#one of my favorite things to write

[petit-naldo]

Carlos is struggling with his compartmentalization strategy.

Chapter link here

[sopherfly]

A little something I wrote as a birthday gift for @temple-mistress. 💖🥳

A soft tap on the door shook Obi-Wan from his reverie. He tugged his robe tightly around himself, covering his chest, then glanced up as Anakin stepped inside.

“You okay, Master?” he asked, offering a small, tired smile.

Of course. Anakin had been waiting for him in the bedroom. A pang of guilt made his throat tight. He hadn’t meant to get caught up staring and thinking. He’d meant to be in bed with Anakin, curled up against his familiar warmth, his nose buried in that perfect mess of curls.

“Yes,” he replied, not a lie so much as a deflection. “I was just counting the grey hairs.”

Anakin made a face. “I love your grey hairs. Doesn’t matter to me how many there are.” His arms circled Obi-Wan’s waist from behind, and he dropped a few kisses along his temple, where the smattering of grey had grown much more pronounced. “Does it matter to you?”

“No,” Obi-Wan conceded, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.

[cdyssey]

if ur still taking prompts, pre-relationship melissa/barbara where barb is getting jealous over mel’s new fling? could be a new teacher who’s a woman as well? thank you! i love how you write them, and your overall voice in your works. thank u for ur brain and ideas and love for these two!!! <3

Augh, thank you for the kind words, Anon!!! ;w; I'm so appreciative.

And, haha, I feel like it's a rite of passage in the Work Wives fandom to pair Melissa with another MILF of choice to make Barbara jealous. <3 My face claim is Alex Kingston. >:)

CW: Grief Mentions, Emotional Infidelity, Suggestive Content

AO3 Link

—

The new art teacher is named Ms. Avery Blackwood, and she just moved from Manhattan to Philly, quietly citing the need to not see her late partner in every sunset.

She mostly worked on commission in the Big Apple, painting murals and large portraits for well-paying clients, but she also did a lot of volunteer work, lending her talents to underfunded schools and women shelters when she could.

But Ava didn’t hire her for this impressive resume—(because that would be bordering on competency, of course)—but rather for the fact that the almost sixty-year old is a Pisces and quote—“damn, that’s kinda hot, not gonna lie”—end quote.

Avery drives a yellow Volkswagen that still has a faded Bernie 2020 sticker on the bumper.

She calls everyone darling and dear and likely has paint splattered across her black overalls at any given time. 

She tucks paintbrushes behind her ear and charmingly doesn’t remember that she’s done so in the first place.

But once she’s been told someone's name and attaches it to a face, she never, ever forgets.

And to top it all off, Avery Blackwood, along with these innumerable endearing qualities, is utterly breathtaking—all curly russet hair and pale hazel eyes, curves in gorgeous places, and an English accent delivered in a low, delicious voice. The kids love her for her whimsy and play. Janine’s already adopted her as her newest middle-aged mother. 

And Melissa.

Melissa is dating her.

Barbara didn’t realize this crucial fact until precisely yesterday when she was sitting in the lounge, trying her hardest not to stare at the empty seat next to her for well over half-an-hour. The younger teachers had gone to Pizza Hut for lunch, which made the absence of the second grade grade teacher all the more pronounced. A vacancy that was a presence. The ghost of a very alive person. Barbara’s daily crossword puzzle went untouched, her afternoon mug of coffee mostly full, as she mentally combed through the most rational possibilities in her head: Melissa catching up on grades, Melissa trying to get the blasted copier in the office to work, Melissa gone to grab a bite to eat all by her lonesome.

All reasonable and distinct options.

Still.

Barbara had glanced at her phone every few minutes to see if she had received a text confirming any of them, providing an explanation, an excuse, an apology.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Just a voicemail from Gerald apologizing because sorry, honey, he’d be home late. 

Her husband is always late these days, though. His promotion’s been good for their finances—it even funded their lovely cruise this past summer—but it’s been less conducive to their relationship, disrupting every sturdy habit and rhythm they’ve cultivated together for well over thirty years. He is the indentation on the left side of the bed and the apologetic voicemails he leaves because of it. He is the hasty peck on her cheek before he leaves for work and the untouched coffee mug she instinctively sets next to hers anyway. What he fundamentally isn’t, however, is there, and she’s felt this new distance terribly, like a three-inch incision across her chest. She’s tried to bandage the untenable wound with other things—namely people. 

Namely one person. 

Namely Melissa. 

The two teachers have been spending a lot of time together lately, even out of school—getting their nails done or going to see Saturday matinees or shopping deals on school supplies together at Staples. So she’s gotten used to Melissa being around, has soothed her pathological need for routine because of this immutable fact. 

In the absence of Gerald, there has been Melissa.

A constant presence at her shoulder.

Never more than a text or call or short walk down the hall away.

Until yesterday.

Until Avery Blackwood.

At some point, she walked to the window as a preventative measure against impulsively marching to her friend’s classroom and demanding an explanation, and as she peered through the rain-splattered blinds, she saw them.

Melissa and Avery.

They were walking up the stone steps together, holding hands, and Melissa was laughing at a joke that the other woman had clearly just told, her smile impossible to miss even from a distance.

Even from another room.

Even at the ends of this world.

And Barbara’s stomach had clenched unpleasantly where she stood on the tiles, recoiling at the unexpected sight. And she had mechanically walked back to her seat and tried to sit with this feeling as it rose within her, snarling her carefully composed nervous system into disarray. She didn’t want to admit it, but in her heart of hearts—that forbidden tree she scarcely touches—she understood, even then, that this feeling was jealousy.

And it was irrational.

Ugly.

Perhaps even sinful. 

Thou shalt not covet thy best friend’s girlfriend.

Because Melissa undoubtedly deserves happiness.

And you already have it.

You are a married, Christian woman.

Barbara has known, for sometime now, that Melissa also dates women—mostly when she was younger and before she’d married Joseph—but now that she’s single again, having broken up with Gary the Vending Machine Guy a few months ago, she’s been getting into the swing of regularly dating again: a man named Thornton who had a Tom Selleck mustache, a woman named Selina who’d worked on a local mayoral campaign, a bartender named Layla. 

Barbara has hated all of her friend’s flings for completely valid and totally objective reasons, telling her as much—and in her humble opinion—doing the Lord’s work of helping her to see the proverbial light.

Gary was content to settle, never once trying something new. And while he was nice and funny and good, he took it for granted that Melissa wanted a staid and unchanging lifestyle too.

Thornton, well, he didn’t root for the Eagles, so that was a no-go despite his impressive mustache.

Selina, bless her heart, never stopped talking about politics.

And Layla—mmm, the nerve of her—didn’t care much about politics at all.

But Avery Blackwood, who is impossibly kind and witty and passionate about helping others, is perfect. There is nothing about her to nitpick and everything about her to root for. She’s probably good for Melissa.

Maybe she’s even the one.

And if jealousy was the awful feeling that Barbara had to swallow in that moment, then happiness was the emotion she had to hastily fake, capably simulating it with a porcelain facade of a smile when the two women finally made it into the lounge, still holding hands.

Melissa was self-conscious—as she always was when she was introducing her new partners to Barbara—her cheeks tinged rather pink.

And Barbara had been so perfectly gracious, as she always was when she was meeting Melissa’s partners—arranging her gritted teeth into a bright and pearly smile.

“You two are simply radiant,” she had mused, and it had broken something inside of her to do it.

She could not articulate to herself why.

She could not pray about it to God either.

—

It is Wednesday—the next day—and Barbara is sitting at her desk, savoring her second mug of coffee before the bell rings, when she hears a gentle rapping noise to her left. She looks up and over to see Melissa leaning against her open classroom door, her striking hair a little damp from the rain, spilling over her shoulders in dark, elegant waves.

“Hey, you,” she smirks, huffing a little, her cheeks flushed. Apparently, she’d jogged here, and the overall effect of all this—her wet hair and rosy face, her casual posture, the way the top two buttons of her shirt are carelessly undone, the vee-shaped divot suggesting the ample curves of those smooth, rolling—

—does nothing for Barbara.

Obviously.

“Hey, yourself,” she rasps hoarsely and hastily takes a throat-clearing sip of her coffee. Her damn sinuses. They always get to her at this time of the year. “What’s got you all flustered, Ms. Schemmenti?”

