use of that nickname, because he’s not, but he does. He didn’t realise until Steve said it how scared he was — is — that Steve will regret this. The kiss. And anything that might follow. 

Not trusting his words right now, he can only nod, wondering if his eyes are as blown as Steve’s are. If Steve thinks he’s pretty, too. 

“God, you’re unreal,” Steve whispers, coming down again to press a kiss to Eddie’s forehead, brushing them down to the tip of his nose. He leans into those kisses, tips his chin up to chase it, but Steve pulls away again, his thumb tracing the pout he leaves behind on Eddie’s lips. 

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie grumbles, watching the delight on Steve’s face and deciding that he’s addicted now. Fuck the weed, fuck everything else. Steve can get him just as high. 

Along with that thought, reality works its tendrils into Eddie’s consciousness again, and he looks around the backyard around them — but there’s only him and Steve out here on the blanket, framed as they are by the fairy lights. 

“Hang on, where are the others?”

Steve huffs, his face shifting into an expression of fond amusement and gentle annoyance. “Last time I checked, Robin and Argyle were raiding the fridge, Nancy was lying on the living room carpet, marvelling at how soft it is, and Jonathan was just kinda spaced out on the couch with a bowl of chips. Don’t think they’re gonna come out here again in the next half hour or so.” 

“How convenient,” Eddie grins, wondering just how obvious the two of them had been all this time. Wondering, too, if it can really be that easy. If he can have this. If they can; after everything they went through.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, his body shifting so he’s half lying on top of Eddie now, positively vanishing any and all thoughts Eddie could have spared anyone else. He would worry about the hard-on he’s sporting, but it becomes obvious very quickly that Steve has the same predicament. It’s enticing, feeling him against his thigh like that, and Eddie has half a mind to do something about that, especially when Steve keeps shifting against him. “So. Do you wanna make out some more before we light the next baggie? It’s fine if not. We can just… I don’t know, cuddle or something.” 

“Steve,” Eddie says, pulling on his hair a little bit to underline his deadpan. “What about I wanna kiss you forever was unclear?” 

“Hey, I said that first,” Steve retorts, digging his fingers into Eddie’s sides, making Eddie squeal and squirm right into his arms. “I also kissed you first,” he continues, sounding so damn smug about it. Eddie’s never wanted to kiss him more. “So I’m winning.” 

“Hmm, I don’t know about that,” Eddie murmurs, pulling Steve all the way on top of him, his hands finding his way to those magnificent thighs, so firm underneath his grip. “‘M feeling pretty lucky right now.” 

“You think you’re so smooth,” Steve hums, dipping his head to hover just above his lips. 

“Is it working?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

They’re both laughing when their lips meet again, but that doesn’t deter them from kissing and tasting and swallowing moans like they’ll find new purpose in each other. Like they’ve already found it. 

Just like Steve’s hand finds his, weaving their fingers together and pressing him further into the grass. Eddie holds on tight, not ready to let him go anytime soon, and marvelling at how sensitive his hand has become. 

There is no urgency in the way Steve slowly begins to move against him, grinding their crotches together in slow, sensual motion like waves of the ocean gently lapping at the shore. Eddie meets him right where they both need it most, not once breaking their kiss even when it becomes open-mouthed panting and moaning that the other is trying to chase and swallow and keep only for himself. 

“You feel so good,” Steve rumbles, catching Eddie’s tongue between his teeth and pulling a high-pitched whimper from him. “So fucking good, Eddie.” 

“Don’t stop, Stevie, fuck.” He’s panting, his legs tingling with want and need and a weightlessness he’s never known before. “I know I said— We can stop. We can stop, we can, but— fuck, I’m close.” 

“Yeah?” Steve taunts, and oh, there’s purpose now in the the way he’s lifting his chest off Eddie, putting his weight behind the way he’s grinding into him. “You gonna come in your pants, baby? While the others are still inside? Means you’re gonna do this with me again later, right? Try again when we’re not high, hmm?”

“Yes,” Eddie rushes to say, working his fingers into Steve’s belt loops to keep him from stopping. “God, yes, I wanna—“ 

“I’ve got you,” Steve says, kissing the words right out of his brain, chasing his own pleasure, too. “God, you’re so pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, Eddie. Wanna come with me?” 

“Uh-huh,” Eddie can only nod and moan around all the words he wants to say, all those cheesy fucking words that leave him all the more vulnerable for how true they are. The tingly feeling builds in his legs, climbing to his core, and he wonders for a split second if Steve can really make him come like this — worries that somehow it’s not enough and that he’ll ruin this, that he’ll fuck it up and make it awkward between them because he doesn’t actually have any idea how his body works when someone else is taking the reins. 

But then Steve kisses him like that again, sucking his tongue into his mouth, holding his hand and groaning when Eddie moves in just the right way, and the sizzling pleasure finally finds its release. 

Eddie comes with a broken groan that Steve swallows greedily, panting into his mouth as, shortly after, his hips begin to stutter in their movements and he follows Eddie off the brink of this beautiful madness. Steve was always beautiful, there’s no question about that. But like this, face slack, kiss-swollen and spit-slick lips open around a silent moan as he grinds his trapped cock against Eddie’s, wrecked with aftershocks as his orgasm washes over him? He’s a fucking revelation that makes Eddie’s eyes roll into the back of his skull, over sensitive as he is  and yet so helpless against Steve’s aborted little motions. 

Getting high on weed doesn’t compare to getting high on Steve. It’s a high Eddie wants to chase forever, and he starts by wrapping his arms around Steve and pulling him down onto his chest again, just to hold him. Steve purrs as Eddie’s hand finds its way into his hair, combing it away from the sweaty skin it sticks to. He cages him with his legs, too, tingly as they remain on either side of Steve’s body. 

It’s stupid, maybe, and a bit much, but he wants to keep Steve like this for a little longer. Putty in his hands, his weight on top of him grounding him after that high, and allowing them both to come down slowly. 

“Man,” Steve says after a while, just letting that word hang in the air as he regains conscious thought. 

Eddie hums, prompting him to say what’s on his mind even though he’s scared he won’t like what he’s about to hear. Still, it’s only fair to let Steve say what he wants. 

“I like you so much.” 

Eddie holds his breath as he waits for the but. For the regret. But none follows. That’s really all Steve’s saying; and soon Eddie can’t fight the wave of giddiness that overcomes him. 

He hugs Steve a little tighter, not entirely ready yet to look him in the eyes and face this new reality they’ve kind of just created, needing to be a little scared for just a bit longer. But still he laughs, because scared is no longer all he’s feeling. There’s so much more now. So much more. 

“I like you so much right back.” 

Now it’s Steve who hums, shifting to lift his head and look at Eddie, but Eddie closes his eyes before Steve can catch them. 

“Said it first again.” A hand lands on his cheek again, just above the ugly scars that Steve doesn’t seem afraid to touch. “So I win.” 

And Eddie is looking now. Dares. If only to drive his point home when he says, “God, you’re so fucking lame.” 

“Is it working?” Steve grins, and Eddie never stood a fucking chance. 

“Unfortunately.” 

@izzy2210 here you go darling hehehe 🤍

[choccy-milky]

Hey just wanted to say how much I adore the Raven and The Snake! It kept me sane during some hard times last year screaming at Seb distracted me from my real problems LOL! In fact I love it so much I would love to print the fic and turn it into a book for my own personal enjoyment of course, would it be okay with you if I did that and posted the final product on Twitter? I'd tag you of course! Don't know if it's a dumb question but I wanted to check. Anyways love your work you are SUPER talented!

YES YES YES??? OMG PLSSS I WOULD DIE!!!!!!!

IM HONOURED YOU LIKED IT ENOUGH TO WANT TO BIND IT!!! AND PLS, TAG ME EVERYWHERE WHEN/IF YOU DO IT😭😭 ive considered commissioning someone to bind it myself just to have as a memento bc im the author, but omg the fact that someone else would wanna do it too......im glad sebs dumbassery (and lets be real, clora's too. if not MOSTLY cloras) could distract you from your irl problems by yelling at those two idiots���🥰 THANK YOU AGAIN IM HONOURED ARGHHH🧎‍♀️💖💖

LMFAOOO THE WAY I THOUGHT THIS WAS ANON HATE AT FIRST LMAOOO i mean i guess it kinda could still be considered it??? but i love your love for clora BAHAH bc you are so right, let seb drown, this aint about him✋😔...to satiate you heres a wip of her ive had for a while, and maybe ill finally finish it soon JUST FOR YOU🫵🫵💖

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR SEVENTEEN

in which you watch a movie about dragons with eddie, but there's something deeper beneath the surface to battle. to train. to tame.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 3.7k+

→ a/n: omg they still haven't slept they're just like me fr <3 thank you for all the kindness and endless patience you have all had with this story, and for sticking around for the ride. deftones scene that has haunted me for months now will be next hour! and the return of the gc! see y'all next week (maybe)

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

17:00 ─────────ㅇ───── 24:00

HOUR SEVENTEEN - 8:00 AM

“Are you crying right now?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh my God, you are.”

“I’m not.”

“Eddie, those are goddamn tears on your cheeks-”

“Oh, fuck off!” 

The credits for How To Train Your Dragon roll as background noise to your bickering. 

“It’s okay to admit that you were, y’know,” you coo as you lean across the spanse of both your laps, moving to pinch at his cheek as he leans back and moves it further out of your reach, “It’s a very moving ending.” 

You’d situated yourself at one end of the couch when you two returned inside, while Eddie had seated himself on the opposite end. Initially, you’d been disappointed, worried about that sudden distance. But the distance disappeared rather quickly as Eddie had fully turned his body, back against the armrest and legs spread out of that empty space, and encouraged you to do the same. A messy entanglement of knees and ankles and calves all pressed together, touching at every interval possible. Anywhere your leg could manage to graze his, it was. A plethora of gentle and minuscule touches, all adding up to something bigger – something that still grows in your chest amongst the vines and beneath his waves.

It was the very thing that made this easy. It wasn’t awkward, neither of you seemed uncomfortable given that the last time you’d used this couch, it had been in very delicate and very different circumstances. 

It was all part of being his friend. You were Eddie’s friend. 

“Don’t be so condescending,” Eddie’s scowl is adorable, tugging on every infantile bloom gathered on the greenery in your chest. 

Boundaries. Your lungs and your vines and your bones had found respectable boundaries amongst themselves, and it was finally easier to breathe around Eddie again.

“I’m not!” you shift your legs, sliding your bare skin against that of his flannel pajamas. He’s quick to wrap a hand around your ankle, thumb pressing into the hard bone as if he’s scared you’re about to run from him again. You’re not; you’re not sure how to convince him, but you can’t imagine there’s anything he could tell you now to send you running once more, “I liked the movie, Eddie. It was… it was really good.” 

You’re a terrible liar. You can’t remember half the movie. All you can remember is the way Eddie would animatedly add commentary for you, how there had been a point in the movie the two of you paused for nearly fifteen minutes for him to go on a ramble of his explanation as to why he’d named his bike Nightfury (as if it hadn’t been obvious from the way his face lit up the moment Toothless appeared on screen). All you can remember is how you only wished the movie would never end, so the look on his face would never fade. 

“Tell me your favorite scene,” he demands with a knowing smirk. He knows you didn’t pay attention. 

“You know…” you pause, racking your brain for a single scene to mention, “The… one…”

“Go on,” he scoots his heels back towards him, elevating his knees so he can prop his elbows up on them and cradle his face mockingly, acting completely enthralled by whatever your answer may be, “The one…?” 

You panic, blurting out, “The one with the dragon.” 

You miss the pressure of his thumb on your bones. A physical reminder of his grip on you, not just all mumbled metaphorical ones that now reside in you.

“Half the movie was scenes with a dragon.” 

“The one where he’s training the dragon.” 

That earns a cackle from him. One that pulls from his chest, sends him leaning back from his sarcastic pose and makes him squint his eyes until crinkles appear beside them. You almost consider counting each laugh line, but just as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared. 

“Awesome,” he breathes out, stretching his legs out, bumping them back against yours once more, “So specific. You should really be a professional movie critic, you know that?” 

“Oh, yeah,” you nod giddily, “Feast your eyes, pretty boy. The next Robert Ebert in the making.”

He’s red. Terribly, terribly red. It’s not a surprise he fights fire with fire as he replies, “Sweetheart, respectfully… who the fuck is Robert Ebert?” 

