#pre-relationship fic
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MK wip
âSoâŚâ Marc begins, carefully adjusting his tone to be more neutral. âWhere have you been?â
Jake snorts, finally closing the fridge and shoving a sandwich into his mouth. âWhatâs it to you?â
âI just⌠you know⌠Was it work?â He tries as Jake stares at him blankly, taking a slow bite of his cold sandwich without batting an eye at Marcâs floundering. âYouâre usually not out so late, soâŚâ
A smile pulls at Jakeâs lips, sardonic in nature, as he wags a finger at him. âHm, you would know, right? Full offense, Spector,â Marc grimaces as Jake speaks through a mouthful of food. âSince when are you so invested in my life? Shouldnât you go back to playing house with Stevie?â
âItâs Stevenâplaying house? Look, Iâm trying to make a truce here.â
âOoh, did Steven put you up to that?â
âLockley.â
âSpector.â Jake mimics, brushing crumbs over the sink. âI appreciate the âsentiment,â but we both know you'd rather shoot me than kiss and hug me.â
âMaybe I have the right to worry when a certain someone sneaks through the window at four in the morning like a fucking burglar!â
âMaybe I prefer to climb through the window instead of waiting for the elevator. Ever thought of that?â
âI ainât stupid, Lockley.â
Jake mutters loudly, âCould have fooled me.â
#moon knight#marc spector#jake lockley#jakemark#stevenmark#stevenjake#pre-relationship fic#Fic title: A Chicagoan and a New Yorker having a quiet disagreement at 4 am to not wake the sleeping Brit#alternatively Marc trying to play nice and failing and Jake the gremlin is eating pass midnight#I want to turn this into a series for the sole indulgent of Jake having a podcast channel for his cab drives#fic wip
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An Evening Lark
Final Fantasy XVI | Dion Lesage/Terence | 1.9k | Gen | Complete
Dion spends his nights of respite away from Oriflamme on occasion, escaping incognito to a tavern located on its outskirts to drink alone. Terence goes with him one of those nights.
All I can say is, thank you for the amazing food, Mr. Clarke. The entire FlareKnight / TeDi fandom loves you.
-
Contrary to popular belief, there were days when Whitewyrm castle was quiet in the evenings: no galas, no balls, no parties to be had. Even the powerful needed their rest, as they said.
Dion spent his nights of respite away from Oriflamme, so to speak, occasionally escaping incognito to a tavern located on its outskirts. As much as he enjoyed his days away from the battlefield at home or in the company of his men, there were times when he wished to be by himself, somewhere no one recognized him. These instances have only grown in number since his father remarried the former duchess of Rosaria and sired his younger brother, Olivier.
This particular tavern served good alcohol for a fair price. The first time Dion was here, heâd taken a way too huge swig of ale than heâd been used to and choked on itâhardly his proudest moment, but no one he knew had been there to see it. Heâd ended up only drinking water for the rest of that night. Even to this day, one of the older servers still remembered it, setting a cup of water beside his usual order of alcohol whenever he went to visit.
Dion did get better at drinking with time. If anything, these occasional larks had probably contributed to his now-stronger tolerance to alcohol. It helped him with his official appearances at events in the castle, as back then he couldnât drink as much as he did now, lest he get caught doing things a prince shouldnât doânot that it could ever happen, as Terence was usually there to cover him at all times.
Tonight was yet another of those nights. Dion feigned tiredness at family supper to escape the Empressâ biting remarks, which had been growing worse as Olivier grew older. He prepared to leave the castle again, clad in a nondescript modest attire and his hair undone. A passing guardsman looked the other way; he probably understood his lordâs intentions despite their eyes never having met. Then after, getting past Terenceâs room was easy.