“Nothin’ in particular,” Melissa shakes her head, still grinning. “Just wanted to catch ya before the bell and apologize for yesterday. Sorry that I skipped lunch.”

And went out a date with Avery Blackwood.

And held hands with her. 

Maybe even kissed her.

Barbara imagines Avery’s fingers in her friend’s hair, twisted in those thick, scarlet tresses. She sees Melissa’s arms around the other woman’s curving waist, the space between their bodies negligible. Envisions them trading shades and flavors of red lipstick, can almost hear the sensuous heaving of their mingled breaths. Impatient grunts. Maybe even the occasional moan. And that same awful feeling that had consumed her as she had stood by the window yesterday begins to climb up the rungs of her throat, constricting it, choking what’s left of her resolve to maintain an impeccable front.

And it is initially rather oblique to her—incomprehensible and frankly terrifying—why she should be feeling jealous of the idea of Melissa kissing another woman. It is one thing to be saddened at the idea of losing time with her closest friend; it is another to want to wretch at just the mere thought of the second grade teacher’s lips turning into another art project for one Ms. Avery Blackwood.

But in the end... she supposes she just misses Gerald, his little romantic gestures, his chaste kisses, his once attentive care.

Maybe she’s just lonely.

“Pssh,” she forces herself to smile all the same. “no need to apologize, girlfriend… I was simply happy to see you so happy…”

“Oh, yeah?” Melissa’s own smile brightens, her blush deepening until her face is nearly as red as her hair. Barbara is uncomfortably aware that the other teacher likes receiving her approval, perhaps even hinges some of her self-esteem on it. It’s been this way since her divorce and Joseph wrapped a horrible bow on their marriage by finally cheating on her.

That betrayal had unraveled Melissa Schemmenti.

Had made her feel like she was impossible to love.

And Barbara had seen all of this very clearly, had done everything in her power to put her friend’s broken pieces back together again, laboriously reconstructing her by telling her—almost everyday—that she was so loved and so cared for.

Lord, and how she’d done everything shy of kissing her to prove it.

“Yes,” Barbara nods, softening at these memories, chastising herself for forgetting them in the first place. Her entire project these last five years has been to help Melissa find happiness again… even if it comes at the expense of her own. “I’ve missed seeing you smile like that.”

And it’s true enough.

For the first year after the divorce, Melissa didn’t smile all that much anymore. 

Not like she used to anyway.

And it had killed her inside, had hurt her and hurt her and hurt her, every single God blessed day to see the lifelessness in her eyes, to endure the unchanging monotony of her voice.

She remembers tearing up the first time she heard Melissa belly laugh again—maybe two years after the fact. They’d been at her house, making batches of Christmas cookies for their students, and Barbara had hastily opened a bag of flour, causing the dust to explode all over her face. Melissa had laughed and laughed and laughed some more at what was assuredly a hilarious sight until her own face turned red, the sound warm and vibrant and everything lovely in that dimly-lit kitchen.

And flour all over her cheeks and everything, Barbara had nearly wept, unhinged at that beautiful, nearly forgotten noise. Oh, God, how she’d pulled her friend into a hug then, smearing flour across her face too, kissing her—so very softly—on the crown of that vivid head.

Because Melissa was laughing.

Melissa was happy.

Maybe more accurately still, they were happy together.

“Smile like what?” Melissa tilts her head quizzically, her dark brow pinching somewhere in the middle.

“Like you’re at peace,” she says warmly and beneath her desk, digs her fingernails into the palm of her other hand. Because it stings—more than she ever thought it would—that her friend would finally find contentment in someone who wasn’t her.

Melissa opens her mouth and then abruptly closes it, rendered speechless with visible tenderness and delight, pink feathering her high cheekbones. 

Goodness, she’s radiant, Barbara thinks, continuing to grip her palm, idly clawing at it, grounding herself in the distant ache.

“It’s still early yet, Barb,” the younger woman finally croaks, attempting to be playful but clearly and audibly touched. “Don’t jinx us.”

“Ach, never,” she intones, clumsily disguising a sudden gasp of pain as a laugh.

When she looks down at her hands, she sees that she has nicked herself, has accidentally drawn blood.

—

Avery is the one who proposes it—a joint lesson where Barbara will read The Cat in the Hat to her kids, and Avery will help them with a coloring project shortly afterwards. She comes to Barbara’s classroom after school one day—perhaps a week after the kindergarten teacher first saw her and Melissa from the window—so they can plan the specifics. With her impossible hair tied in a messy bun atop of her head and the loosely rolled sleeves of her oversized shirt speckled with paint and her slightly lined eyes bright with infectious zeal, it’s easy enough to understand why Ava calls her a “fine ass Miss Frizzle.”

And in hindsight, Barbara now knows why Melissa had been the first to agree.

“Genius,” Avery enthuses, lightly brushing her shoulder against Barbara’s own. “I mean, absolutely bloody brilliant—do you really create vocabulary card decks for each book that you’re reading? And for every student? Because if you do, then Melissa was absolutely correct when she called you a god.”

Her cheeks darken at the excessively kind words—both the art teacher’s own but more so Melissa’s purported ones. She never admits it, but she quite likes receiving her friend’s verbal approval too.

“Melissa thinks far too highly of me,” she says diplomatically, though a pleased smile rises to her lips all the same. “But I suppose she probably says the same of me.”

Neither of them are particularly good at loving each other in moderation. Gerald once teased that she loved Melissa more than him, and Barbara had just as jokingly agreed.

“Something to that effect, yes,” Avery laughs, the sound jocular and lovely, though her playfulness somewhat quickly cedes to thoughtfulness. She regards Barbara with a fond expression, tilting her curly head as though she’s trying to figure out how to capture her best angles in paint. “Mel really does think the world of you, you know. Says that you were there for her when she was really going through it with her ex…”

“It’s what any friend would do,” Barbara says quickly, flushing a little, not entirely sure if she’s touched that Melissa would share such an intimate detail about their friendship or irritated that she did.

Partially thinks that sharing the fact takes some of novelty away from it.

Ludicrous, she knows.

Absolutely ridiculous.

She’s well-aware.

(What is awareness to raw emotion, though, intellectualization to the irrationality of her deepest and most detested feelings?)

“What a good friend would do, dear,” Avery corrects firmly, thankfully oblivious to her inner conflict. “It’s in times of crisis when you learn who your true friends are. When my… you know, when my Morgan passed, so many people I thought were in my corner suddenly poofed, vanished, disappeared into the aether. And the ones who stayed—who helped me through the darkness—were often people I least expected. But they were so kind to me. They held my hand while I was in the straits, and they refused to let me go…”

Even though Avery’s gentle expression remains unchanged, Barbara can see the sadness in the forest of her eyes, can hear its plaintive notes in her rich, lilting voice. She cannot begin to fathom ever losing Gerald, even as complicated as things are between them now. She still loves him, of course. He’s the father of her kids and the other person in their shared bed of thirty-four—nearly thirty-five—years. She’d simply be lost without him.

She thinks it would be the death of her to lose Melissa, to never see that bright, red mouth smiling crookedly at her from across the room again. They’ve only known each other for nineteen years, but it feels like forever. And if Gerald is the other person in her bed, then Melissa is the filled seat next to hers in the teacher’s lounge, the hip lightly brushing against her own, the leather-clad shoulder she knows she can always lean upon.

They’re her people—her husband and her work wife—and she’s absolutely selfish; she wouldn’t be able to easily let either of them go.

So she reaches out accordingly, placing a hand on the small of the art teacher’s back in this imagined empathy of total, devastating, and unrecoverable grief.

There would be no Barbara Howard anymore in the aftermath of losing her beloved Ger or her precious Mel.

There would only be an empty husk of the woman she once was.

Her unhallowed and hollowed ghost.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she offers sincerely—with everything in her—but Avery only shakes her head and smiles at her gratefully. Her innumerable curls shiver at the movement.

“It was a long time ago, and things are much better now,” she returns softly, reaching over and lightly squeezing Barbara's free hand. “I have my necessary distractions—a new home to ruin with all my artistic endeavors, a different job to brilliantly occupy my time, and, well, Melissa now.”

Barbara doesn’t discipline her immediate reaction fast enough, frowning deeply at the inclusion of her friend’s name on this particular list.