It’s your turn for your cheeks to burn. You’re unsure if he catches it, the flash of sudden shyness at that nickname now. It once sent rage burning down your throat, but you now revel in it. You’d burn for it. 

“You’re killing me here, handsome,” that does the trick – a small squeak sounds off from deep within his throat, and he tries to cover it with a cough, “He was a famous movie critic. My newest role model.”

You expect him to go on with the bit, to force your hand and make you expand on it. Your mind is already reeling with ways to insert more innuendos, more nicknames, more ways to drive him as insane as you already had become thanks to him. It was only fair that you return the favor. 

He doesn’t. 

He’s like a schoolboy, fidgeting beneath your attention. You swear you feel a tremor in his legs that are tangled with yours properly again, and when he grabs your ankle, when he gives it another squeeze and he lays his thumb into that bone again as if he might find a divot specifically worn out just for him, you realize he’s not going to go along with the bit. Your innocent nickname has left him defenseless. Flustered, vibrant pink and crimson red from the bridge of his nose to the tops of his ears. 

Oh, this is fun. 

You move the foot he’s not holding onto for dear life, shifting it too quick for him to stop you before you sharply prod his exposed stomach with your toes, “Earth to Eddie?” 

He jumps at the contact. It happens so fast, you almost can’t keep track of him with your eyes as he’s sporadically jumping up off of the couch, away from your foot and legs and you. 

Oh, that’s not fun. 

“We should watch another movie,” No, we really shouldn’t. “How’s Scream sound?” 

He doesn’t even let you answer him, already rushing towards the entertainment center and dropping into a crouch before the shelves holding some of his movies. His hand moves to his knee, the hand that had once held to your bone, the one that burned a lingering touch into it, and you watch as his fingers start to tap along to a silent beat. 

A clear sign of anxiety. Even if you hadn’t come to observe Eddie and learn his ins and outs over the last seventeen hours, you’d know he’s on edge. 

“What are you doing?” you baldly ask him, in no mood to beat around the bush. 

He’s on edge. All you did was call him handsome, and he’s on fucking edge. 

“What do you mean?” he asks over his shoulder, not even so much as looking at you as his fingers trail along the spines of titles, occupying himself with finding a movie you still hadn’t agreed to. 

You sit up on your knees, kneeling on the cushions. It almost reminds you of when your knees had last pressed into this couch, “I mean, why the fuck did you get up like that?” 

“Like what?”

It’s funny, how easily your previously warm contentment can start to fan into flames of agitation.

“Oh, Jesus-” you cut yourself off, standing just abruptly as he had. You walk with purpose towards him, and he finally turns his face to look at you, “What did I do? Did I cross a line?” 

His brows furrow, “What?”

You wave your hand towards the couch, finally stopping off beside him, cocking a hip to accommodate your other hand that rests on it, “The way you just- we were just sitting there and talking and you just-” 

You just completely pulled away from me. Physically, yes, but I’m terrified it also be emotionally. You pulled away, and it feels an awful like you’re running away. 

All the words you can’t say – all the words you don’t know how to say. 

“You jumped up like I said something wrong,” you quietly finish the thought only half truthfully. It’s better than nothing. It still offers a sliver of honesty. 

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he remains crouched, looking up at you with big and wide eyes, face smoothing into shock, “I just… I want to watch another movie.”

“I thought we were past that.”

“Past what?”

“Lying.”

His blush lingers and so does the tapping of his fingers, “Why do you think I’m lying? I’m being serious – you didn’t do anything wrong! I just… You said you haven’t seen Scream, and mentioned something about killing, so I thought-” 

“And if I don’t want to watch another movie?” you drop to your knees beside him, and he physically retracts, “See! Jesus Christ, Eddie, be honest with me right now or so help me God-”

“I have been plenty honest tonight, thank you very much,” he scowls immediately. You scoot closer to him on your knees, and this time, he isn’t flinching away, “You didn’t do anything wrong, alright? I… It’s me. My problem, I’ll deal with it. Please just… let me deal with it, okay?” 

“Deal with what-”

It’s your fault, really. You scoot even closer on your knees, you’re ignoring the carpet burn sure to remain, when your balance fails you. One moment, you feel as though you have the upper ground with him and this entire argument, and the next you’re falling forward. 

You’re falling forward, and Eddie doesn’t hesitate to earnestly attempt to stop your collision with his floor. Attempt being the key word. 

It happens slow enough that both of you should have been able to stop it, in retrospect. Because Eddie is successful in catching your elbow, pausing the fall momentarily before he loses his own balance. He falls onto his ass and out of his crouch with a soft oomph, eyes widening comically before he’s collapsing backwards and dragging you with him. Your body drapes over him, cheek pressing into his bare chest, and neither of you move for a second. 

A familiar position. From the first few hours, when Eddie had tried to wrestle his damn porn magazine from you. That warm weight that once rested between your hips now digging into him, ribcages once more pressing together with erratic heartbeats pounding against each other through walls of flesh. 

You don’t move at first, keeping your face smashed into his chest. The perfect role reversal. At least his face isn’t in your boobs this time.

“I…” Oh, it’s painful to hold in your laughter, words choking up as your mouth quivers in the force of fighting a shit-eating grin, “I-I’m sorry.” 

He’s quick to recognize your amusement, “Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not going to!”

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Bullshit,” he shifts beneath you, sitting up and bringing you back up with him. His arms are loose around your waist as you slide off of him and sit onto the floor beside him, “Who’s the liar now?” 

Another twitch of your lips, another glare shot your way, “I’m…” He raises his eyebrow in a dare, “Okay, yeah, I was going to laugh.” 

“Fuckin’ knew it.” 

He’s still wrapped around you, even as you sit side by side. Awkward angles and all, he’s clinging to you just as he did on the couch. As if he always needs to be touching you now, as if that line being crossed has made him open his eyes to a million realizations and opportunities. 

When he’s not running away, of course. 

You want to bring it up, reiterate that you’d like to know what exactly Eddie was ‘dealing with’ as he so eloquently put it. But you can’t, especially not when his thumb finds your soft skin beneath his shirt and strokes it thoughtlessly. An instinct. You wonder if he’s even conscious of it, if he even knows the effect it’s having on you. 

Can he hear your heart when he’s this close? Can he hear it’s thunder that shakes your very foundations? 

“I was serious,” you finally speak up, realizing you two have spent far too long sitting on his living room floor and just looking into each other’s eyes. If past you knew you ended up in this position, she would have been disgusted, not fawning. “I don’t feel like another movie.”

“Even Scream?” 

“Even Scream.” 

It’s a hard sentiment to force out, because the idea of getting to sit through another few hours of watching Eddie glow with excitement, to watch his expressions as he tumbles over words of adornment for something he loves and is passionate about, is tempting. But you’re pretty sure if you end up on that couch again, his thumb stroking your ankle as he attempts to keep your attention tethered to a motion picture you could never follow along with sincerely, you’ll just fall asleep. 

Sleep deprivation is a bitch. 

“What do you want to do instead?” he asks you. He makes no move to stand; you don’t either. 

Your eye trails over the entertainment center to avoid his stare, when something catches your eye on the shelf above the movies, “You never did tell me who Deftones are.”

Eddie glances at the shelf of CDs that caught your eye, “You… want to listen to Deftones right now, rather than watch Scream?” 

“Yes. I want you to rock my world with Deftones right now rather than watch Scream.”

“What about sleep?”

“What about it?”

“Do you not want to rest? They never said we couldn’t. Actually, right now, they’re assuming we are.”

Amongst the quick back and forth, you have to bite your tongue. You want to scream, no. No, I don’t want to sleep, because if I sleep, I’m missing this. I may never get this again; I can’t risk this. 

You shrug, and stand as his arms fall from around you. You miss that weight – you always miss the fucking weight of him. Just like a child with their favorite stuffed animal or blanket, you’re growing too attached too quickly. It’s going to be your downfall. It’s going to be your goddamn reckoning once these hours have slipped away.

Even more reason to not sleep. Even more reason to cling to your time with him. 

“No rest for the wicked, am I right?” you force a careless grin and hold out a hand. You silently plead for him to take it, to give you this win just once. 

He stares at your hand, then at you, then back to your hand. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, right?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh out unintentionally when he hesitantly starts to reach out for your hand, grasping his palm to yours. A sudden burst of confidence overrides your system as you say, “But for these final seven hours, I’m your idiot.”

His grip turns steady and firm. A wicked grin crosses his face to match your own. 

“That you are, sweetheart. That you are.”

—

As it turns out, Eddie’s radio is broken. He tries to explain what happened, animatedly waving around his hands as he pulls all of the Deftones albums he owns and tries to give you the backstory to the night he broke the poor thing, but you just grab your phone and wave it in front of him instead. 

“I’m about to change your life and single handedly convince you to get a smartphone, Munson,” you tease as he takes a seat on the couch beside you. 

You’re sat criss-cross, bare knee bumping his thigh as you open your Spotify app. 

“I do know what Spotify is,” he grumbles, “I’m not completely lost on the times.”

“You still use physical copies of porn. Excuse me for assuming you don’t know what Spotify is.”

That shuts him up with ease. 

He’s completely silent, almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for the warmth radiating off of him and the bounce of his knee beside you. His eyes are watchful, though, as you search up this mysterious band and click on their music profile. 

Just as you open your mouth to ask which song you should play, thumb already hovering over their top song of Change (In The House of Flies), he sticks out his open palm. 

“What?” you question, looking up from where you’d been focused on the tiny screen. 

He wiggles his fingers. 

You know that he’s asking for you to hand over the phone, but you still recall the thrill from teasing him earlier. The rush you got from flustering him, from getting under his skin. 

Maybe you don’t have to shower him with abundant flirtatious nicknames to do that. Maybe, you can pull back an inch or so, lay off the compliments, figure out a new way to get under his skin in a way that makes you both smile until your cheeks burn, laugh until your stomachs ache. 

Instead of giving him the phone, you send your hand out to his and smack it. A punitive attempt at a high five with the angle given. 

“Wha-” he starts, staring at his palm you’d just smacked in gentle astonishment, “I wasn’t asking for a high five.” 

“No?” you bite down on your inner cheek, reeling back in your smile as he wiggles his fingers again, inching his hand closer to the phone. 

This time, instead of slapping at his hand, you smack your hand down into his and lace your fingers together. 

A giggle escapes you as he tries to shake your hand from his, and even as he tries to grimace, you catch the smile he’s fighting. 

“Sweetheart,” he chastises, “Give me the phone so I can show you the damn band.” 

“Ask nicely.” 

He gets his hand free from yours and tilts his head in your direction, raising an eyebrow. You only raise your own brow in return.

“Stop being a brat and give me the phone, please,” he repeats himself in a nearly condescending tone. 

You’re managing it. Aching cheeks, soon-to-be aching stomachs, as you crawl beneath his skin. “Make me.” 

Two simple words are all it takes to finally burrow into him. Literally. You nearly drop your phone when he’s quickly shifting positions, hand no longer be held out for the device as he suddenly dives it into your sides. Your body instinctively curls up protectively, and his forearm is caught against your torso as he begins to do exactly what you had enticed from him. He’s making you.

The asshole is tickling you.

“Eddie!” you screech, no care for how thin the walls of his apartment might be, “Ed-Eddie, stop!”

He’s cackling now between your gasping laughs. Your phone does take a tumble, dropping to both your feet as his second hand joins the torture. You can’t follow the path of his fingertips up and down your sides, only continuing to yelp out as your eyes tear up and you try to fight back. He props himself with a knee on the couch, other leg stretched to the floor as he cowers you into the cushion and your sides begin to ache. 

“Stop it! Stop it!” 

If you really wanted him to stop, you probably could manage to kick him off of you. One slip of a knee or thigh with intention towards his groin, and you’re sure it would send him flying. But you don’t. You let his body cover yours as your forehead bumps against his shoulder, you let him curl back into you and entrap you so willingly. You let that overwhelming scent of boy take you over. 

You let his waves drag you under. You don’t even have to take a breath before it happens; his essence is enough to keep your lungs from collapsing. 

“Stop?” he laughs, fingers momentarily slowing but not quite stopping, “Have I made you yet, baby?”

Your laughs die silently. All the air finally leaves your lungs, and you officially can only breathe in him. 