But Terence, on his way back to his quarters, caught Dion red-handed. âWhere are you going, Your Highness?â
âJust to the balcony, to get some fresh air. It has been a long day.â
âThere is one in your room,â Terence pointed out. âAlso if I may be so bold, milord, you seem to be dressed as if you are headed somewhere and wish for no one to find out.â
Dion should have known his fib wouldnât get through. Terence clearly knew Dion better than he gave him credit for, after having served as his squire for all these years now. âAnd I would have you look the other way, too, for this night and all others I shall do the same. You are dismissed, Terence.â
âThank you, Your Highness.â With that, Terence finally retired to his room, and Dion heaved a small sigh of relief. Certain that no one else would stop him from leaving now, he turned the corner toward the next hallway leading to the side gate. The guardsmen there usually left their post at this time of evening to dine with the chambermaids.
No sooner had these thoughts crossed his mind than a thick, dark cloth was thrown over him from behind, obscuring his vision. Dion whirled back at his assailant, ready to strike, and was only met with a frowning Terence, wearing a similarly-colored cloak over earthen-colored clothes and boots. The first thing that crossed his confused mind was how handsome his squire was.
âYour outfit gives too much of you away,â Terence didnât give Dion a chance to protest. âKeep that on at all times; it will help with the cold.â
Dion could merely stare dumbfoundedly as Terence counted the change in his purse. He was still staring by the time Terence was done. âWhat is it, Your Highness?â
âYou were dismissed, Terence.â
âI was. My liege gave me leave to do as I wished for the rest of the night, so I have merely done so.â
The realization hit Dion like a speeding carriage before it dawned on him. âYou meanâŚâ
âThink nothing of it, milord. I merely feel like drinking, too.â
With a friend, Terence clearly didnât say. That was when Dion knew heâd lost this particular battle. His squire really knew him too well, so to allow his company simply became the best course of action for them both.
-
Dion remained deep in thought as he followed Terence from behind. He found the frankness Terence had displayed earlier oddly refreshing, unlike his usual modest, respectful demeanor while he was on the job. Even his manner of speaking had changed entirely, if their short banter while crossing through Oriflammeâs night market was of any indication. It seemed like Terence was truly making good of acting âas a friend;â if anything, it will help keep up the charade better.
The coat Dion wore now was a little bigger than his usual size; Terenceâs growth spurt had been kinder to him than it had been to Dion, a fact he secretly resented back when they were youths who had yet to come of age. He still thought about it now, he realized, as his gaze lingered upon Terenceâs broad shoulders longer than it should have. Dion hid the blush that crept up his face by pulling the hood of his coat lower.
If Terence had noticed the unusual way Dion oddly shuffled along, he made no mention of it at all. So Dion let himself indulge a little more, studying intently the way Terence walked, his strides longer and more confident than Dion had first remembered. The curve of his shoulder blades, the arch of his back. The way his muscled form filled out his shirt to almost-bursting. Since when has he grown up like this, Dion wondered to himself.
And Dion hadn't know it yet, but this was the moment he fell in love.
They ended up at an alehouse even further than Dionâs usual haunt. Terence had heard that this particular place carried really good ale known far and wide, and if the rumors are true, a particularly-special brew that was only served once in a blue moon would be available only for tonight.
âWell, yer in luck,â the house master smirked at them as they took their seats at the bar, putting before them two cold tankards of fresh ale. âHereâs the last of it. Enjoy, lads.â
âThank you, sir,â Terence spoke on their behalf, leaving a handful of gil on the counter in exchange for their drinks. The look on Terenceâs face as he took his first swig of the drink was undeniably of utter delight, a carefree moan escaping from him as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. âOooh, this is the stuff! Nothing like the swill they serve back at the barracks, thatâs for sure.â The house master merely grinned from behind the counter in reply.
Dion wasnât used to this Terence at all. The one heâs always known was stern and serious to a fault, even during the times Dion himself tried to get him to open up. Mayhap heâd always had his walls up the entire time, given their different stations in life. Their fates and the resulting relationship they would have with each other had already been decided upon their births. âA humble, loyal servantâ, Terence had introduced himself then, and Dion could do naught but nod in acknowledgement.
The memory of it hurt Dion now, more than heâd expected it to. While he highly appreciated Terenceâs undivided loyalty, he also desired his friendship. He found that he loved this Terence before him: one without worry and without care, with his guard down, and simply enjoying this moment. Enjoying simpler times in between the difficult ones, now growing fewer and farther in between as war loomed on the horizon.