“Oh,” Avery says hurriedly, catching the microgesture in an instant, pops of color rising across her smooth cheeks, “I don’t mean to say that I’m using Melissa as a way of coping. I like her very much… she understands loss…”

“She does,” Barbara says, not exactly coldly, but perhaps with a touch of admonition, eyeing the other teacher carefully. She lets her hand fall away, primly templing it with the other. “She absolutely understands loss—perhaps far too well as you might know."

Her nana who practically raised her and so many other relatives besides.

An uncle who was killed.

Joseph, that awful man.

Their acrimonious divorce.

Her estranged sister.

“I do know,” Avery agrees, her pale eyes suddenly bright in the harsh fluorescence of the classroom. “And I didn’t mean to insinuate—I mean, I would never hurt her. Melissa is so dear to me."

“I believe you,” she smiles tightly but truthfully. She thinks the art teacher occasionally wears her emotions on her sleeves—as transparently as the paint that is already there—and she half-admires this vulnerability.

Could never be so candid herself. 

But she thinks it’s rather dangerous too, this capacity for laying one’s soul bare before another. Lesser people would take advantage, and they do everyday.

“Sometimes, though, we hurt people without ever really meaning to,” Barbara continues, taking on the familiar tone of Mrs. Howard.

Kind and didactic.

A little sanctimonious, maybe.

But well-intentioned.

Always.

She just doesn’t want to see Melissa hurt again.

“Even if we care about them—perhaps especially when we do."

The other woman flinches, as though she's been slapped, so Barbara hastily adds, "Not that you would, of course, but it’s something to keep in mind, yes?”

Avery is quiet for a long time after this, all of her usual mirth sieved from her, replaced with a world weariness and an aching, almost tangible sorrow. Barbara doesn’t think she did this to her, though; rather, she intuits that this is the person behind the painted smile.

This is the artist as herself and not as who she presents herself to be.

She feels sorry for her; she stands by her implicit warning all the same.

Melissa will always come first to her—her happiness, her security, her invaluable peace of mind—and she'll do anything to protect those holy treasures.

(She wishes—more than anything and with inordinate guilt—that she could provide them for her.)

"Fair enough," Avery eventually agrees.

Her ensuing smile is exquisite; it does not touch her eyes.

—

That evening, Barbara is curled up in her favorite recliner, watching Family Feud but not really seeing it, a glass of Prosecco idly supported between her fingertips. Gerald’s going to be late again—surprise, surprise—and she put on a whole pot of chicken and dumplings for nothing. 

Oh, sure, he’ll eat a bowl tonight when he gets home around eight or nine, but she’ll have already eaten herself and will likely be in bed to prepare for the school day tomorrow. And if she is, her husband might even sleep in the guest room tonight so as not to disturb her.

He’s polite like that.

But Gerald’s versions of politeness often leave her feeling lonelier than ever before.

So when her phone suddenly rings right at the commercial break, and Melissa’s smiling face washes over her screen—(a picture she’d taken on their most recent movie date)—Barbara is perhaps a little too eager to pick up the phone, pressing it to her ear like a lifeline.

She’s wholly unprepared for the greeting that follows.

“What the hell did you say to Avery?” 

“What?” Barbara splutters, uncomprehending and half-offended and so horribly afraid. She sits up abruptly, accidentally spilling a little wine on one of her favorite silk blouses. “What in Heaven’s name do you mean, Melissa? I didn’t—“

But the younger woman cuts across her viciously. “Things were all fine this morning, but then she goes to your classroom, and not even five minutes later, she’s in mine, tellin’ me we should take things slower!”

Barbara closes her eyes, suddenly and completely nauseous. The art teacher had apparently taken her words to heart, had evaluated them and perhaps found that they struck a meaningful chord. 

Avery is still grieving her partner.

And grief is a monstrous thing.

It colors everything it touches—thoughts, memories, conversations, and deeds.

Relationships too.

(Maybe even relationships especially.)

“Are you saying that she broke up with you?” She rasps, her voice choked, wrung with unspeakable shame.

And something else as well.

But that something else is far more insidious to ever name.

(Hope.)

(Self-righteousness.)

(Glorious, sweeping relief.)

“No, I’m sayin’ that here you go again, messin’ with my relationships,” comes a quick and scathing reply. “You didn’t like Selina or Layla or Thornton. Fuck, you didn’t even like Gary, and you set me up with him in the first place!”

Every word lands across her stomach like the entry of a new knife, gushing blood. It’s true that she’s voiced her reservations about each and every one of Melissa’s most recent partners, but not for any malicious intent. She’s only meant to help her friend, naming the flaws in these various flings that her friend couldn’t see. 

That is altruism from her limited perspective.

Meddling is a form of love.

“You’re being incredibly unfair,” she hisses, angrily wiping at the tears that have started to form at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve only wanted the best for you, Melissa, and you know that.”

And none of those individuals—as kind as they were or funny or sexy or available—were good enough for Melissa Schemmenti.

They were nice people.

That didn’t mean a blessed thing to Barbara.

“Yeah, well, from where I’m standing, you don’t give a rat’s ass about me—you just want me to be as miserable as yourself.”

And, oh, it is this indictment that is the cruelest of them all, and Barbara immediately wants to cry and shudder and scream so loudly that she can be heard from miles upon miles away. Another part of her still wants to fight back, teeth bared and hackles raised, wants to snarl so many unsavory things. 

That her marriage is none of Melissa’s business.

That if she was so uncaring, then who has unfailingly been by her side these past five years, fixing what Joseph Lombardo so callously broke?

That she loves her.

You know that I do, Melissa.

I have loved you far more and for far longer than almost anyone.

Do you not know that?

Have I not proved to you—over and over again—that I care?

“I’m not miserable,” she mewls instead, the words pathetic even to her own ears. She sounds like a petulant child, but her deepest honesty would be overwhelming and too much.

It would sound like a vulgar confession. 

A romantic one.

Her glass violently trembles in her hand. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Barbara," comes an incredulous, broken laugh, "but don’t talk to me about my shit again until you’re finally ready to be honest about your own.”

And with that searing proclamation, Melissa hangs up with a brutal click, leaving Barbara alone again in her big, empty house.

The abrupt silence bruises her.

Wraps its fingers around the pillar of her throat.

She sits in her recliner and simply suffocates—for minutes after that, and then hours, a monolith carved from stone as tears serpentine down the weathered crevices of her face like water over an ancient fountain. She wipes at them only every now and then. Can’t entirely bring herself to care.

Darkness falls through the bay window in the living room, laying across her like a steel cage. She drinks and refills her wine and drinks and refills her wine until the bottle is  empty, and her mind is a buzzing tape recorder, replaying that last conversation in her head until she’s making up replies that she didn’t say.

She is not miserable, Melissa.

She is a married, Christian woman.

She cannot fathom those two ever being one and the same.

[magicicephoenix]

i finally finished reading I see you, Sundrop! by @shirajellyfish and IT'S SO GOOD I CAN'T BELIEVE IT TOOK ME THIS LONG TO FINISH IT RAAAAAAA

i will be gushing about it in the tags but here's a lil animation i made based on the below paragraph in chapter 6 that gave me such a strong mental image that i had to make it real :)

[demonic0angel]

Story Idea

Story idea where the Batfamily stumbles upon a painting that was kept away because it's considered haunted and take it home. It has reportedly caused hallucinations, dizziness, headaches and nosebleeds, unnaturally unlucky incidents, “accidental” deaths, and much, much more, whenever one is kept in someone’s home. It's one of the Team Phantom members, but I like to think it's Jazz because she's a good introduction to the ghost craziness.

However, at night, they discover why the painting is called haunted. When night falls, the painting talks and has conversation with people, just like a regular person. At first, only Jason could see it and he thought he was going crazy until Jazz was eventually able to chat with all of the Batfamily members and says that she’s actually part of a collection. A collection of 7 paintings that were all created by her little brother for their family, which also included his portrait, and they have to collect them all or the paintings will continue to wreck havoc on the mental and psychological health of everybody around them. (The only reason the Batfamily is safe is because Jazz is a less haunted painting than the others and the Batfamily are already halfway insane).

Cue ghost and spy shenanigans as the Batfamily all have to search for the 7 paintings created by D. P. Fenton, a mysterious individual who created 7 works of art and trapped his loved ones’ spirits inside of them.