Baby. 

He senses the change in you immediately. The tickling stops, and he’s leaning back, shoulder leaving your forehead feverish. That’s what it was, it couldn’t possibly be the warmth that glows in your chest from that nickname. 

Baby. 

You get it. Oh, God, you get it. His quick escape when you’d called him handsome. You’d forgotten that this game of getting beneath his skin and bantering with light teasing goes both ways. You’d forgotten he has as much power over you now as you did him. 

Wide, brown eyes meet yours. He’s close enough to kiss. One impulsively lurch forward, and your lips would be back on his. His tongue in your mouth, his hands on your hips, his own hips settled between your thighs – all of this is so, so palpable. And all it would take is one movement. 

You hesitate. And he moves, lurching the wrong way. You almost call out, wait. Come back. 

Baby. 

An echo you can’t grasp onto quickly enough, and it leaves right along with the weight of him. 

He leans down and grabs your phone that had fallen, and sits back down beside you as he clears his throat, “Anyways. Um, where were we?” 

You kissing me. Me kissing you. Us, kissing, here on this couch. 

“Deftones?” you manage to whisper out questioningly instead. You swallow down that desire, a fiery weapon you should probably tamper down anyways. 

“Right. Deftones.” 

He opens your phone, putting in the code you quietly hand over to him without any hesitation. It was all wasted on that brief look, that moment where you nearly had him back in your grasps and he only slipped away again. 

You don’t even care as he deliberates which song to show you first. You think there’s a notification from Steve, a text message in the groupchat, but it’s lost on you. 

Baby. 

You like the way it sounds, you like the way it fits. You wonder how steep of a price you’d have to pay to hear him say it again. 

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

taglist is now closed.

[stevebabey]

let the kisses linger

word count: 3.3k summary: Steve Harrington is not your boyfriend, not yet. So far you’ve had a couple sweet kisses and an infuriating amount of dates spent with him making you nervous. Now, you just want to kiss him like you mean it, more than a peck, and maybe ask him to be your boyfriend while you do it. Steve beats you to it, on both counts. [cheeky tiny makeout + gn!reader (but r is mentioned to wear a bikini) + first relationship!reader]

It starts with a touch.

You’ve come to learn it always does with Steve. Fingers skirting along any bare skin he can find, drawing a line on your waist when just a sliver is exposed. Along the ridge of your neck, curling his hand to rest against your shoulder. His fingertips tease at your neck, feather-soft touches that can make you shiver if you’re not expecting it.

You think he does it just to see the goosebumps that trail in the wake of his touch. From the way he always grins, like the cat that got the cream, you’re probably right.

Steve can’t help it. You’re so responsive.

Maybe it’s because it’s new, this thing between you and Steve — you’ve been on a couple dates together after a string of painfully obvious flirtations over the Family Video counter that Robin had been forced to witness. You’ve just not quite sealed the deal yet.

However, even though Steve’s had more girlfriends than he can count on one hand, this part? Never gets old.

The electricity. The dance, the build-up; getting to see how you react when you’re not quite expecting him to be as close and touchy as he is.

He adores all of it. The delightful shudder you give when he slips his fingers into your hair, gifting a soft scratch along your scalp when you two had gotten cozy during a film. Your gloriously warm cheeks give you away even though Steve can read exactly when you’re nervous.

You’re utterly precious to him — and Steve wouldn’t exchange your shy smiles, flushed cheeks, or your nervous little reactions that are all because of him, for anything in the world.

Maybe it’s because you’re new to this.

First date, first time holding hands, first kiss — you’ve given them all to Steve. With the seriousness he takes them all, wholly prepared to blow your expectations out of the water, you feel you can trust them with him.

But even with trust, there’s no quelling the sticky nervousness that runs free beneath your skin when his hands begin to wander.

At first, it made you freeze. Not sure how to relax under hands that just want to hold you, touch you, just cos’ they can.

You think it took, maybe, a whole hour for you to relax and let yourself slump against Steve on your fourth date, curled up together on the couch. You think Steve knew of your nervousness and thanked him silently for his nonchalance at your stiffness. Not one comment was made.

You had relaxed into his side eventually. Steve, of course, had then gone and wrapped an arm around you and pulled you back into his chest and you’d gone straight back to tensed up.

His arms were wound around your middle, hands resting on your tummy and you hadn’t a clue on how you were supposed to be calm about it. You had mentally cursed his pretty hands, and his warm arms, and prayed to whoever was listening to grant you some semblance of strength.

And then, the bastard had leaned down, lips ghosting the shell of your ear, and whispered, “Y’can relax, sweetheart.”

You could practically hear the grin, cursing how you tensed up more — and forced yourself to melt against him. His arms tightened, pulling you closer as if this had been his plan all along. Steve’s chuckle wouldn’t have been audible if you hadn’t been so close to him.

Yeah, he definitely knew how nervous he made you.

The difference between then and now? Now, you want his wandering touch. Steve had been so sweet and good in the beginning, a little bit of teasing to watch you blush and squirm, and then he’d back off. Make sure you were actually comfortable.

You’re not sure you’ll shake the nerves with him — it’s just a Steve thing. He’s gorgeous, you’re nervous, the sky is blue, yadda yadda.

But how do you send a different message — tell him that he’s started a hunger in you that’s not quite satisfied with fleeting touches — when all you can do is shiver and blush when he puts his hands on you?

However you do, you need to figure it out, like, stat.

Today, in the blistering swell of summer, it’s getting near unbearable. At the Harrington house, Steve’s invited the party around for a bit of a pool party and you think you might die if you get to see him shirtless for any longer without getting your hands on him.

Steve’s meanly decided to forgo his shirt. It leaves him walking around in only slightly too short swim shorts and a smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You get a tasty eyeful of his warm tan skin on display through the patio doors, your eyes tracking each mole on his skin. He’s scooping the pool free of leaves and you honestly feel like this is the start of some shitty porno with you lusting over the pool-boy. You’re fairly sure he knows you’re staring which makes it worse. He’s evil.

The muscles in his back ripple as he cleans, biceps bulging deliciously and you might seriously start drooling at the sight—how did you get him to go out with you, again?

“You’re drooling.”

Beside you in the kitchen, big sunglasses pushing back her fringe, Robin manages to startle you with her silent appearance. You jump just a bit, tearing your eyes away from Steve — you hadn’t heard her approach.

Your hand flies to your mouth, wiping fast. Embarrassment flushes up when you swipe at nothing and Robin cackles at the sight. 

You roll your eyes but it does little to deter the heat in your face.

“I’m just messing with ya,” She nudges her shoulder against yours, her grin looking far too cheeky for your liking. Like she could read into every thought that had just been streaming through your head. You silently hope not.

“I wasn’t- there was no drooling.” You say, the conviction in your voice weakening with each word.

Robin wrinkles her nose. “That was a lie of epic proportions. You so were.”

You pout a bit, embarrassment still shining through. Robin just grins further and adjusts her sunglasses. She heads to the fridge, pulls it open, and plucks out some orange juice, beginning to drink from the bottle.

“No shame.” She says lightly, between a gulp, then reconsiders after a moment, her eyes bright. “Okay, a little shame — you looked ready to jump him right here and now.”

Your face might rival the sun in heat right now.

“But he’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” It comes out a bit gargled from the juice she’s yet to swallow. Boyfriend comes out like bwoyfend. She continues after a swallow. “If anyone’s allowed to ogle, it’d be you, no?”

Uh oh. The B-word. The not-yet official name that you’re not sure you’re allowed to use in reference to Steve just yet.

“Um,” you cough a bit, wondering if you can skirt around the question. Yes some part of you sings, because you really really want him to be. You have to scold yourself for fibbing, even if it’s only in your head. Robin takes another swig, her eyes still on you.

“Not exactly.” You admit sheepishly, a hand coming up to rub the back of your neck. “We haven’t— he hasn’t- it’s not like that. Yet.”

Robin grins as she watches you fumble for words, screwing the cap back on the OJ. She leans her hip against the countertop, casting a glance out the window.

You go to follow her look and then think the better of it, focusing back on Robin. Like you need your blush to get any more fierce.

“Dingus is being stupid. He probably just needs a nudge.” Her eyes spy the thin cherry-red strap of your bikini, peeking out beneath your cotton shirt. “I’m sure that bikini will do the trick.”

She seems to hear herself, her eyes widening a moment later, slipping into a raspy ramble you know well. “Though, it should be said I totally believe Steve likes you for your personality. He’s not like— he wouldn’t just- he’s a multi-faceted man with many many layers!”

It all bursts out a bit frantic, so very Robin. You’re both amused at her insistence that Steve doesn’t just view you as eye-candy and grateful for the way she’s managed to melt off some of your nerves, huffing a small laugh at her dramatics.

“Who is?” Steve asks, voice cutting into the conversation.

You startle a moment, surprised. He’s standing in the doorway that leads out to the pool, both arms stretched above his head to grasp the top of the door frame, leaning into it. You can’t help the way your gaze instantly draws up along his arms, far too fixated on the delicious show of his muscles to properly focus on answering his question.

“Certainly not you, dingus.” Robin comments, already clocking the hazed expression on your face. She recognizes the same absurd flirting face on Steve she’d become far too familiar with at Scoops and takes her cue, orange juice in hand.

“People arrive in like 5 minutes, just remember!” The knowing in her tone makes you consider blushing again, just to be ashamed of how quickly she had read you for filth.

Steve certainly seems to know too. He drops his arms, waltzing in to meet you in the kitchen and you will yourself not to step back when he comes a little closer than expected.

“This is a nice little number,” he murmurs, voice low. His eyes are trained on your shoulder and before you ask what he means, his hand comes up, fingers toying with the strap of your bikini. Where his skin meets yours, fire streaks beneath it, like a connecting point of static electricity.

“You think?” You ask a little breathier than you’re intending. It nearly makes you scrunch your face up in cringe, feeling a familiar glow in your cheeks.

You don’t, only because when Steve nods, teeth scraping his bottom lip for a moment and eyes wandering over your face, he looks a little lovestruck. Like he can’t believe you’re real.

His other hand comes up, both his palms resting on your shoulders and he trails them down your arms lightly, soft touches, til both your hands are in his.

“Come show me out in the sunlight?” He asks, cocking his head back out to the pool. His hands tug you ever-so-slightly. You can’t help but oblige, letting him pull you out, barely holding back your smile as he does.

There’s just something about when he touches you. Steve Harrington is a man all about touch and you’ve been going crazy finding out just how touchy he can get when you’re the one in his heart.

You amble out onto the tiles behind him and squint just a bit at the change in lighting, the bright rays of midday casting down onto the backyard. It’s mildly warm out, balmy, and with just a hint of a breeze that ruffles your shirt for a moment. 

Steve’s feet move nimbly to suddenly redirect you both — walking you both against the side of the house, til your back presses against the wall. You’re just out of view of the sliding doors, and you’d be foolish to think it’s not by design. Come show me out in the sunlight? His words echo in your head, inciting a familiar warmth in your cheeks.

“Steve—?”

“I’m gonna kiss you now if that’s okay,” He breathes, voice suddenly a lot heavier than it had been inside. Like it might actually ache inside if he doesn’t get his lips against your skin — like perhaps your lips held the antidote to a poison that was making his blood sing for your touch.

One of his hands releases your own to travel up, curling along your jaw, fingertips sliding into your hair. His eyes are still drinking in every detail of your face, affection mixed with something darker conveyed across his features.

His fingers caress along your scalp, thumb along your neck, tantalizing touches that you’re sure he’s not even aware he’s doing. But still, he doesn’t kiss you, waiting for a yes. God, he’s sweet.

Especially considering the answer is a huge fat unanimous yes.

It’s been a yes since the moment you saw him today. It’s been a thousand yes’ piling up in the weeks of seeing him, building up from the first time you kissed him and somehow bit his lip and he had only laughed and soothed it against your own.

Your yes has been growing inside you, the desire to kiss him like you mean it and leave him pink in the face and pretty.

It only takes one tiny please falling off your lips for Steve to close the gap, his lips brushing against yours. He kisses you, gentle for a moment - til a hunger overtakes and the kisses quickly turn hot and fast.

There’s urgency coiled up beneath your skin and it bursts to the surface at his kiss, the feeling you’ve been desperately craving. Steve gives you what you want gladly.