Dion looked down into his tankard, the cool ale reflecting his downcast eyes. He firmly shook his head; now was not the time for such sad thoughts, he decided, taking a huge swig out of his own drink. âDamn, this is good,â he let himself exclaim, after the alcohol smoothly went down his gullet. He felt Terenceâs warm eyes on him, no doubt happy for his liegeâfriend. Whatever Dion was to him at the moment, since heâs already been dismissed for the night.
The ale was gone too quickly after that, and they ended up ordering several more tankards of a weaker brew in order to stay longer. This particular brew was free-flowing from the tap for a set fee, and they would enjoy it for all they could for however long they were allowed. The rest of the alehouseâs patrons also remained for the same purpose, it seemed, so ultimately there was still profit to be had.
Right now, said patrons were drunkenly singing songs of the sea and sky, all of which were familiar to Dionâs ears from his times at the encampment. After a while, Terence also softly sang alongâ this one was about âDion the Boldâ, made popular by a traveling bard who hailed from Lostwing. The first time heâd heard it at one of his previous escapades, Dionâs ears had immediately burned and heâd returned home earlier than usual, immediately burying his face into his pillow to suppress a scream of embarrassment.
Dion turned to Terence, undoubtedly even more mortified this time. Luckily, the hood hid the worst of the confusion and panic reflected in his eyes, but Terence merely faced him with a reassuring smile, as the song and the noise and the entire alehouse faded away all around them, and all Dion could register was the way his heart beat faster than it ever had.
âItâs all true, though, my prince,â Terence gently affirmed, clearly not as drunk as Dion initially thought he was. âYou ought to give yourself more credit for all that youâve done for the Empire. For your people.â
Dion gulped audibly at that, choking a sob that threatened to rise from his throat. All the empty praises and grand adulations that brought him no joy for the longest time, instantly swept away by a casual remark from one so close to him. The reassurance he didnât know he needed to hear until now, he realized, as his eyes welled with tears unbidden and his hands trembled around the tankard he held.
Oh, his inebriation finally caught up to him, Dion thought absently. Immediately he felt soft lips briefly trace over the wet track his tears had left over his faceâone side, then the other. âItâs all right, Dion,â Terence said softly, placing a gentle hand over his shoulder. âIâm here.â
Dion looked up into Terenceâs steel-gray eyes, the flickering candlelight from the center of the hall reflected in them. He thought he felt those same soft lips cover his own, but he probably couldnât have, because Terenceâs shadow over him was gone the next moment and heâs back to nursing his own tankard.
Heâs not going to talk about it in the morning, Dion mused ruefully. Probably chalk it all up to bravado brought about by inebriation. A shame, really, but thatâs how it all ought to be between them. He was happy for now, though, having discovered more sides of his beloved squire outside of their official positions during the day.
Dion smiled to himself at the thought as he downed the rest of his ale. Terence was similarly grinning into his, too, face flushed from his own drunkenness, and hopefully other thoughts. Perhaps he felt the same way but doesnât yet have the courage to say so, if Dion may be so bold to hope for such, and he swore to make it a reality someday.
#final fantasy xvi#ff16#flareknight#dion x terence#dion lesage#sir terence#pre-relationship fic#fluff#love epiphany
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âDustin isnât coming.â
âWhat?â Eddie says, all frantic and jovial movements freezing instantly.
His eyes narrow on Lucas--the bearer of bad news. âWhy?âÂ
âFamily emergency.âÂ
Mike makes a face. âI saw his mom yesterday and she was fine, so is this aâŚ?âÂ
He makes a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible to anyone who isnât Sinclair and his terrifying girlfriend.
(At least, Eddie thinks Max is Lucasâs girlfriend this week. It got a little hard to keep up after the third break-up-make-up marathon, and he frankly, stopped bothering to try.