Sketches of the paintings

[solarmorrigan]

The Witch and The Carpenter

For the @steddie-spooktober day 23 prompt: Witch Rated: T | Words: 2862 | CW: None | Tags: fantasy AU, witch!Eddie Munson, carpenter!Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington gets migraines, Eddie Munson needs a hug, Steve Harrington needs a hug, they're perfect for each other hugs all around Divider credit: @saradika

Eddie hears about the new carpenter within hours of his rolling into town – of course he does; any witch worth their salt knows exactly what’s going on in their town at all times (it’s hard not to, when you’re the one providing the potions and charms that help everyone else keep their secrets).

His name is Steve, and he’s come with hopes of filling the hole left when Benny, the previous town carpenter, had died without an heir to his business. People say that he seems hardworking and capable, that he’s strong and handsome, that he’s friendly enough, but that there’s something a little distant about him – a little lonely (though the older ladies who give Eddie gossip do tend to romanticize at times).

Eddie doesn’t expect to meet him as soon as he does, but before even his first week in town is out, Steve turns up on Eddie’s doorstep, looking at once earnest and wary, and just as handsome as the gossip had said.

(Not that that last bit has any bearing on anything.)

“People in town say you’re the one to see for remedies,” Steve says when Eddie gets the door open.

“People in town say a lot of things,” Eddie replies. “But in this case, they’re right. Come on in.”

Inside, Eddie finds out that Steve is seeking a remedy for headaches. But not just any headaches; these seem to be full-body affairs that can keep Steve down for days at a time. He gets dizzy, nauseous, is bothered by any noise, and even candlelight can be too bright for his eyes.

Eddie mixes him up something strong, gives him strict instructions on how it’s to be taken, and then moves on to the matter of payment.

At that, Steve begins to look sheepish.

“I’ve only just set up my business. I… don’t have much money yet,” he admits. “I was hoping you might be willing to do a trade.”

Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him. “And what do you have to trade that you think might interest me?”

“Your door?” Steve offers.

“…what about my door?” Eddie asks after a long moment of confused silence.

“It sticks. You were having trouble getting it closed earlier. I could fix that,” Steve says.

And it’s true – Eddie’s front door does stick. So does the back door. The shutters often refuse to open or shut properly, and the porch sags a little, and there’s a leak in the roof when it rains hard enough. While Eddie is the best in the business when it comes to working magic, he’s not so handy with home repairs.

(It doesn’t particularly help that witches exist in an odd sort of social limbo. Every town needs one—this is generally acknowledged as truth—but no one particularly wants them around. Eddie lives a little ways away from town, up against the forest line, where it’s easy to ignore him and his shabby house unless someone needs something from him. No one has ever exactly been chomping at the bit to come help him fix the place up.)

Eddie shouldn’t say yes. He often trades goods and services, but he doesn’t know this man. He doesn’t know if he’s reliable, doesn’t even know if his work is any good – but something in him wants to agree, anyway.

Maybe it’s the earnestness of his offer, or the hope in his expression that he’s clearly trying to quash, or maybe Eddie’s just a sucker for a pretty face, but eventually he finds he can’t say anything but, “Okay, sure.”

“Thank you,” Steve sighs as he accepts the potion. “How would tomorrow work for you?”

Still not entirely sure he expects Steve to show up, Eddie says that tomorrow is fine. If he doesn’t show, if he thinks he can fleece a witch and continue living peacefully in town, he’ll quickly find out otherwise. And if he does come back – well, it would be nice to have a door that doesn’t stick anymore.

“What’s your favorite color?” Steve asks before he leaves.

“Red,” Eddie answers, one brow raised in a question that Steve doesn’t answer.

“Red.” Steve nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next day, Steve is back bright and early with a bag of tools and a pot of paint. He tells Eddie not to mind him, he’ll just get to work and try to stay out of Eddie’s way, but Eddie can’t help but watch as Steve inspects the door hinges, the frame, and then not only trims the door down, but sands and paints it, too.

Red: Eddie’s favorite color.

Anyway, it isn’t Eddie’s fault for getting distracted. There’s an unfairly attractive man doing manual labor in front of his house, what’s he supposed to do?

Eventually, though, Eddie does force himself to look away. He shouldn’t get attached to things he knows he can’t have. He’s the witch; he’s in the background of everyone else’s story, he doesn’t get to have one of his own – especially not with someone like Steve.

And that’s fine, Eddie had accepted that long ago. He likes being able to help people, and it’s sort of the only thing he’s any good at. He won’t deny that it stings sometimes, the way people talk about witches—about him—but what should he care about what other people think?

In any case, it doesn’t matter, because once Steve finishes with the door, it’s unlikely the two of them will cross paths again any time soon.

Steve finishes the door (it now opens and closes smooth as butter) and goes home.

And comes back the next week.

“Finished what I gave you already?” Eddie asks.

Steve shrugs. “Stress always makes the headaches worse, and with travelling and setting up shop…”

Eddie nods, pursing his lips in thought. “I could make you a bigger batch, but it would cost you more.”

“I can fix those shutters.” Steve nods towards the windows. “And you mentioned something about the back door?”

“You’re going to neglect your real customers, spending all your time fixing up my house,” Eddie teases.

“I can make the time,” Steve says, smiling at Eddie. “I think it’s worth it.”

Eddie has to turn away again, reminding himself that Steve is talking about the medicine, not him.

He fixes up a bigger batch of that same strong potion he’d made the previous week (“I’ve never had anything work so well,” Steve had practically gushed. “It was more than worth my work.”) and Steve comes back the next afternoon to start work on the back door.

They talk more this time, when Steve takes breaks, when Eddie is between tasks and brings him cool water to drink, and Eddie finds that Steve is funny and sweet, and catty and sharp, and a bigger gossip than even Eddie himself. And he reminds himself, again and again, that Steve is not for him. This isn’t how the story goes.

Witches don’t get nice things.

(And that’s fine. Eddie is fine with it. He’s fine.)

They do, however, get increasingly nice houses, apparently. Or at least Eddie does. Steve paints the back door red, too, and then gets to work fixing the shutters. Those, to Eddie’s bemusement, he paints a buttery, golden yellow.

“They don’t exactly scream ‘witch’s cottage’,” Eddie points out.

Steve only shrugs. “It’s my favorite color,” he says, flashing a grin at Eddie. “Besides, I think they go with the doors.”

Eddie doesn’t argue.

It goes on like this. Eddie brews medicine for Steve’s headaches, and Steve finds things around the house to work on. He fixes the leak in the roof, the creaky porch steps, the drawer in the kitchen that will never stay closed; his business picks up in town, but he always makes time for Eddie.

As much as he can, at least.

“I’ve got a few big orders built up,” he says apologetically one afternoon as he collects his medicine from Eddie. “I’m not sure when I’ll have time to get to the cabinets like I said I would, but I can pay you–”

“Nah.” Eddie waves Steve’s offer away before he can pull out any coins. “I’ll just put it on your tab.”

Eddie doesn’t do tabs.

Steve looks skeptical. “If you’re sure…”

“Of course I am. And if, for some reason, you welch on our deal,” Eddie gives Steve a sharp grin, “I do know where you live.”

“You should come visit, then,” Steve says.

Eddie falters. “What?”

“If you want to, I mean.” Steve shrugs, avoiding Eddie’s gaze. “Just– if I can’t make it out here, maybe you could come see me, instead.”

And again, he’s so earnest, trying so hard not to look too hopeful, that Eddie can’t say anything but, “Alright, I will.”

The way Steve lights up at that is worth just about anything he could have Eddie do.

Eddie tries to remind himself of this as he ventures into town the next week.

He doesn’t go into the town proper very often; he grows a lot of what he needs and trades for a lot of the rest of it with customers; he’s a rare enough sight that some people stare, and whisper, and Eddie does his best to hold his head up high and walk without a care.

And if he pulls faces at some of the more egregious offenders, causing them to gasp and scurry away, scandalized, well – Eddie is allowed his simple pleasures.

Anyway, Steve is all smiles when he finds Eddie at his door, and that’s the most important thing. He ushers him through the shop (a large, warm space that smells of wood shavings and sweet smoke, just as Eddie’s come to associate with Steve) and into the living space above. He serves Eddie tea and cake with a studied nonchalance that says he doesn’t want Eddie to realize how excited he is.

How excited he is to see Eddie.

Eddie searches for anything else to focus on before he does something ridiculous, like act on the rising warm feeling in his chest. He finds it, oddly, in Steve’s eyes.