His grip in your hair tightens slightly, his kiss turning a little more fierce, and you keen and eagerly return it. His other hand has found your waist, startling a small gasp out of you when his warm palm covers your hip and bring you closer. His lips break away, just enough to take in some air and let you breath a moment, then he dives back in.

Kissing Steve, you’re quickly learning, is pure delirium.

His lips are soft and greedy and he steals kisses as quick as you can give them. There’s a quiet hum in the back of his throat, borderline a groan — and when you remember your hands, moving them from awkwardly hovering at your side to cup his face, fingers delving into his hair, the groan breaks free.

“You,” He pauses his attack of affection, lips still an inch from yours. Your eyes blink open, not aware of when they had closed. Steve’s scanning your face, looking for something, lips already pinker from your kisses. “You good? Not too much f’you?”

Your heart pounds a little faster at his care. His attentive gaze tracks your emotions to make sure he hasn’t pushed you too far, that you’re not overwhelmed by the affection. He’s so fucking nice.

You are overwhelmed, just a bit. It’s impossible not to when Steve kisses the way he does; so sweet, and like he envies anything that’s ever touched your lips. It’s pure passion, in a way you can’t even begin to describe.

The heat under your skin burns hotter. The places he touches you — his fingers in your hair, his hand on your waist, the press of his body against yours — all glow gloriously warm. Steve looks so stupidly hot, you nearly want to whine aloud about how unfair it is.

His chest is heaving a bit, a flush up his neck, his hair tousled from your grip on it. In the buttery sunlight, he’s golden and the same moles you had been staring at not 10 minutes ago look even more divine this close. You want to kiss each one, connect them with a press of your lips, and leave little marks of your own.

You want to devour him; you start and answer his question, with another kiss.

Steve’s surprise is only shown in his parted lips, a small gasp swallowed in the kiss, and you take it as an invitation, a hot swipe of your tongue across his lower lip. You take it between your own, a ghost of a nibble that makes him shudder delightfully beneath you.

Steve kisses back fervently and just when you think you’ve got the rhythm, sighing into his mouth, he pulls back. You make a noise of dissatisfaction and he chuckles lowly at it.

You don’t even get a moment to ask what’s wrong, your eyes still comfortably closed as Steve stays close, pressing his forehead down against yours. In a raspy whisper, just for you, he says, “Be mine?”

Your eyes fly open at that, some pocket of air whooshing out your lungs. He’s watching you intently, caramel eyes that give away his nervousness even if his voice hadn’t wavered. This close, you can see a smattering of freckles that dot his nose and you swear, inside your chest, your heart just sighs. He’s so pretty it hurts.

You’ve only been awed silence for a few seconds before his nose nudges yours, hand on your waist pulling you even closer. Before you can find your words, he asks it again— in between peppering soft kisses up the side of your face. “Be mine, please?”

“You- You wanna be my boyfriend?” You ask, not meaning to sound so disbelieving.

A nervous laugh titters out as you lean in closer instinctively. Your heart feels as though it’s going to beat out of your chest, as wild as a hummingbird’s wings, and it makes you grin— your lips curl up involuntarily, completely unable to help the way you beam.

“Of course,” Steve laughs lightly, nuzzling his nose against yours. Then, because he seems to have a pattern of being awfully repetitive today, his voice turns softer, all sincere when he whispers, “Of course.”

Damn him. Every time you think you’re close to settling those butterflies, to biting back the nerves that make your spine tingle, he swoops in and one-ups himself — does or says something else stupidly romantic so that all you can is grin like a dope.

You’re not proud of the giddy little noise that slips out of you when you nod excitedly, cheeks already starting to ache from how wide your grin is. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, trying to stop smiling enough to kiss him again but Steve doesn’t bother waiting. The next kiss is a bit fumbled, both of you smiling too much to properly kiss but one or two more softens your smiles.

You kiss him hard, remember your hands and tug him close, closer, he’s not close enough — a pleased hum comes from your boyfriend’s throat and even the word in your mind makes you smile too much to keep kissing him.

A sharp rap against the sliding doors makes you whip your head to the side, both you and Steve looking perfectly guilty of being caught in your makeout. Slightly swollen lips, bitten and pink, on the both of you, not to mention the close proximity of the pair of you pressed against the house.

“Ahem,” Robin clears her throat from where she stands, out from the doorway since she had come looking for you. “Guests are arriving if you’d cared to notice.”

Part of you droops, entirely fixated on stealing a thousand kisses from Steve and maybe leaving a few marks of your own. His disappointed huff, barely audible, lets you know Steve is well on the same page as you.

Extracting yourself from his arms, you press him back with your fingertips planted in the middle of his chest. Steve turns back to you, groans aloud like he’s about to complain, and it just furthers your smile into a smirk.

“Plenty of time for that later,” You say, still sounding too giddy to come out as confident as you’re aiming for. Internally, some part of you sings, glad you’re finally confident enough in yourself that you verge from skittish nerves into playful teasing.

Your fingers on his chest twitch, walking up to the line of his collarbones and lingering on the base of his throat. Steve watches you closely, gaze a little hungrier than before, and then he huffs again, playfully slapping your hand away from his chest.

“Oh my god, I’ve created a monster!” He covers his face dramatically and throws his head back, egged on by the laughter that escapes you. The expanse of his throat is bared, hot tan skin that is begging to be littered with love bites. You take the thought and bookmark it, for later.

“C’mon then, boyfriend.” You say, just ‘cos you can. Steve grins. Your chest burns beautifully, in a way you never want to quench.

Besides, you can quell that hunger later. He is your boyfriend now, after all.

[yonpote]

Teens and Up as a warning on ao3 is less than useless, people post fluffy high school slice of life in there and other post full bdsm orgies in there like. honestly as someone who has a few fics rated T and G i can barely tell the difference sometimes

[saturnwisteria]

As I was saying earlier, hambrady time. Springing off of @corrosivesaints last line tag game, a rare fluffy moment from the Cat Depression Fic

----

John reaches for his collar to pull him up at the same time he moves to stand, and they wind up crashing together, a small umph knocked past John's lips before Ham gets his own there.

John's lips are sticky from syrup; he likes to drown his pancakes in an obscene amount of syrup, then take the cut fruit-usually strawberries-and scoop up whatever is left over after the pancakes. Ham licks into his mouth, chasing the sweetness.

Ham likes to keep it simple, with his pancakes: he slathers them in butter, and fruit if they have it. Sometimes he mashes the blueberries, too, treats 'em like a little handmade spread. He wonders, distractedly, while his hands travel down John's back, whether there was a shiny oil sheen on his lips when John was teasing him. He wonders if his own mouth tastes sweet, too, from the fruit.

----

Yes, ww2 rpf discord gang, this scene is a runner up to pancake sex as well. Ifykyk. I don't remember who's done this recently but if anyone's itching to share something here is an open invitation!

Tagging some besties as well <3

@andrigyn @deanology101 @latibvles @upontherisers @hesbuckcompton-baby @softguarnere @itstheheebiejeebies

[reyolfx]

the fact that dean and cas didn't make out after "you don't have to say it. i heard your prayer" is honestly homophobic lmao. they just walked away after that??? and NOT even holding hands???? this show pisses me off

[dontbelasagnax]

for you, only you

Pairing: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 11,269

Tags: Order 66 Didn't Happen (Star Wars), Jedi Temple (Star Wars), Clone Troopers and Jedi as Found Family (Star Wars), Misunderstandings, it IMMEDIATELY gets cleared up, they actually do a great job of communicating clearly all throughout, Getting Together, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Making Out, Demisexual CC-2224 | Cody, First Time, Top CC-2224 | Cody, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Barebacking, POV CC-2224 | Cody

Summary:

“What's next for you, my dear, now that you’re a citizen of the Republic?” Obi-Wan tilts his head, expression alight and imploring. “You could get a job and find a place of your own amongst the many levels of Coruscant- or the stars.”

[ OR: The Clones' Rights bill finally passes. Cody and Obi-Wan discuss the promise they once made of "after the war". Admittedly, not much talking happens ;) ]

Cody deserves good things and he is getting them on this special day of 2/2/24! @codyday2224

[flowercrowngods]

Steve’s foot is warm against his, pristine white baseball socks so stark a contrast against Eddie’s; threadbare and black, with more holes than fabric these days. He can’t really help the wave of embarrassment that washes over him, or the urge to pull back his feet and hide them in his shoes again. Sacrifice the warmth for safety.

But then Steve seems to notice just a second after Eddie does, and he smiles. Huffs a little with it, like it just bubbles out of him. Eddie wants to lean across the blanket and chase it. Chase the fondness and keep it there forever.

And that’s another thing about Steve that is so very fucked up: he doesn’t let Eddie hide. He doesn’t let him trade warmth for security, because — smile in place — Steve slowly moves his feet along the side of Eddie’s like he’s playing fucking Connect the Dots with the holes in his socks. It’s ridiculous.

It’s ridiculous and Eddie is helpless. He’s so gone, a hundred percent. He’s so fucked up over that silly boy and the way he smiles at the most lamest of things.

It’s not his fault that he leaves his feet where they are, the warmth of Steve’s slow, teasing touch shooting electricity up his legs that leaves him with goosebumps and a sudden case of uncomfortably tight jeans.

high yearning makeout fic, coming soon…

[queenboimler]

me rewatching that intense bucktommy makeout scene

[silversiren1101]

Literally all I want from this DLC is to share a single, private, victory drink with Regill. Just two veterans sharing a toast to all they've done and victory (and possibly sacrifice) on the horizon.

Please 🙏

[purplebass]

Calla was Lila's fairy godmother in agos and made her have an unexpected Cinderella moment when she wanted a disguise to attend the party. Calla believed Lila wanted to get pretty for Kell because she assumed they were together so she gave her the dress and did her hair and make up and subtly told her: go get him, tiger <3 Bring Kell's guard down he will fall even more for you it will make him look stupid and at the end of the night he would 100% want to rip this dress off you like the feral kitties that you both are

[verfound]

FIC: "Luka's Secret" (MLB; Lukanette; LBSC Lukanette Month 2024)

@lovebugs-and-snakecharmers is doing a Lukanette Month for September 2024, and we all just kinda tossed some prompts in the disco to compile a list?  We ended up with 71 prompts, so I decided I’d roll some dice to pick a prompt, do a twenty minute (ish, bc we all know sometimes they run away from me) sprint, and try to get some short fics out this month?

(Rated M for half-dressed smoochies)

Read on Ao3

05 September 2024

Prompt 66: Secrets

Luka had a secret.

Juleka was fairly sure of that.

It was pretty obvious – about as obvious as that time Marinette had been keeping a secret and their squad had gotten themselves akumatized trying to get her to come clean.  Luka and Marinette had that in common: they were both terrible at keeping secrets.  They had multiple tells, some pretty obvious and some less so, but what that meant was when Luka started jumping at the sight of her own shadow she was pretty sure she knew what was up.

…well.  She didn’t actually know what was up.  She just knew he was keeping something from her.  And while she respected that – they were both keenly aware of how important privacy could be, growing up in such close quarters as they had – it was still driving her a bit nutty.

Because Luka had always been big on truth and honesty.  Being open with people was very important to him.  So she knew, when he got squirrely like this, that he had a secret, and keeping secrets was bad for him.

She was pretty sure secrets were what had gotten him akumatized, the last time around.

She was just trying to be a good little sister.  Help him out.  She didn’t actually care what the secret was – that was his own business – just that he was being weird about it and she needed him to stop.  The weirdo.

She had been planning on confronting him when he got home, but as she walked towards their cracked door and heard his low voice on the other side she realized she had lost her element of surprise.

“I think she knows,” she heard him sigh.  “Or suspects.  I told you I was bad at this.”

…no shit, Sherlock.  At least he was aware of it.  It’d probably be worse if he tried to play it off like everything was fine when, clearly, it was not.

When no voice answered him, she assumed he was on the phone.  He chuckled, and then she heard a thump.

“Shut up,” he said.  “It’s easier for you.  You don’t share a room with her.”  There was another beat, followed by: “…she will not.  I promise you…she won…but…”  Another heavy sigh.  Another thump – the sound of his head hitting the wall, she was sure.  “Fine.  We’ll do this your way.  But…it’s not a bad thing, you know.  I think she might even be happy about it.”