“Have you been sleeping?” Eddie asks him; the shadows beneath his eyes look almost like bruises.

Steve shrugs. “I’ve been busy.”

His hands are shaking, Eddie realizes, as he pours the tea for the both of them. Steve must notice Eddie noticing, because he folds his hands back into his lap with a little huff.

“Happens sometimes,” he says brusquely. “More annoying than anything. Carpenters are supposed to have steady hands.”

(Eddie wonders sometimes what must have happened to Steve, but he’s seen some of the scars that adorn his body, has seen the faraway look that gets into his eyes from time to time, and he thinks he knows. Steve has the bearing of a soldier, and the eyes of a man too kind to have ever been made to fight for a king who doesn’t give a damn about him.)

Taking the hint, Eddie changes the subject, but the thought of Steve’s shaking hands follows him home. All those tools, all those sharp things he works with – maybe Steve isn’t his, not his to worry over or to care of, but Eddie decides he’s damn well going to do it anyway.

The next time Steve comes by, Eddie slips him an extra packet along with his usual potion.

“You brew it like tea,” Eddie says to Steve’s confused glance. “Should help steady your hands, when you need it.”

Steve stares down at the packet for several silent seconds. “You didn’t have to–”

“But I wanted to.”

Shaking his head, Steve looks back up at Eddie. “How can I–”

Eddie waves him off before the question is fully formed. “Let’s say it’s on the house, for my best customer.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Steve says, not without amusement.

“Then how about my favorite customer?” Eddie offers.

Steve is smiling now. “Are you allowed to have favorites?”

“I’m the witch,” Eddie reminds him with a smirk. “I can do whatever I want.”

And so it goes.

And so it might have continued going, if it hadn’t been for the night Steve turns up at Eddie’s door well after dark, looking grey and haggard and haunted.

Eddie ushers him in, sits him down, makes him some tea, and tries to get some words out of him.

“Do you make anything to help people sleep?” is what Steve finally asks.

“I can,” Eddie says slowly, watching Steve carefully.

Steve drops his face into his hands, rubbing harshly at his eyes. “I just– I just want to sleep. I don’t want to dream, just for one night,” he says, so low that Eddie has to strain to catch all the words. “Just once.”

Eddie weighs his options. He knows how to make an elixir for a deep, dreamless sleep; he won’t deny that he’s used it himself, when certain memories had become too much, but that’s exactly how he knows that it hits hard and fast. It can be disorienting – maybe even a little dangerous, if you don’t know what you’re doing.

“I can make something for you,” Eddie says, “but only if you stay here tonight. I don’t want you walking back home in the dark, it isn’t safe.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to impose,” Steve says, as if he could ever be an imposition to Eddie.

“I’d feel better knowing you’re here,” Eddie says, and that seems to break Steve’s resolve.

By the time Eddie finishes the elixir, Steve is barely awake in his seat. He doesn’t even argue when Eddie leads him to his own bed, lays him down, and tells him to drink.

He’s out like a light in minutes.

Eddie closes the bedroom door and sets himself up in a chair by the fire, but he doesn’t sleep for a long time.

He wakes in the morning to the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. He follows the smell and coffee and sizzling bacon to find Steve there, flitting around the room, cooking.

“Hey.” Steve smiles, broad and true, when he sees Eddie in the doorway. “I was going to come wake you soon, breakfast is almost ready.”

Eddie blinks at him, wondering if maybe he’s the one who took the sleeping elixir, because he can’t quite fathom what he’s seeing: Steve, happy and sleep-rumpled, using his kitchen to cook breakfast like it’s familiar to him, like it’s something he does every day, smiling at Eddie like he’s the final piece missing from the morning.

“I don’t know how I’m going to repay you for what you did last night,” Steve says, determinedly poking at the bacon in the pan. “I can’t– I can’t tell you how much I needed that. How much it helped. But I figured I could at least start by making you breakfast.”

Eddie watches him cook, and feels like his heart is about to crack, because for some reason he’s getting this taste of what life could be like, but he doesn’t get to keep it.

This isn’t for him.

(And Eddie wants to be fine, but he isn’t. He isn’t.)

Something must show on his face, because when Steve looks up at him, his own expression falls into a concerned frown. He forgets all about the bacon and moves over to Eddie, arms outstretched to place his hands on Eddie’s shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, so invested, so concerned, that Eddie feels like he might lose his mind.

“This isn’t right,” Eddie manages, and Steve only looks more upset.

“Should I– should I not have done this? Did you want me to go, or–”

“I never want you to go!” Eddie blurts. “I always want you here, but this—this morning, breakfast, you—I don’t get to have this. It’s – it’s not right.”

Steve’s expression softens, eyes warming with understanding. “You can have it, if you want,” he says softly. “You can have me. You always could have. Since the beginning.”

Eddie shakes his head. “This isn’t… this isn’t how the story goes.”

“Then let’s write a new one,” Steve says.

There isn’t anything Eddie can think to say to that, but that’s alright, because that means his mouth is unoccupied when Steve leans in to kiss him.

Steve never has to trade anything for his medicine ever again, after that, nor does he have to come over to fetch it – he’s already there. Eddie’s house becomes the nicest in town, what with his live-in carpenter, and all. It’s painted in bright colors, and it draws people in, and makes them want to stay just a little longer, exchange pleasantries just a little more, and get to know Eddie just a little bit better.

Steve keeps his workshop in town, goes there every morning, and returns to Eddie at night. They start their days with breakfast together, and they end them in bed, pressed together like spoons in a drawer, and with every day that passes by, Eddie believes, more and more, that maybe this is something he gets to have.

Maybe this is something he gets to keep.

[thriftybruce]

Until the mountains crumble to the sea

Extra Doodle Below the Cut and Script:

Script:

Page 1:

Fiddleford: O' c'mon stop fussin' you big ol' lug! It ain't that big of a deal...

'Sides, you kept complaining 'bout how your shoulder was actin' up all day!!

Stan: Well yeah! But I always lead...

Fiddleford: There! Isn't this much better?

Stan: Hmm.

Page 2

Fiddleford: Stan.

Stan: Yeah?

Fiddleford: Who sings this song again?

Stan: Uhm...Oh! Uh Cass Elliot! Yeah, Cass Elliot...

Fiddleford: Ah. Well...she sounds lovely...

This is a nice night.

Stan: Yeah.

Page 3

(There is no written dialogue for this page. The only written portions are the lyrics, which eventually fade out.)

Extra Doodle

Fiddleford: Stan, are you crying?!

Stan: Yes! Er- I mean no! I mean maybe? I'm sorry! The song got to me! Curse you Cass Elliot! You and your delightful singing!

[dynamic-power]

The four of them are sitting in Robin's living room watching a movie when Robin's mom pops her head in and says that the pizza had arrived. Steve and Robin stand from the couch immediately, pushing and shoving at each other to get to the kitchen first. Nancy and Eddie stay behind, heads tilted together as they talk and giggle in hushed tones.

By the time Nance and Ed have made it to the kitchen, Robin and Steve have made it back to the couch. Robin's mom joins them after a moment, sitting in one of the chairs they've pulled in from the dining table to seat all five of them.

As Robin reaches over to try and pluck a piece of pepperoni from Steve's pizza, Steve catches Robin's mom watching them with a fond smile and twinkling eyes.

Steve knows that look. That's the look of a mother who thinks Steve is the perfect boyfriend to their daughter.

He spots a flash of curls before the couch sinks down beside him. He can divert Robin's mom's attention and show her that he and Robin really are just friends. Nancy won't mind. She'll understand and play along, so he lets his hand drift out to grip her thigh. "Hey, baby, do you think -"

Only his palm doesn't land on the cotton of Nancy's skirt. It touches rough denim instead.

He should snatch his hand back, should apologize and explain, but as his eyes meet the wide, startled gaze of Eddie, he freezes.

Eddie's eyes flash up to Robin, then to her mom, and Steve realizes that Eddie has understood. A warm palm slides onto his and dexterous fingers flip his hand over and twine with his own. "Think what, sweetheart?"

Gooseflesh rushes up his arm as Eddie's rough thumb begins to stroke his hand, and he swallows down a potentially embarrassing noise. "Um. Do you think your uncle would mind if you stayed with me tonight?"

Eddie smiles at him, wide and bright and disarming. "No, I don't think he'd mind. Parents out of town again?"

Robin's mom has diverted her gaze back to the TV, but Robin and Nancy are now staring at them with wide eyes. He ignores them. "Yeah."

"Big, spooky house too much for you?" Before Steve can reply, Eddie shifts closer to him and settles against Steve's side. "I'll protect you, sweetheart."

They watch the rest of the movie that way. Steve finds it a little odd to finish eating using his wrong hand, but for some reason, he can't bring himself to let go of Eddie.

[autisticrosewilson]

You're all fucking wrong about Catholic Jason he wouldn't feel guilt about Jack shit, ESPECIALLY not killing. He would get the All-Blades and be convinced that this is God's go ahead and divine confirmation that he's right about everything and all of his opinions are valid and everyone who opposes his worldview is a moron blinded by idealism and naivete.

[krazieka2]

I've played the Fire Emblem Husbando Dating Simulator Games

[ilostyou]

things we don't talk about enough: the change in the black dog from magic fabric to tragic fabric of our dreaming etc etc etc

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A follow-up to my Hanahaki Platonic Stobin drabble

Platonic Stobin, Steddie, past Stancy || rating: T || wc: 2.7k || tags: dialogue heavy, VERY excessive use of italics, fluff and flirting and humor, no beta

~~~

His sides are ripped to shreds, insides only kept inside because of the torn, dirty scrap of sweater Nancy wrapped around him. Steve’s been downplaying it as much as possible, mostly to keep Munson calm, but Robin knows better.

What’s wrong with your back?

Steve sighs, trying to mute his thoughts into a scramble like they’ve practiced so well over the past nine months, but the scorching pain on his shoulder blades, feet, and arms makes it rather difficult.

Don’t you dare ignore me Steve Harrington.

She glares back at him from her spot next to Nancy. They’ve been walking for miles, every rock and crack in the ground digging into his feet with every step. Munson’s next him, going on about something like bats, or metal music. Steve’s not sure, he’s having a hell of a time focusing.

But the guy crowds into Steve’s space, dipping in and out of orbit like he can’t help being as close as possible. Eddie keeps looking at him. Steve’s never been great with eye contact, but can’t help it when Eddie starts saying things like “the kid worships you, dude” and “insists on the matter, in fact.”

Told you the kid loves you even though he has another older adult male friend.

Steve can practically hear her giggling, but she’s just balancing her out-loud conversation with their mind-reading conversation. She’s better at it than he is, talking to two people at once. Hell, sometimes Steve has a hard enough time keeping track of just one conversation.

Their new super powers had been a learning curve, to say the least. It’d taken them months to learn how to tune each other out when needed, which was more often than not. Working Family Video shed a new light on how absolutely down-bad horny Steve was for almost every mildly attractive woman who walked through the front door. Including Joyce Byers, to Robin’s horror.

Steve was cursed with Robin’s almost near-constant thoughts about her newest crush, Vickie. He’s never met her before, doesn’t remember her from school, but could describe what she looks like down to the small, rust colored freckle on the corner of her left eye, just below the lash line. 

But even with the extensive learning curve, they discovered some severe consequences of their powers almost immediately. 

The first day Robin came over, bloodied and crying, with him no better off, Steve was so shaky he’d dropped a mug, slicing his hand as he scooped up the pieces. She rushed over, said she heard his pain more than felt it, like loud static. 

So, no sharing physical sensations, just mind-reading. Which is great for me, considering how slutty you are. She’d laughed when he lightly knocked her on the shoulder, but she’d thought it with such fondness that he couldn’t be mad if he tried.

The worst of their situation came to light when Robin’s parents called her home, said a weekend away after Star Court was more than enough. So she’d left him alone in that big, empty house, suffering from a severe concussion and dizzy spells.

Which only grew worse the longer they were apart.

Steve didn’t have anywhere to go, now jobless with the mall gone, and none of the kids came to visit. So he’d holed himself up in his room. The headaches grew worse, handfuls of pills doing nothing to help.

By the fifth day, he was vomiting again, shaking and crying, head throbbing, nose bleeding into the toilet bowl all over again when there was a knock on the door. The knock might as well have been inside his skull, but he couldn’t move, could barely see past the haze clouding his periphery like it had after his fight with Billy. He cried as the knocking grew louder, more persistent, until it finally stopped.

He slumped forward, pressed his head into the cool porcelain. Lifting his hand to flush, he noticed a small, vibrant white petal floating amidst the red and black water, all of which, presumably, came out of him.

–can’t find it. Must be… rock. The mat?

Robin?

There was a click, then the sound of his front door opening. Slow, heavy footsteps up the stairs.

Dingus where the hell are you? Not in the bedroom… Please, Steve, I need help.

That got his attention, but as he’d gone to move, the bathroom door opened to a bloodstained Robin, eyes rimmed red, hair a mess, pale and gaunt like a ghost. She dropped to the ground next to him, practically draped herself over his back. And just like before, the pain receded so violently he vomited one last time. A full, yet slightly crumpled, flower floated amidst the yuck inside the toilet. 

It was a daisy.

“Daisies are my favorite,” Robin whispered. She held out her hand to him, dirty and covered in the same green stains as the ones on her shirt, and handed him a very small, miniature sunflower. “So I’m guessing–”

My favorite.

Eventually they’d figured out what works and what doesn’t. Talking on the phone everyday never helped, back to throwing up flowers after only a week. He’d started to pull the daisies out to dry, which Robin said was gross. She took them home with her anyways. 

But he’d borrowed Robin a sweatshirt that she took home with her, and by the fourth day, she was in better shape than he was, only a slight headache instead of Steve’s encroaching migraine. So they started exchanging clothes and quickly learned it wasn’t necessarily their clothes or possessions, but their scents. 

You smell kind of like sunflowers

“Robin, sunflowers don’t have a smell.”

She was face first in his pillow, day seventeen after a two-week family vacation to Key West, returning his comforter, and a myriad of t-shirts. They’d both gotten migraines, but no vomit-soaked flowers or bloody noses. So it was an improvement, overall.

I know they don’t. It’s more like, I don’t know, sunshine. Or fresh grass. A warm rain… like summer.

He’d jumped on her then, smothered her into his mattress until she was tickling him to get off her.

“What do I smell like?” she’d asked, casual but not quite casual enough. He smiled.

Like daisies. An open field full of wildflowers. A new song, or driving with the windows down. 

She smiled back at him, wide and genuine, packed full of love. And he knew, in that moment, he was happy to spend the rest of his life with her.

“Harrington,” Eddie cuts through his reminiscing. The guy looks like he’s trying not to be annoyed, which makes sense considering he’s attempting to be nice and Steve’s completely zoned out. 

Do you have another concussion? Is it rabies?

He sighs, quiet enough that hopefully Eddie doesn’t assume it’s aimed at him. No, Robs. Just a normal dingus-where-did-you-go zone out. Relax.

She shoots him another glare over her shoulder, but ultimately lets it go.

“Harrington, you still with us?” Eddie laughs it off like a joke, but his eyes are wide, and he’s pressing in close again.

He’s warm, and without thinking, Steve finds himself leaning towards him, too– like magnets.

What magnets?

Never mind, Robs, shut up.

“Yeah Munson, I’m still here.” Steve chuckles, and Eddie relaxes a tad. “Can’t get rid of me that easy. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Worse than an under-water tentacle monster dragging you through hell on your bare-back and almost choking you to death?”

When Eddie puts it like that, Steve really does have to think about it. “What about throwing fireworks at a giant, mind-controlling flesh monster and getting tortured under Star Court by Russian spies who shot me and Robin up with mystery drugs?”

DINGUS! If we haven’t told the Party about our super powers you can’t tell a goddamn stranger like Munson!

Eddie’s eyes are wide and dark again. He chuckles a little too loud, almost deranged. “Yeah, you know what, Harrington, that might be worse.”

They continue to walk in silence. Well, Steve’s silent. He lets Eddie ramble, talking about Dustin, something called a Munson doctrine. He calls Steve a ‘good dude’ at which Steve hopes the sky is dark enough to hide his embarrassed flush.

Eddie says something about the girls jumping in to save him, but he leans in again when he says it, and all Steve can think about is how close he is, the light brush of Eddie’s knuckles against the back of his hand–

What…?