Her brow furrowed.  It was obvious they were talking about her, but what exactly was she supposed to be happy about?

“I know,” he said.  “Ok.  Ok.  I’ll be there.  I love you.”

There was a harder clattering, like he had just dropped his phone on the amp he used as a nightstand, and another sigh.  She blinked as she stared at their door, fairly certain her heart had just stopped.

Luka…loved someone?

Well…shit.

Who the hell was going to tell Marinette?

. : .

“I think we have a problem,” she said the next day from her place on Rose’s bed.  Rose was busy changing – she had just returned from visiting her brothers, and Frankie’s husband had taken her shopping.  She had called her over for…well.  Juleka was pretty sure for make up makeouts, since she’d been gone a week, but she’d also wanted to show off her haul.  She tipped her head back, looking at the closet door that blocked her girlfriend from view.  “Rose.  Did you hear me?”

“I did,” she called, tossing the lilac dress she’d just shown her over the top of the door.  Juleka had liked that one.  The hornier part of her couldn’t wait to peel it off her.  “I’m waiting for you to tell me what the problem is.  I need to assess for optimal reaction.”  She poked her head out, and the bra strap sliding off her otherwise bare shoulder was very distracting.  “I’m trying to not be so extra, remember?”

“I think Luka’s seeing someone,” Juleka said.  She dropped her head back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.  “He’s…been avoiding me.  And acting weird.  Like he’s keeping something from me.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s seeing anyone,” Rose said, stepping out from behind the door with her arms folded across her chest.  Juleka glanced at her before forcing her eyes back up, because if her shoulder had been distracting…  “He could just be busy, Jules.  You know he’s taken on a bunch of students over the summer.”

“I heard him on the phone,” she insisted.  “Didn’t sound like a student he was talking to.  He…said he loved them.”

Rose’s brow furrowed.

“…did he have the call on speaker?” she asked.  Juleka shook her head.  Rose sighed and looked down at her feet.  “Well.  Shoot.  Have you asked him about it yet?”

“Didn’t really know how,” she sighed.  Her eyes closed as she settled back onto the bed.  “I just…I guess I always thought he’d work things out with Marinette?  I like Marinette.  I don’t want to have to get used to someone else.  She was going to be a great sister-in-law.”

“…it’s been a long time since they tried to make it work, Jules,” Rose said, her voice sympathetic.  Juleka sighed and rolled onto her side, reaching out a hand for her.  Rose smiled as she walked over, climbing onto the bed beside her and cuddling up against her side.  Juleka smiled as she wrapped an arm around her, the skin of Rose’s back hot against her own.  “Maybe it’s for the best.  Maybe it’s time they both moved on.”

“…who are you and what have you done with my hopeless romantic girlfriend?” Juleka grumped, smiling at her.  Rose giggled and leaned up, kissing her slowly.

“It’s called growing up,” she said.  “It’s supposed to be good for you.”

Juleka hummed and leaned in for another kiss.  She’d worry about Luka’s secrets later.  There was entirely too much half-dressed Rose to occupy her attention to worry too much about stupid brothers just then.

. : .

A few blocks away, hidden in the depths of the Liberty (or: hiding out in the laundry room, where suspicions Captains and sisters couldn’t catch them), Luka was busy with his own…distractions.

Specifically the lapful of half-dressed Marinette, who had pushed him back onto the dryer and climbed on top of him the second he’d set the timer.  And while he had been the sole focus of his sister’s attention lately, he could safely say she was the absolute last thing on his mind.

It was a little hard to be concerned with worrying about her, when Marinette’s hands were in his hair and her tongue was in his mouth.  Or when she tipped her head back like that and made such delicious little sounds when his lips moved along her neck, lower and lower to…

“N-no one’s home, right?” she asked, breathless, and he hummed as his lips found her chest.  His hands slid up her back, toying with the band of her bra.  “Luka.”

“Jules is at Rose’s,” he said, nipping along the lacy edge of the cup covering her breast.  He was starting to think she had fallen into the river on purpose, though she should have known by now there were easier ways to get her shirt off…  “Ma’s…not home.  We’re safe.”

“I’d hope so,” she giggled.  “I mean…it’s bad enough if they catch us together, but if they catch us like this?”

She pushed her chest a little closer to him, wiggling as if to emphasize her point, but all that made him want to do was kiss her more.

“Don’t fall into the river, then,” he teased.  He glanced up at her, his eyes darker than they had any right to be.  “If you weren’t still such a klutz, we wouldn’t have needed to toss your clothes in the wash.”

“And wouldn’t a gentleman offer me a shirt, too, instead of making me walk around practically naked like this?” she quipped.  He hummed, dropping another kiss to her chest.

“I’m a boat kid, not a gentleman,” he reminded her, “and I happen to love you like this.”

“You love me anyway,” she laughed.  He chuckled, picking at the hooks of her bra again, and nodded.

“I really do,” he said.  He glanced up at her with a wicked little grin.  “…klutz and all.”

“…why you…” she huffed, and then he wasn’t sure what happened.

There was a brief moment where the world seemed to spin and flip, and then he was lying on his back across the washer and dryer with Marinette hovering over him, his shirt pushed up around his neck and her lips closing around a nipple.  Her teeth scraped the sensitive skin before she sucked, and he gasped as his entire body twitched beneath her.

“Who’s the klutz now?” she hummed, and his laugh turned into a strangled little sound he couldn’t bother being embarrassed about.

“M-my point,” he huffed, his hands sliding up her thighs and around to cup her ass, “is that your secret – our secret – is safe.  For now.  They don’t suspect a thing, and no one’s here to find out.”

It was just them for the foreseeable future, and he had every intention to take full advantage of that.

“…don’t say it like that,” she sighed, her teeth grazing his nipple again.  “We will tell them, Luka.  Just…not yet.”

“I know,” he said, squeezing her ass and encouraging her to look up at him.  He pushed her up, lifting his head to catch her lips in a slow kiss.  “I just…don’t you think it’ll be worse?  The longer we keep this from everyone?”

“We could always elope first,” she said.  “Then no one will be able to complain.  It’ll be too late to, by the time they find out.”

“Bullshit,” he laughed, pecking a kiss against her lips.  “Your dad will flip.  He’s probably been planning our wedding since you were in collège.  He’ll kill me if I marry you and he’s not there to see it.”

“And the Captain won’t kill me?” she teased.  He chuckled and shrugged.

“She’s more lenient,” he said.  “Eloping has just enough chaotic flair to make her proud.  Plus, she already likes you.  It’ll just cement you as a keeper in her books.”

“Papa loves you,” she reminded him.  She sighed as she settled against his chest, her ear resting above his heart.  “We’ll tell them.  Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, the word sounding more relieved than he’d probably meant it to.  “Until then…”

He rolled her towards the wall, and she squealed out a laugh as he was suddenly on top of her.  They’d tell everyone tomorrow.  Eventually.  For now, she was still his secret to keep, and he was determined to enjoy every last minute of it.

[dykerightsmp3]

I think straight people shouldn’t be allowed to write smut anymore. They keep turning obviously submissive men into doms

[tswwwit]

I had a dumb idea based on this ask, and then I wrote it!

Short Reincarnation thing where Bill gets his stupid body killed before meeting Dipper, and years later DIpper stumbles across him anyway.

When Dipper sees the faint golden glow in the distance, he staggers up to his feet.

Finally, after endless gray and black and white. After aimless wandering, with nobody to see or hear, nobody to call - 

There’s a light.

Dipper walks towards the light slowly. Cautiously. Then faster. Soon he’s running, eager to see what’s in front of him for the first time in the last probably-four-hours.

Who cares what’s ahead of him? It’s different from everything else around; it has color.

Maybe it’s a way out of here.

He never should have gone to Gravity Falls. Not even with his semi-new confidence with his still-new magic, hoping he would find answers, not even to look for The Thing. Leaving Seattle to explore the infamously magical, dangerous, and nearly impenetrable woods here has to be the dumbest idea he’s ever had.

The glow in the clearing stays steady as he approaches, a steady unflickering light. A beacon. 

Dipper stumbles into the patch of grass between the trees. Nearly trips, before he stands still, chest heaving.

What is it? He doesn’t see anything around. There’s a fallen log, and plants, an old shove leaning against a nearby tree, and. 

There. 

The bright gold light is coming from the ground. 

Dipper takes a few, slow steps closer. Arching his neck, leaning into see what might be emitting that light, in the patch of soft bare ground underneath the grass. There’s - 

A triangle. 

Dipper frowns at it.

 Whatever happened to send him into weird gray not-time, it was obviously magic, These woods are magic, this entire thing is because of magic. Obviously this thing is magic, too. 

That can’t be great. 

But while Dipper doesn’t know what this thing is, it’s the only thing around that’s not monochrome besides himself. That has to be a sign. Good or bad, he’s not sure.

He crouches down nearby. Not getting too close, yet. 

Yeah. Definitely super magical. This close, it’s a bright light even in Dipper’s magical senses, and he’s pretty shit at those even for an amateur. 

The object’s made of… gold? Maybe. At least it looks metallic now that he’s close enough to get an idea of the texture. Larger than Dipper thought at first glance, but small enough to theoretically pick up if he dared. And for some reason there’s a miniature top hat rolled off to the side, which is like. What. 

Also, it’s chained to the ground. 

A very thick yellow metal chain - gold again? Maybe - that’s linked to one of the corners. It’s long enough to meander around the clearing and pile in a neat coil near the fallen log, then back to the center before abruptly delving into the soil.

Hesitantly, Dipper edges a little closer. Nothing happens. 

He waves a hand, and gives it a vague magical poke. Looking for movement, or like, big flashy stuff, or a reaction.

Nothing.

Okay. Big magic inside, but not reactive. Possibly inert. Dipper’s filing that under ‘good’ in terms of signs, but he’s ready to revise at a moment’s notice. 

Since the triangle isn’t doing anything, it’s up to Dipper to take action. Fumbling at his side, he keeps his eye on the shape. Just in case it - he doesn’t know, explodes or catches fire or something. 

Dipper finds what he’s searching for, and grips it tight. Nodding, once.

When in doubt, poke it with a stick.

He pokes it. 

In a flash, the shape leaps from the ground, opens one huge, slit-pupiled eye and gets right in his face with a huge noise that Dipper will later remember is ‘BLARG’. 

Despite himself, Dipper screams. The thing screams back at him, thin black arms flailing wildly, inches away. Dipper screams even louder, making a failed leap backward to hit the ground on his butt.

“AHHHH - HA! Ah ha ha ha ha!” The yelling devolves into wild, delighted laughter. The triangle crosses an arm over its front as it cackles, smacking a hand against one of its legs. “Whoo! Oh man! You shoulda seen the look on your face!”

Dipper stares. His heart is pounding, he’s trying to catch his breath. He lets go of his shirt, patting vaguely on the ground for the stick. 

“You were all like ‘Aaaugh’!’” The triangle flails dramatically again, then starts laughing harder. It  wipes under its eye. It looks, as much as any shape can, both totally thrilled and completely unrepentant. “Totally worth it.”

“You asshole.” Dipper sits up, trying to calm down. Unfortunately he truly has lost track of the stick, because he wants to throw something at this jerk.

“Ah, c’mon! You made that way too easy.” The triangle shrugs, lifting up two hands. It flaps a hand in Dipper’s direction. “Some guy all alone in the woods? No backup? No idea what he’s doing?” Its lower eyelid turns up. “You’re a tempting little opportunity, kid!”

Dipper says nothing. He simply glares, and flips it off.

And okay, that is a point, if you look at the situation in a totally twisted way. Dipper is kind of stranded and ignorant and - 

Wait, shit, he is.all of those things, and if this kind of thing is around, then what else is. 

Dipper pushes himself to his feet, and glances around quickly - but, no. Besides the jerk in front of him, nothing’s changed. Nobody and nothing around. Still very… still.

There’s a tap on his shoulder and he jumps - 

But it’s the jerk. Again. One noodly arm extending unnaturally, just to bother Dipper with a poke or two.

“Easy, sapling, there’s nobody here but us.” It says, tugging Dipper closer with one hand, and flapping the other in a semi-reassuring way.. “You can tone down the jumpiness for the moment! Believe it or not, I ain’t got any plans to hurt ya.”

Dipper shrugs, still examining the woods. It’s as silent and unmoving as always, so. Maybe they are alone here. One point in that thing’s favor. 

For lack of anything to say, Dipper flips it off for a second time.  It starts laughing again, clasping its surface.

Weirdly enough, Dipper kind of does believe it. That it doesn’t want to hurt him. Hell knows It had the jump on him, he had no defenses and didn’t expect anything to defend against. And it used that to be annoying, instead of harmful.

He looks it over anyway, still skeptical. It waves back, looking oddly cheerful and glowing slightly brighter.

Alright. No creature Dipper knows about fits this description. There’s magic, sure, but he doesn’t have enough experience to get a gist of it there. All he can tell is that it feels a lot more powerful than it looks, and that makes him vaguely uneasy.

Since he can’t get a read on it, and doesn’t know what to do with it - 

Fuck it. Dipper just asks. “What are you?”

“Usually it’s ‘who’, not ‘what’, kid.  Way to make a guy feel appreciated.” It - he - chides, sounding annoyed. One  of this creature’s arms goes down in a curve to grab the hat on the ground, setting it on his top point. “But since you insist, I’m the local demon in these parts.”

Demon. Great. 

And an even greater sign for where Dipper somehow ended up, if this is the type of creature he’s running into.

Where the hell is he, anyway? How the hell did he get here. What does he do with this thing? And most importantly -  

How quickly can he get the fuck out. 

“What, chupacabra got your tongue? Introductions are in order!” The demon shoves his other arm at Dipper, palm up. Like he’s offering a handshake. “Name’s Bill.”

Dipper nearly shakes its hand - the first stupid move - and nearly speaks his own name, then stops. Glaring at this creature with suspicion. 

Which is when the rest of the information hits home like an arrow. 

Dipper drops his arms, holding them stiff at his sides. “Wait. Bill, like. Bill Cipher?”  He shrinks back in alarm. 

“Wow. Really?” ‘Bill’ says, looking grumpy now. “Now that’s rich. I don’t go around assuming every human named ‘John’ is the same guy, now do I?” He floats away a bit, slightly turned to the side. Eyeing Dipper with clear disapproval. “Real classy of ya, kid.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Dipper grimaces. He pats the air a bit, awkward. Bill turns slightly back towards him. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

He guesses that was a bit dumb, anyway. Bill Cipher has a totally different MO. 

That guy’s powerful demon who can wander around reality. Arson and murder and mayhem are his favorite hobbies. He travels around wearing a handsome human form, adding chaos to the life of whichever mortal he’s picked that time around, with terrible delight.

Not exactly the same level as this Bill, who’s stuck in the middle of nowhere, pulling prank-level jumpscares. 

If a demon like Cipher could be chained up in some weird gray pocket dimension, one of his mortals would have done it ages ago.

“Hey, no biggie!” Bill brightens up, facing Dipper again. He must not have taken the assumption too harshly; he almost looks pleased. “Not a bad guy to be compared to, all things considered.”

Dipper can’t help but make a mental note. Kind of interesting, that Cipher’s well known even outside of reality. That being compared to him is flattering, too, he didn’t expect that. Aren’t there books about this sort of thing? Dipper kind of wishes he’d studied more about demons, even though he never thought he’d need to - 

But this isn’t the time to get sidetracked. No matter how interesting it is.

“Uh, I’m Dipper.” He gives Bill a little wave, instead of taking the again-offered hand to shake. He knows better. Bill drops his hand, thwarted for the moment. “It’s. Interesting to see you.”

Which is true. In that Dipper, finally, has met another… ‘person’ in the place he’s ended up, and that means…

Time to get information.

“Where am I?”

“First time visiting, huh?” Bill floats over, the chain making a strange tinkling sound as it drags behind him. He slings an arm over Dipper’s shoulder in a companionable way, and Dipper tenses. “Lemme introduce you!

“Welcome to the liminal space between dreams and waking! The infinite realm of thought! The Nightmare Realm - or Mindscape, if ya like.” Bill waves over the woods in a broad gesture - then sighs, letting his arm drop. “Though since we’re in the extra liminal bit near your place, it’s not nearly as fun.”

That… makes precisely zero sense. Dipper waits, but Bill’s started glaring at their surroundings instead. Hardly helpful.

Dipper tries to squirm out from under his arm, but it’s oddly difficult to shake off. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It means we’re stuck in the outskirts, kid. The blendy-in part! Specifically the bit where it’s real solid, cause it’s closest to your usual digs.” Bill flaps a hand over the monochrome scenery, looking annoyed at the scene. “The reality-adjacent burnt edge of pie crust, instead of the golden-brown, juicy, gory middle. Not the best part by miles..”

One bit of information, then. Dipper’s not quite in a different realm, or outside of reality. No, that would be too simple. 

Instead, he’s wound up in the spot where reality bleeds into another dimension. Where things aren’t one place or another, not one thing or another, and there’s probably a lot of magical theory that has a ton to explain all of it, except he hasn’t finished reading those books.

In theory, Dipper would take his time, and try to figure it out. Piece together the bits he’s learned. Maybe even ask Bill for input, since he seems to know about all of this stuff - 

In practice, he keeps running over the words Bill used earlier. 

‘We’re,’ Bill said. Including himself in the previous term, even though he’s an actual, literal demon.

And, ‘Stuck’. Bill said.

“So….” Dipper lets the word trail for a while, palms sweating. He rubs them on his jeans, trying for a smile. “Is there a way out of these… edges?”

“Unless you’re an advanced expert in interdimensional dynamics? Probably not!” Bill shrugs, sounding cheerful despite the horrible news he imparts, or maybe because of it. “Hope you enjoy silence and stillness, Pine Tree.” He pats his surface, eye shut with pride. “But if ya don’t, you’re welcome to hang with yours truly!”

Two horrible options. Dipper stares at Bill for a long moment, not sure what to say. 

He’s not an expert, not at all. He has magic, a lot, apparently, but he barely knows what he’s doing with it, doesn’t know how he has it, and mostly it just makes stuff explode. He can barely light a candle without consequences, much less escape the borderlands of a realm of freakin’ thought.

“Oh,” He says instead. All the air seems like it’s come out of his lungs. “Have a seat, kid.” Bill darts over towards the log, gesturing Dipper closer. He pats the wood invitingly. “After all, misery loves company!”

Feeling numb, Dipper walks over. He turns around, and sits down. 

After a moment, he rests his face in his hands. 

“So! I already know you’re not from around Gravity Falls,” Bill says, floating a few inches over the log and right next to Dipper. Patting thigh, which would almost be reassuring except for everything, ever, and the way he gives it a weird squeeze. “I woulda seen it!”

“Yeah.” Dipper glances over, briefly. Then looks forward again.. 

“Boy, you’re turning out to be a great conversationalist! How lucky for me.” Bill says, very dry. He throws his arms in the air. “Figures. You’d have to be brain-damaged to wander these woods for no reason.”

“I had a reason,” Dipper protests. One he didn’t understand, sure. But he had one.

“Oh yeah? What?”

“I just - I had to.” Dipper folds his arms, looking away. Somehow it makes even less sense when he says it out loud.

Bill shrugs, and says nothing. For a while, actually. Dipper does the same, mouth shut.

Maybe Bill’s planning something, or maybe he’s hoping to hear about Dipper’s vulnerabilities - but Dipper wasn’t born yesterday. He might not have had magic until a  few years ago, but he’s still not an idiot.  He’s not blabbing about his life to a demon of all creatures - 

For about five seconds. 

He can’t help it. The silence feels so deeply wrong that he has to break it. “I don’t know. I just felt-” 

Like he was being drawn here. Like there was an invisible thread, tugging gently at him until he couldn’t ignore it. Whispering, in quiet words, that he might find what he wanted.

A subtle, but effective temptation. Dipper did the stupid thing. He came here on that idiotic whim, and now look what’s happened. 

Maybe he should have known better. But.

For the longest time, Dipper has felt like something’s missing. Nothing he could ever really explain, or make sense of. When he lets himself think about it, which is rarely, it’s The Thing; a feeling so vague he can’t even put a name to it. 

All he knows is that something’s gone and it sucks. Like a piece is missing in his own personal puzzle, maybe dropped off the table or skimmed across the floor, and now he can’t find the stupid thing for the life of him. Doubly infuriating because it was the one last piece he needed, right before it went and fucked off.

When he got his magic, that helped with The Thing, a little. When he started actively looking for The Thing, that helped, too. 

But he still doesn’t know what it is, much less where it is, and he might never find the answer.

Not that he’s telling Bill any of that.  

“I had an impulse, and a stupid idea.” Dipper shrugs. “You know how it is.” Hopefully he does. If not, Bill will find out how annoying getting no explanation is.

“Bet you have a lot of those.” Bill says, amused. He stalks over the log, prodding Dipper in the side. “Probably famous for it!”

“Shut up.” Now Dipper flicks Bill on the side, annoyed. He’s not the only one included in that terrible adjective.  “What about you? What brought you here?”

“None of your beeswax.” Bill sets his fists on his edges, looking proud. “I’m doing exactly what I wanna be doing.”

Dipper casts a long, deliberate glance over the chain, and raises an eyebrow. Bill glares at him.

“Yeah, yeah, things could be a little more lively, whatever.” Another dismissive wave. Bill hops from the log onto Dipper’s leg, and drops down with a surprisingly heavy feel. He shrugs. “But hey, you’re gonna be with me for the foreseeable future! I can work with that.”

So Bill is trapped. He’s come as close to admitting it as Dipper’s likely to get. 

On an impulse, he pats Bill on his weird, metal back. If it’s a back; Dipper’s guessing because it’s the surface that doesn’t have his eye on it. Bill makes a pleased sound, so it must not be too weird.

“I’m guessing your whole deal is, what, mystery hunting? You don’t seem the monster hunter type.” Bill prods his arm, squeezing his bicep with a narrowed eye. “Or hey! Maybe you were just dumb enough to poke around for no reason!” Oh for - Dipper just said he had one. Bill knows that, he’s just being a dick. “I’m not dumb.” He sits up a little straighter, jabbing a thumb at his chest. Lifting his chin in defiance. “At least I’ve never been chained up.”

“Ah, a real vanilla guy.” Bill rubs under his eye thoughtfully. Dipper feels his face warm with embarrassment, waving his hands. That’s not what he meant - and Bill brightens up.. “Guess ‘adventurous’ only goes so far, huh?”

Dipper splutters, not sure how to respond. Bill waggles his upper eyelid, nudging him in the side - and Dipper can’t not respond to this asshole.

Unfortunately, Bill’s ready with a retort for every protest. Dipper can’t let that lie, so he has to accuse him of his own stupidity back, and forth, and back again.

They actually keep at it, for… longer than Dipper expected. More easily than expected.

He kind of thought that being trapped here, trying to keep up conversation with Bill, would trail off into awkward silence more often than not. Dipper’s never been great with small talk, he has to plan, like, half of his conversations in his head before they happen. 

Turns out it’s hard to feel awkward when you really want to make the other guy shut up first.

Bill’s still a jerk, sure. Dipper's known that from moment one. He starts arguments without a purpose, delighting himself with stupid puns, and it turns out he finds it hard to resist a double entendre. That’s a weak point; Dipper can use it. He has to think on his feet to keep up with him, there’s no time to get mired down. 

It’s all pointless, stupid bickering. Bill prodding at him, Dipper responding and prodding back. Bill’s pretty cagey; Dipper doesn’t get much from him.

Bill, though. Gets a lot. Probably more than he wanted, because Dipper finds once he starts talking about some things, he has a lot more to say about them than he thought.

He’s not sure why he’s doing it. Or how he started. He knows Bill hasn’t used magic on him, he can feel that much, it’s just….

Bill keeps asking pointed questions, so he’s asking for it. Dipper hasn’t been able to talk about some of this before, and Bill’s a literally captive audience. Possibly because Bill couldn’t tell anyone else Dipper knows, and partly… because he’s a terrible listener, which kind of helps. Like it doesn’t matter what Dipper says, because Bill won’t care enough to use it against him.

“Not to mention going through magical puberty, like a decade too late.” Dipper finishes, after going over a long, long list of complaints. About his shitty life. About how much things suck. He waves over the air for emphasis. Bill, sitting on his thigh, leans back so his hat isn’t knocked off. “Do you know what that’s like?”