– and the comfort that settles over Steve when he catches Eddie smiling at him. They stop in unison, Eddie leans in close to whisper like it’s a secret.

“But Wheeler, right there, she didn’t waste a second. Not one second. She just dove right in.”

Eddie’s barely shorter than him, just enough that he looks up at Steve through his dark lashes, big, brown, puppy-dog eyes hooked onto his own. He knows guys can be handsome, but he thinks Eddie might be more pretty than handsome.

I’m sorry? What the fuck is happening back there!

“Now, I don’t know what happened between you two,” Eddie says, low and slow. His voice full of honey that soaks into Steve’s brain, the actual words lost in the overwhelming sweetness of everything that is Eddie. “But if I were you, I would get her back. ‘Cause that was as unambiguous a sign of true love as these cynical eyes have ever seen.”

Steve can’t stop staring at his lips. They’re so pink and fluffy and biteable, so he leans in, like instinct tells him. Eddie looks surprised, but brushes his finger tips against Steve’s own. He whispers, “Steve…?” like it’s more revelation than question. Eddie’s so close that Steve just–

“Are you fucking kidding me, Steven?” Robin shouts, incredulous and much too loud. Eddie flinches away from him, hides behind his hair like a turtle shrinking back into its shell. Steve’s shoulders droop in disappointment.

Disappointment? Wait. Did I almost just kiss–

“Eddie Munson?” Robin finishes his not-out-loud sentence.

“Buckley?” Eddie asks, nervous as the girl marches towards them, her eyes locked on Steve.

“Yes, Dingus!” Robin completely ignores Eddie’s response in favor of barreling up to Steve, finger so close to his face he goes cross-eyed. “Yes, you were, and oh my god I can’t believe you!”

Robs, I’m kind of freaking out right now. Can you please relax?

“You’re freaking out?” she shouts. Nancy shushes her, but it goes unnoticed. “I’m freaking out! After all this time, after Tammy fucking Thompson, this is happening right now? With– with– ” Robin wildly gestures to Munson. “Goddamn, Steve, you reek of sunflowers right now, oh my god! Just like when Joyce came into the store.”

It’s as dark as it always is, but a flash of red lighting illuminates the red painted across Eddie’s cheeks as he bites on his lip, looking nervous yet almost bashful as he pulls another larger strand of hair across his face.

“Sunflowers? What’s happening right now,” he whispers to Nancy, who shrugs. She answers with a casual, “I’m not sure, they do this a lot.”

“That’s not fair!” Steve quietly shouts back at her. “What’s wrong with–” he glances at Eddie, who flushes again. He’s so pale I bet he’s red down to his…

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Robin throws her hands over her ears and pinches her eyes closed.

Steve forces a smile to cover his gay panic. Shit, am I gay?

“No!” Robin slaps both her hands on either side of his head, mushing his cheeks together. “You’re not g–” she mushes her mouth shut, catching her slip-up just before it tumbled out of her. “And that’s not what that kind of panic means, so don’t call it that.”

“Panic?” Eddie asks, stepping towards them. His eyes are trained on Steve, flashing down to his lips, then back up to catch his gaze. Steve sees something like hope buried beneath Eddie’s tough guy demeanor. “But I thought–” he glances at Nancy before quickly looking away.

Robin rolls her eyes at him, and Eddie backs off a bit. Except his look doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Me?” Nancy asks. “What about me?”

Robin, don’t–

But it’s too late, because at that question, everyone turns to look at Steve.

Over the past few months, Steve’s started growing out his hair. It’s not really in style, but he’s seen a few guys with long hair, and they looked really good. Right now, he wishes it was long enough so he could hide behind it like Eddie. But, then again, he’d also tried growing a mustache, since Freddy Mercury had amazing style– Steve’s always like Queen.

Except my mustache never looked as good as his, so I bet long hair wouldn’t either. Maybe the short hair helps highlight it, like his cheekbones.

Jesus Christ, you’re so obvious. I can crack Russian spy code phrases enough to break into an underground military base but apparently I can’t spot a bisexual within five feet of me.

Steve sighs, dragging his hands down his face at Robin’s inside-mind rambling. Nancy, however, takes it to mean something much different. “Oh, Steve, no.” Her voice is pitying and too nice and it reminds him painfully of the last few months of their relationship. Like she’s talking to a child. “Steve, I’m so sorry, but– I still love Jonathan.”

“I know, Nance, that’s not–”

“Are you kidding me, Wheeler?” Eddie screeches. Steve really doesn’t understand how they’re so lucky that they haven’t been hunted down and eaten by now. 

Eddie’s thrown his hands up in the air, all theatrics as he gawks at her. She backs off, surprised, but quickly recovers and squints her eyes at him, crossing her arms as he continues to ramble. 

“After everything that’s happened? Steve ripping off his sweater, jumping out of the boat and beating a bat to death, then biting its head off, all while soaking wet. I mean, the way he spit that blood out.” Nancy cringes, and yeah, Steve feels the same way, can still taste the black sludge in his nightmares. 

Now that’s gay panic.

I thought that’s not what that means, Rob

Ugh, I regret teaching you things.

Eddie’s still on a roll. “He was so… I mean,” Eddie throws his arms out towards Steve, showing him off like he’s a prized cow, “look at him, Wheeler! And you’re picking Byers?”

To Steve’s surprise, the glowering ferocity in Nancy’s face morphs into a coy smile, eyebrows raised in question to an answer she’s already figured out. Because that’s how Nancy Wheeler, journalist extraordinaire, gets her story. She reads people.

Before Eddie well and truly freaks out at the turn in Nancy’s demeanor, she winks at Steve out of the corner of her eye. “Risky Business?” She giggles and rolls her eyes. 

Then, in a mortifying turn of events, Nancy pulls a strand of her curly hair in front of her face, forces her eyes open, doe-eyed and dark brown, looking up at him through her lashes, then darts her gaze to Eddie. 

Ha! You have a type! Wait, how did Nancy clock you faster than–

“Okay!” It bursts from Steve’s chest, loud enough it shocks the rest of them. They stand quiet, listening to the mundane noises around them, and breathe a sigh of relief at the resounding silence. “This has been fun, really, but why don’t we all just keep going so we can get the hell out of here and go find my– I mean our– no, the little shits.”

This is why they call you mom.

“I’m not a goddamn mom, Robin, how many damn times do I have to tell you guys that?”

“If you’re mommy, does that mean I’m daddy?” The words slip through Eddie’s mouth and, unfortunately, bury themselves into Steve’s brain. Now Steve’s not sure who’s blush is hotter, his or Eddie’s. He’d guess maybe Eddie’s, judging by the way the man grabs Nancy’s arm and hauls her away at a half sprint. 

She laughs at him, lighthearted, and slings her arm through his as they walk side by side. Steve watches as she leans her head towards Eddie’s whispering something into his ear that finally has the man’s shoulder’s relaxing. He bumps his shoulder against hers, and she returns the gesture.

Robin turns to look at Steve, really look, with sad, concerned eyes and a twist to her mouth.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. It just caught me off guard I guess.

Steve places a light kiss on her dirty forehead. She smiles, grabs his hand in hers, and squeezes once.

“I love you too, Rob.”

[libraryofgage]

Decided to combine 4 and 12 of the prompt list! Something about these two prompts was giving me major Addams Family vibes, so I rolled with it lol

If there are any other prompts you want to see written, lemme know!

4. “You know I’d do anything to have you stay by my side, right? Anything.”  

12. “I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Wherein the Munsons are branches on the Addams Family tree, and Steve finds himself the object of Eddie Munson's flirtations and devotion.

---

When the Munsons move in next door, Steve sits his brother down in the living room and says, "Don't bother them, Dustin. Wait, like, three days before asking for their life stories."

Dustin looks offended, to say the least. "I wasn't gonna ask for their life stories, Steve. I was gonna ask where they got all the bats and birds that hang out on their roof."

Honestly, Steve would love the answer to that, too, but that seems to be encroaching on the "life story" territory, considering the sheer number of flying creatures the Munsons brought with them. He'd been outside getting the mail when the Munson kids, a boy his own age and a girl Dustin's age, had opened a tiny cat carrier, and a veritable storm of black wings and feathers and screeching had somehow come streaming out of it.

The girl was watching them with a smile, and the boy turned around like he'd felt Steve staring. Their gazes met, and Steve's awkward wave was returned with the boy's eyes raking over him before winking with a grin.

"Look, ju-"

Steve's words are cut off by a banging on the door, the person knocking out a beat that he can't follow. He shoots Dustin a look to stay put before he opens the door to find the Munson boy on the other side. He's got that same playful grin and a plate of pitch-black...something in his hands.