“Likely hilarious! But so what?” Bill sits back up, kicking his legs idly. Which also means he’s lightly kicking Dipper’s other leg. “What’s wrong with more power?”

Dipper opens his mouth to argue. Then stops. 

It makes sense that a demon wouldn’t get it, due to, well. Being a demon. They’re all power hungry. To Bill, this could only seem like a good thing. He wouldn’t understand how-

“More power means solving some problems, alright.” Dipper changes tactics, rubbing at his eyes. There’s a headache coming on, he can feel it. “But now I have different problems. Bigger ones.”

“Aha! Inexperience.” Bill brightens up a bit more, waving off the rest of Dipper’s concerns. “Easy, kid, that’s all temporary. Once you get used to blasting things to pieces, you’d be amazed how many problems are flammable!”

Dipper feels his mouth draw into a thin line. He doesn’t know what he expected. 

He drops back onto the log, resting his chin in his hand. Bill pats his lower back, and starts rambling on about optimal targeting techniques, but Dipper’s not paying attention.

Different experiences, and different problems. He’s in a different place, which has totally eclipsed the Thing problem. Bill’s here too, but he doesn’t seem like the major issue.

The big one, right now, is going home, and how the hell Dipper’s going to do that.

“There has to be a way out of here.”. He’s not going to give up. Not now.

“Well,” Bill draws out the word, slow and with a detectable hint of smugness. “There might be one way to get your butt back to reality.”

Dipper tenses up. 

Right. He should have seen this coming, because Bill’s a demon. He hadn’t forgotten that fact, but he’d put it out of the front of his mind. 

“I see where this is going.” Dipper folds his arms, and gives Bill an unimpressed look. “Let me guess. You’re an expert in interdimensional dynamics.” 

“Never said I wasn’t!” Bill’s lower eyelid is raised in amusement. “To tell the truth, sapling, I’m one of the best in the biz.” He throws in a wink, even with one eye. “You really lucked out meeting me.”

Another thing Dipper should have expected. Bill might be stuck, but he never said the why, only implied it. The chain should have been a clue. A demon would know how to handle dimensions, too, since they can be summoned and dismissed. And trapped.

Demons are also notorious for another thing. Dipper’s not looking forward to it.

Escape isn’t going to come without a cost.

“What do you want,” He says, flat. 

“Make a deal with me!” Bill floats up and in front of Dipper, arms spread invitingly. “I’ll show you how to get out of here in seconds, no problem.”

“What’s the cost.” Dipper remains stern. Glaring, now. Bill hasn’t gotten to it yet, but there’s going to be a catch. 

“Yeesh, way to rush things.” Bill wags a finger, almost chiding. “A jaunt back home can’t be all you want! Think about what you’d really want out of life. ‘Cause I’ve got more magic to work with than you could comprehend!”

Bill waves his arm, and this time - 

Okay. Dipper has to admit it’s impressive.

Wherever Bill gestures, a small scene plays out, like a movie. Bright and colorful, standing out against the bland background. 

“You could ask for fame!” A brief shot of Dipper, being lauded by a crowd. Bill snaps his fingers. “For riches!” Piles of gold tumble around fake-Dipper’s feet, burying him to the ankles -  another snap. “Or hell, even True Love!” 

And a shadowy figure sneaks up on fake-Dipper, then seizes him by the waist, lifting him up. Fake-Dipper looks surprised, then annoyed. He struggles, kicking out helplessly, right before he’s dragged off into nothingness.

Dipper stares at the lingering void left until the ‘screen’ vanishes. Then, incredulously, at Bill.

Bill pops up in front of him again, fists set on his sides with pride. “Name it, kid, and it’s on offer. I could get you all that crap that humans like and more!” 

“I’ll pass.” Dipper flips Bill off, much to his amusement. 

“What, too intimidating?” Bill leans in, nudging Dipper with an elbow-adjacent bend of his arm. “Be reasonable, Pine Tree. You’re gonna make a deal anyway. Why not get something cool while you’re at it?”

Okay, fair point. If Dipper’s risking his soul, he might as well get something else while he’s at it. 

But it’s also dangerous. Bill’s going to cheat, and lie, and according to what he showed Dipper has a totally different view of what’s actually appealing to humans. Making this deal too complicated could only end poorly. 

Everything he’s offering probably comes with a catch, anyway. Fame would probably be for, like, accidentally exploding a building, money from a murder or whatever. Bill’s idea of ‘love’ is just. Yeah, Dipper’s going to pass. And even if there weren’t a huge pitfall waiting for him - Bill certainly couldn’t give Dipper what he’s really looking for, especially when even Dipper’s not sure what it is.  

For a moment, then, Dipper lingers on the image of his shitty apartment. How cold it’s going to be when fall turns into winter, and how his car is starting to make unnerving sounds when -

He shakes his head to clear it.

“Just get me out of here.”

Bill groans, clearly disappointed. “Yeah yeah, stubbornness. But ya gotta sweeten the deal for me, too.” He rubs his fingers together, eye narrowed. “Make it worth my while.”

Of freaking course there’s a minimum buy-in. Dipper groans, rubbing at his eyes. If he has to add onto this - 

“Alright, fine.” He throws his hands in the air.. “Like, enough gas money to get home.” That shouldn’t cost too much. Hopefully.

Bill remains undeterred. He narrows his eye, skeptical. “That’s it? I get skipping over the ‘fame’ one, alright, that can be a pain. When everyone knows who you are, they get all up in your business! But you’re not gonna ask for any affection?” He blinks for a moment, spreading his hands and somewhat incredulous himself. “‘Cause I got-”

“Some really bad ideas.” Dipper says. Bill looks miffed, crossing his arms over his golden front. “Are we doing this deal or not?”

“Hmph. You got no idea what you’re missing out on.” Bill sniffs, which is weird because he doesn’t have a nose -  “Fine, we’ll do it your way. Spoilsport.”

Dipper straightens up, feeling a sudden burst of pride. Bill’s bothered, which means Dipper avoided a trap. He’s in a little less danger. 

“Now, about getting you back to reality. That’s some tricky business there, but I got ideas.” Bill taps under his eye, thoughtful. He stares off into space, pupil changing shape and size, flickering for a moment before it snaps back to ‘normal’. “You’re gonna need a life spell.”

“What?”

Dipper’s experience is pretty limited, in that he’s only had magic for a few years, but he’s not stupid. To change back dimensions, and get home, life magic doesn’t fit. All it deals with is flesh and blood and a bit with spirit, but that can’t apply here. He thinks..

“What do you mean, what? Who’s the expert here, anyway?” Brightening up, Bill swings an arm around DIpper’s shoulder again, half-guiding and half-dragging him into the middle of the clearing. “You got the magic for it, you got the talent for it. You lack the education for it, but I can walk you through the basics, and we can cram everything into the same spell! One and done, easy.”

“That’s… convenient.” And concerning. Dipper stares at the bare earth under his feet, shifting under Bill’s arm. “So how do I-”

“Ahem.” Bill clears his nonexistent throat, tapping a fist against his surface. He gives Dipper a meaningful look, though what it’s trying to convey is impossible to parse.

Dipper glares at him. Another catch, probably. “What now.”

“You called it earlier, kid! Before we start rifling through the guts of it,” Bill drifts closer, until his eye is right up near Dipper’s face. He pokes him on the cheek with amusement. “We gotta discuss my price.”

Right. There was always going to be one, wasn’t there. 

Dealing with a demon. The stupidest thing possible. 

“How much?” Dipper asks, voice flat. Adding, before Bill can speak up - “I don’t really have much, uh. To me.”

It won’t be cash. Even inexperienced, Dipper knows that much. Whatever Bill asks for, Dipper’s soul’s not going to be on the table; he’d rather be trapped than do that. Maybe Bill will request a demonic thing, but Dipper doesn’t have any connections to other magical beings, any cool relics, or any secret knowledge. 

He really hopes this isn’t going to be painful, or traumatic. Or anything physical, for that matter. Dying in the process of escaping kind of defeats the point.

“Hm. Lemme think.” Bill hums for a moment, eye narrowed. “One spell, complete with escape from the realm you accidentally stumbled your ignorant ass into, and one dose of obscene wealth-” Dipper clears his throat, loud. “Alright, minor wealth, loser. That should run ya…”

Dipper stuffs his hands in his pockets, waiting with growing unease. Bill’s rubbing under his eye in thought, like he’s trying to see how much he can gouge Dipper for. Hopefully it’s not flesh. 

Then Bill stops, and holds up a finger. “One kiss. Seems fair to me!”

Dipper stares at this… thing for a moment. “What.”

Bill glows brighter, seemingly pleased with himself. “Pretty great deal, am I right?” 

“Very funny.” Dipper gives him a derisive look. “What do you actually want?”

“A kiss, kid. With tongue.” Bill says, very seriously. He shuts his eye and wags a finger in the air.. “We’re talking a real tonsil-tickler here, none of that chaste peck crap.”

“With who?” Dipper has a dreadful suspicion. Which isn’t helped by the way Bill gleefully points two thumbs at himself. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious, sapling.” Bill spreads his arms wide, lower eyelid rises in a simulacrum of a smile. “One frenching for one freedom. You couldn’t find a better bargain even if you did have options!”

The worst part is that’s probably right. What Bill’s asking for sounds like it’s the cheapest thing on offer. Most demons would put the price point so much higher - flesh, souls, family, mass slaughter - that it wouldn’t be worth considering. 

Dipper can’t believe he’s considering this.

“And it’s not going to like, burn my mouth with acid, or suck out all my organs, or-”

“Boy, are you paranoid. Typical,” Bill says, sounding exasperated. He rolls his eye in its socket, around and around, before settling back on Dipper. “You can’t kiss back if you pass away, kid! I want active participation, and you’re only up for some lip action right now.”

Dipper remains skeptical. He leans back a bit, making a face.

But the request’s bizarre enough to feel honest, and technically it’s better than the other things Dipper was imagining. All in all, a quick kiss actually does seem like a bargain.

Which means Dipper shouldn’t trust it one bit.

Thinking about it, Bill’s been stuck here, for who knows how long, without access to much. No hanging out with other demons, no manipulating humans. Lacking anyone to talk to, or -  have other mouth actions with, or anything. He’s not operating on standard demon motivations. Likely this has a different angle. Something else he can use to exploit.

Why would Bill want this?

Dipper looks him up and down slowly, lips drawn tight. Trying to figure him out.

Bill clearly takes his attention as interest, because he straightens his hat, and adjusts his tie with obvious pride. He wipes at his surface, hums a little tune, and there’s a squeaking sound as he rubs a wrist against his side. Like he’s polishing it.

Or…. maybe  it’s a bargain because Bill actually wants to make out. The primping can’t be anything but alarmingly sincere.

“Okay.” Dipper gives in, and lets his shoulders drop. Being trapped has obviously tanked Bill’s standards - or his uses for pounds of flesh. Either way, it’s worked out in his favor.  “Let’s do this.”

“Glad to hear it!” Bill floats closer, cupping Dipper’s face in his weird hands. They're oddly soft for a guy who’s mostly made of metal. “Now pucker up, buttercup, and we’ll seal the deal.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dipper says. Bill squishes his cheeks a few times, until Dipper smacks his front.

“Eh, I got other nicknames to use,” Bill says, and draws Dipper in.

Dipper shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to see this. Whatever’s about to touch his face, it’s probably terrifying. 

For a moment he’s tempted to call it off, but then Bill will protest and maybe cut the deal off, leaving him right back at square one and with less bargaining power. Too late to back out.

Sterning himself, Dipper lets it happen.

There’s… a mouth? Against his mouth. Something, anyway, and it’s not soft but not sharp or stinging, and for the moment his face isn’t melting off. Dipper can work with that. 

There’s a tug on his shirt, and Bill makes an insistent ‘mmh!’. Right, he has to participate. Damn it. 

Kissing Bill back isn’t hard, if he pretends he’s not holding onto the edges of a demonic shape. And forgets the fact that he’s buying his freedom with a makeout session. When a few seconds pass and Dipper hasn’t exploded or turned into a monster, he even manages to relax. 

Yeah. He can get through this. It’s not too bad. Honestly, Bill’s handling this pretty well, all things considered. It’s not slimy or sloppy, or particularly rough.Their teeth haven’t clicked together once, if Bill even has any -  and he doesn’t smell bad. Or like anything, really. 