"Uh, hi?"

Somehow, the boy's grin gets wider, and he shoves the plate into Steve's hands. "Heeeellooo, big boy," he says, his voice almost lowering into a purr that makes heat flood Steve's cheeks. "Wayne wanted me to drop off some of his famous arsenic and chocolate chip cookies. You know, since we're neighbors and all."

"Wayne? Arsenic?" Steve mumbles, looking down at the cookies warily.

"Our uncle," the boy says, leaning on the doorway and crossing his arms as he looks Steve up and down again. "Don't worry, it won't kill you. Yet. That's a friend of the family privilege, at least, and you just ain't there yet."

It must be a joke, and Steve lets out a strained laugh. He balances the plate in one hand and holds his other one out. "Right, well, uh, nice to meet you. I'm Steve. You'll probably meet my brother, Dustin, later."

The boy takes his hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it up to his lips. Then he turns Steve's hand over, brushing his lips across the meat of his palm before nipping. Steve jerks, yanking his hand back and holding it close to his chest, his heart beating erratically as the boy says, "I'm Eddie, my sister's name is El, and I'm going to have so much fun with you, Stevie."

And with that, Eddie turns on his heel and saunters back to the Munson home, which had been painted pitch-black (just like the cookies) at some point. Steve doesn't move from the open door, feeling a faint tingling in his palm, until he hears Dustin shout that he's going to let all the cold air out.

The arsenic and chocolate chip cookies had not, in fact, killed either of them. And, despite their burnt-to-coal appearance, they were soft and chewy. It had immediately put the Munsons in Dustin's good graces, which he happily proclaimed while Steve's head and heart were still reeling from Eddie's introduction.

In the following weeks, Eddie kept popping up whenever Steve left the house. He never overstepped, though. He'd appear at a distance, wait for Steve to wave or say hi, and then approach with that big grin with canine teeth that looked a little sharper than they should. Sometimes he'd offer more baked goods from Wayne (always with some schtick to them: eye of newt brownies, hag's breath toffee, cyanide and cherry pie). On one notable occasion, he'd offered a baseball bat with nails stuck through the end.

"El let out a demodog the other day, so you probably ought to be careful. I'd hate for you to get hurt by something that wasn't me," Eddie had said as Steve confusedly took the bat.

He blinked when he had processed the words and looked up. "You would hurt me?" Steve asked.

Eddie had leaned close, his ringed fingers ghosting over Steve's side and inching closer to his waist, and whispered, "It wouldn't just hurt, Stevie." His words had sent a shiver down Steve's spine, his mouth suddenly dry as Eddie pulled away.

And their interactions had escalated from there. With every meeting, Eddie strayed closer, lingered longer, spoke softer, and Steve couldn't escape the growing devotion and fascination in his eyes. At some point, Steve knew, things were bound to boil over.

So, he definitely wasn't surprised when they did at the neighborhood's annual Fourth of July cookout. Eddie had waited until El and Dustin were distracted by their other friends, checked to make sure Wayne was sufficiently busy with helping at the grill, and then kidnapped Steve to a hidden corner of the Byers's yard.

Which brings Steve to the present, the Byers's house casting a long shadow over him and Eddie so nobody notices them. The sound of other kids screeching with delight and parents discussing summer camps fades when Eddie leans in closer.

"You know I'd do anything to have you stay by my side, right? Anything?" Eddie asks, tilting Steve's chin up as he crowds him against the wall.

Steve presses back against the cool brick, silently holding Eddie's gaze. There's a stark seriousness to his words, and Steve can't help his curiosity about just what anything encompasses. "Would you kill for me?" he asks, his voice soft.

Eddie practically lights up, a feral grin pulling at his lips. "Gladly, sweetheart," he purrs.

"Would you die for me?"

"I'd tear out my heart and present it on a fucking silver platter for you. In fact, I can do it right now, if you'd like." A knife appears in his hand from seemingly nowhere, and Eddie brings it to his own chest only for Steve to stop him by grabbing his wrist.

"Then, what about living for me?" Steve asks, carefully taking the knife from Eddie and smoothly returning it to the holder tucked into his jeans.

Eddie leans in until their noses brush, his hand cupping Steve's jaw. "I wouldn't even dream of dying without your permission, Stevie," he whispers.

And Steve would fucking love to meet the person who could withstand Eddie Munson's attention and flirting and gifts and care and sheer devotion without falling head-over-heels for him. Steve would want to put that person in a jar, study them, see if their indifference is something he could mass produce. He's sure Eddie would be thrilled to help him do it, too.

"I have one request," Steve whispers back, reaching up and pushing his hand into Eddie's hair, warmth rushing through him when Eddie leans into the touch.

"Anything. Say the word, and I wouldn't hesitate to crawl through hot coals and broken glass." Steve has zero doubts Eddie would; in fact, he knows Eddie would be ecstatic to do it, if only for the chance to make Steve smile.

"I want one of the bats. And Dustin wants a demodog, but you better make sure it doesn't hurt him, or I'll make you listen to bubblegum pop and watch a Disney marathon."

Steve can feel the shudder that goes through Eddie, his eyes revealing a mix of horror, pride, and love at Steve's words. "You, Stevie, have perfected the art of making threats. Consider your two requests granted and me sufficiently...threatened," Eddie breathes, somehow managing to press even closer.

And Steve can't make either of them wait a second longer. With a grin that can easily rival Eddie's, Steve kisses him and begins to think of names for his bat.

[lemongogo]

they should get to kill each other at least twice .i think

[deimosatellite]

like idk it just seems actually nefarious to take one of the very few widely known instances of queerness in older history being a symbol to show queer people that we've always existed and aren't alone for CENTURIES and taking away the queerness from it. like. i know some people say that ''the queerness isnt important in the book" which i mean in my opinion i could go off for 10k words in an essay as to how basil's love for dorian is integral to the story BUT EVEN APART from that its really just. having a real explicitly queer character in such an old and widely regarded classic novel is HUGE for queer history and this is just. literally like. its 2024. why are you doing queer erasure to DORIAN GRAY

[littleplantfreak]

Silly/Clumsy WB boys HCs

I see hcs like this and theyre always fun/make me laugh o(｀ω´ )o

Sakura’s food went down the wrong pipe at a restaurant and when the waiter asked if it was because it was too spicy, he insisted through coughing and tears that that definitely wasn’t the case (he could tell they didnt believe him though)

Tsugeura sometimes lets one rip by accident when he’s exercising. Not even a little fart either, the kind that stops everyone from what they’re doing.

One time Nirei stubbed his toe so hard, he fell and grabbed onto the nearest object. Unfortunately that was the back of Sakura’s pants, making him accidentally moon a few people in class.

Word recall is hard sometimes. So when Choji calls an ambulance a ‘hospital truck’ really what can you do? At least he’s using words. Sometimes he just mimes the shape or action of the thing and insists that you know what he’s talking about. Will draw a picture if he gets frustrated enough, but if it’s something intangible? Well it’s a guessing word game. (Togame is the best at it, but Inugami is on Choji’s wavelength enough that he’s pretty accurate too)

Hiragi calls the first years by the wrong name sometimes, like a mom with too many kids. He’ll yell and say Sugishita when he means Sakura, but he does apologize before yelling again.

Because he’s around older guys a lot, Togame sometime uses really old words or sayings. You haven’t hear the saying “It’s raining cats and dogs” or he’s “bleeding like a stuck pig” in years until you’re stuck under an awning during a passing storm or he comes back from a rough fight, nose still bleeding profusely. Also keeps bag balm/cetaphil, some other really good lotion for calluses and dry skin and just kinda slaps it on whatever shishitoren member he sees who’s hands are cracking, saying that the skin won’t heal as well when they’re older so they better take care of it now.

Umemiya’s got the worst habit of losing, dropping, or sitting on his glasses. He doesn’t realize it until he hears the snap and he’s got them taped up until he can go get them fixed again.

Kaji’s kind of a messy eater. Especially with ice cream or food with sauce on it. Started to get better with checking his face after eating after Hiragi slapped a wet wipe on his face after he devoured a rack of ribs, leaving him looking like he’d cannibalized someone