So, surprisingly, it’s not the worst kiss Dipper’s ever had. Bill, apparently, has some experience in this area. That raises so many questions.

Something wet flickers against his lips, and very reluctantly, Dipper lets them part. This could be - 

 Huh. Bill tastes like…. basil? Of all the things Dipper was expecting, that wasn’t even on the list. And while he’s made of metal and sharp corners, he’s warm, too, and his hand cupping the back of Dipper’s neck runs up and down in a way that’s almost. Nice. Tonsils remain uninvolved, too. If Bill’s forgotten that part, then Dipper’s not going to bring it up.

He’s not sure how long they spend like that, because - well, after a while it’s kind of interesting? That Bill can do this at all. That needs investigating. If Dipper needs to take a weird route to study it, well, that’s acceptable losses. He can deal.

Until there’s a slow slide up his thigh, and a hand squeezes Dipper’s butt.

Dipper shoves this jerk away, grimacing. That wasn’t part of the deal. “Hey! Hands off.”

“What hands? They’re right here!” Bill blinks innocently, and offers them up for Dipper’s inspection.

Now that’s just bullshit. DIpper reaches behind himself, seizes the offending limb, and shoves it right at Bill’s surface. “What about this?”

“Oh wow, what a surprise!” While Bill’s third arm gives Dipper a jaunty wave, he shrugs with the other two. A fourth one pops out and smacks against his edge in mock surprise.  “Where’d that come from?”

Yep. Still, absolutely, one hundred percent asshole. He doesn’t know what he expected.

Dipper flips him off. Again. He wishes he knew more obscene gestures, because this one just makes Bill laugh. 

“I’ll call that a deal fulfilled, sapling. Very nice, by the way! You really went for it!” Bill’s glowing bright, unperturbed. Glossing over the fact that he’s been caught being a pervert. “Even I can’t claim you didn’t pay up.”

Dipper wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and shrugs. “Just show me the spell.”

“Aw, but it was a fun time, am I right?” Bill tickles Dipper under the chin, lower eyelid raised. He gives Dipper double finger guns, beaming.. ”Next one’s on the house.” 

Dipper rubs at his eyes. Honestly. It’s a good reminder. 

If it weren’t for Bill’s sheer dickishness, he might have said something nearly positive, and that would have been a huge mistake. 

A deal, done. A payment, made. 

Now, to actually get Dipper’s portion. 

Though it takes some arguing. Or rather, a lot of arguing, and a relative armload of innuendoes, only half of which make sense - Dipper, eventually, steers Bill back onto the right track. 

Turns out the trick is questioning whether or not he can actually do it. Questioning Bill’s competence, or knowledge, lights a fire under his nonexistent ass. 

Pride, Dipper notes, is a weak point for Bill. Though he’s not likely to ever need it again, it’s still nice to know.

Bill’s also surprisingly okay to work with. Kind of like the kiss, Dipper expected it to be painful, but Bill actually, amazingly, knows what he’s doing. Albeit without making Dipper have questions he’s not sure he wants the answers to. 

Bill projects an outline of the circle that needs to be drawn, Dipper can easily trace it. His knowledge truly is deep, too; Bill has an encyclopedic knowledge of sigils and runes, and only minorly goes on tangents about destructive and chaotic energy. 

And, though it sucks to admit - he was right again. 

The spell Dipper needs to cast truly is simple. At least on Dipper’s end. All he needs to do is power the thing, and channel it with some theory that Bill described in gory yet helpful terms. 

But the spell *is* life magic. Magic’s not enough; it needs a little more, as Bill put it, ‘oomph’ to get it going.

Dipper flicks the pocketknife open, ready to draw it across his palm. He steadies himself with a deep breath.

Blood is connected to it, magically. A few drops is all it should take. Then it’s over. He’ll be done here.

He’ll get to go home.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bill grabs Dipper’s wrist before he makes the cut. “Piss poor placing, kid. You want the back of the arm or a leg or something.” He wags a chiding finger. “More blood, and more convenient if you wanna grab anything later.”

Dipper honestly hadn’t thought of that. In movies and stuff, everyone goes for - but. Yeah. 

Yet again, Bill’s been oddly helpful. 

In fact, this entire time he’s been oddly, annoyingly helpful. When Dipper was stuck. When he wanted to complain, and the deal really could have been worse. Maybe it’s only because Bill’s been bored, and he doesn’t have anyone else to mess with. Or because he kind of thinks Dipper’s… worth kissing. 

In any case. It’s the sort of thing he should probably mention.

“Uh. Thanks.” Dipper says, feeling awkward. “You’ve been kind of cool. For a demon.”

“Ha! Now that’s rare!” Bill drifts upwards, fists on his edges. He looks supremely amused. “Glad you spoke up, sapling.” Somehow, he winks with only one eye. “I won’t ever let you forget it.”

Back to ominous, then. Dipper’s going to try and ignore it

“Okay, well. See you… hopefully never again.” He states, and draws the knife over the back of his arm. Just a nick, but enough to draw a few drops.

As Bill starts laughing, Dipper shuts his eyes for a second time, kneeling on the ground, and muttering the chant. He’s already memorized it, no need to listen to Bill anymore. 

Goodbye, demon, goodbye, awful grey realm - 

He draws on the magic, that deep and infinite pool inside him, and pushes.

There’s a strange, clinking sound. A rush of magic out of him,more than he’s used before, it almost leaves him dizzy, and the spell itself clicks into place, complete.

That’s it. He’s done. He’s - 

Dipper looks up.

Everything’s still monochrome, so. That’s not good. 

He gets to his feet slowly, checking - but no, no change. Still stuck, in this impossible liminal realm. 

With a start, he realizes that nothing’s glowing in the clearing, either.

Dipper looks around, suddenly alert, but he doesn’t hear anything. Not a laugh, or a mocking comment. No matter how he looks, there’s no chain. No gold. No freaking Bill around, completely vanished from sight - 

“That son of a bitch.” Dipper clenches his fists at his sides. 

Goddamn it, he should have realized. That entire thing was incredibly, recklessly stupid. It was a trick, Bill’s been freed - and Dipper’s still trapped. 

But you know what? Fuck Bill. Dipper doesn’t need him. 

He’s smart. He got here to begin with, and he didn’t need some asshole to help him with that; he can get out as well. He’s going to figure this out, learn a hell a lot more about demons, get really great at magic, and - and all sorts of other things, too, all out of sheer spite. He’s going to get out of here-

As he clenches his fists, jaw tightening, color washes over the scene.

Dipper blinks again. Then waves his arms, suddenly confused.

That was fast. Almost as fast as thought. 

There’s a breeze on his skin, the smell of the forest in the air. The sky is less dark, though it’s nearly sunset. Dipper spends a long tense minute, watching the sun relative to the horizon, tension tight in his chest. Feeling a huge shudder of relief, as it does, in fact, move. Time’s moving. Time’s normal, and the world is normal, and real.

The spell did work. On a delay that Bill never mentioned.

Dipper taps his foot on the loose earth beneath him, folding his arms.

Great. Now he can’t be mad at Bill. He was as good as his word. 

All in all, Dipper could have made a worse deal, if he doesn’t think too hard about Bill and what he might be up to. The trade, such as it was, did end up fair. 

A freedom for a freedom. That’s about as fair as a demon can be, and all for the low, low cost of. Some lip action.

For some reason, Dipper’s still really annoyed. 

If he knew Bill was going to get out too, well. A heads up would have been nice. Not to mention that Bill just went and fucked off somewhere without so much as a ‘see ya’, or a ‘goodbye’, or - 

But it’s good, really. That they won’t meet again. Better for both of them.

Because If they did, Dipper would have to tell him he’s a jerk, and a bastard. Bill seems like he needs that reminder every once in a while. Or every few days. Or hours. 

So again, good that he’s gone; Dipper’d probably lose his voice if he had to be around him too long. Good riddance.

Dipper stands in the clearing for a while, watching the light fade as evening sets in. Alone in the forest again. Safe in reality. 

After a while, it’s starting to get chilly; he wraps an arm over himself, squeezing the opposite bicep. .

It’s been a very long day. 

He takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it out.

Then the soft earth shifts under his feet, and something grabs his ankle. 

For the second time in a day, Dipper screams. 

A sudden yank makes Dipper lose his balance, but he catches himself before he hits the ground, braced on his elbows. He swears, pulling his leg away on impulse, kicking at the tight grasp on his leg -

And stares in horror as a dirty yet well-manicured hand pulls him closer, impossibly strong. Dragging him down into the earth it burst out from. A few more urgent kicks gets the thing off him, and Dipper scrambles back.

The hand pats around for him, searching, then pushes against the ground. Bringing out an arm, then a chest, a full head that shakes off the dirt. An eye rolls around in one socket, while the other is missing or covered with dirt, and it wears a wide, rictus grin. With very sharp, very white teeth. 

Dipper struggles to his knees. Sweat is breaking out on his forehead, as whole human man - thing pulls itself out of a shallow grave right in front of him. There’s no time to react; it’s up on its feet before he can gain his own. Too steady, and way too fast for the living dead.

Shit. Life magic, of course.

So It wasn’t a trick after all. It was a trap. 

Dipper not only set BIll free but raised, like, a zombie, or something, to take care of the rest. It’s going to finish him off and leave no evidence but a bloody smear on the grass. He tries to leap back but it's already got him by the shirt in a tight grip, dragging him in.

Okay, no time. Last resort. DIpper hates to do this, but. He tenses up, holding his arms out and reaching for his magic. Pulling on it, hard. 

The fire rages, it lights up the whole clearing as it spreads. Dipper can feel it engulf himself, spread around the clearing, and engulf his assailant - 

To absolutely zero effect. Not even a sizzle, what the hell. 

Dipper spends a moment to be indignant as the creature lifts him up, and up, until his feet don’t even touch the ground. What the hell. He’s always been able to explode stuff, and the one time he actually wanted to, it doesn’t work?

“Trying to heat things up, huh? Nice try, sapling, but it won’t work.” Says the man holding him, sounding delightedly amused. “As a guy once said - I’m extremely cool!”

Dipper snaps his gaze downwards, towards that voice. “That’s not what I-”

He stops. Stares. 

Then glares.

A golden eye winks back at him. Some of the dirt has dried from the fire; now it flakes off in patches, revealing an eyepatch instead of an empty socket, and a suit instead of the yellow of lividity. Dipper’s idly tempted to insult his fashion, before he remembers he still can’t touch the freakin’ ground.

While the other shape didn’t have a literal smile, if you plastered it on a human face it would be a one-to-one match.

“You’re kidding me.” Dipper says. Somehow he’s not surprised.

He gets an eyebrow wiggle, and a brighter smile. The man lifts him up like a carnival prize; his suit really is tacky, Dipper should tell him that. And that his voice is so annoying, and he has a very handsome, very awful face. 

Bill cackles. Clearly thrilled.

“Really? Dipper says. Then, feeling tired. “Oh, come on, Bill. That was a dick move.” He lets his arms drop to his sides.

So obvious, when you think about it. So clear, when you know what’s up. 

There were so many chances to spot it, and Dipper was so dumb.

Bill Cipher, dream demon. Infamous for a lot of things, power and insanity and all of that - but mostly for wandering reality, tied to a mortal. While wearing a human shape. Obviously he has another form, being a demon and all, but it’s not like there are many depictions. Bill Cipher doesn’t stride around Earth without wearing his skin suit.

Well. Guess who just went and made him one. 

Dipper should be more upset. He should be furious. But mostly?

He’s thinking about how he’ll get Bill back for this. 

“What’s with the long face?” Bill Cipher asks, looking absurdly pleased with himself. A huge grin as he bounces Dipper in his grip, sharp teeth bared. “Everything went according to plan!”

“I’m an idiot,” Dipper states, before kicking Bill once. It doesn’t work, but it was mostly a gesture, anyway. “And you’re an asshole.”

“Sure am! But you’re my idiot now, sapling.” Bill says, cheerful as anything. He swings Dipper around, then over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. Throwing in a pat on the back, presumably for insult. “Good to see ya again!”

[woodsborostabathon]

im such a strict judge judy ass bitch when it comes to interpretations of my faves like. actually yeah yk what. i am NOT making myself power thru this literal smut fic bc i keep cringing every ten seconds bc EVERY ten seconds they got my girl doing some shit she would Never do 😭