It helped that she barely spoke--The only time notable being when Eddie had mockingly asked Sinclair if he needed a cheerleader when sheâd first sat in, upon which sheâd asked Eddie if he needed new kneecaps with a look in her eye that said she was serious.)
Wheeler Jr.âs gesture however, made her put her book down.
âYou think heâs having migraines again?â She not so much asked as demanded, which had Mike shrugging.Â
âDunno." Lucas says. "Dustin didnât say.âÂ
âGotta be, if he called Dustin.â Mike mutters, Lucas shuffling his papers about as he begins to set up for Hellfire. He was the last in the room, practically late, which Eddie had planned on harassing him for had he not announced Hendersonâs absence.Â
(Fucking freshmen. They just werenât terrified of Eddie like they used to be.)Â
 âRobin must be sick or something, otherwise heâd call her.â Lucas finishes as he finally sits down.Â
âDidnât the Marching Band go on some trip?â Mike turns to address the rest of the table, and gets nods from Jeff and Gareth both.Â
âYeah theyâre marching in some parade in Indianapolis.â Jeff confirms.Â
âSo his last resort was Dustin?â Max is getting that tone in her voice, the one that makes everyone at Hellfire very uncomfortable. âTypical.âÂ
She pushes away from the table, making a show of gathering up her things before rising easily to her feet.
Eddie trades looks with the elder Hellfire members as she makes her exit--the kind that says theyâre all going to be talking about this later.Â
They knew their freshmen had some weird obsession with the former King, of course, but Mayfield too?
What the hell was up with that guy?
At least Eddie thinks, right before things are once again shot to shit, they can go back to playing the game.
He can make it work this early into things, and if Henderson isn'tâ a fan of what heâs about to do to the kidâs character in his absence, well.Â
Maybe he shouldnât be fucking absent then.Â
âSo what, Max, you're gonna go over there and make it worse?â Mike snorts.Â
Fatal mistake.
Eddie almost strangles him for it, if only because it prolongs this entire unnecessary conversation.Â
Max performs a military perfect heel turn, coming straight back for Wheeler Jr., which makes him right about fall out of his seat in panic.Â
âWhat was that, Wheeler?âÂ
âIâm just saying--!âÂ
âWe donât know Steveâs having migraines.â Lucas reiterates, pinching the bridge of his nose. âMaybe itâs something else.âÂ
âDoes Steve get migraines a lot?â Grant asks, because despite all appearances heâs a terrible gossip and gets sucked in far too easily.
Eddie throws a pencil at him for it.Â
âHel-looo, we have a game!?â He thunders, but unfortunately for him, precious Stevie-Weavies headache now has everyoneâs attention.Â
âYeah, though heâs really good at pretending he doesnât.â Lucas answers with a put upon sigh.Â
âThereâs a whole pattern--he ignores it until it gets super bad, then he has to call Robin or Dustin to come get him when he inevitably gets stranded at work or the like, grocery store.âÂ
âWell who else do you think heâd call?â Mike scoffs again. He does a lot of that, when discussing Harrington. âItâs not like his parents are--Ow, Max!âÂ
âClose your mouth before I close it for you.â She hisses and Mike, shockingly, does just that.Â
To Eddie, she says;Â
âYour ass isnât any better, or did you forget I live across from you?âÂ
Eddie--who had an insult primed and ready--promptly shuts his mouth.
(Fucking! Asshole! Freshmen!)Â
âMaybe I should go too.â Lucas says, hedging a look between his girlfriend and his DM.Â
âNo.â She snaps, pointing a finger at him.
 âIf you go, then this idiot,â she flicks her finger to Mike, âwill go and then we really will make it worse. Stay here before your bichon frise has a fit about all his sheep abandoning him.â
Then sheâs turning on her heel again, storming out.Â
âWhat the hellâs a bichon frisĂŠ?â Gareth asks in the aftermath, frowning.Â
âItâs a type of ahhhh--â Jeff clearly thinks better of the explanation, eyes sliding to Eddie.
Whoâs scowling.
âI know what a bichon frisĂŠ is, Jeff.â He snaps.Â
âI donât.â Grant loudly complains.Â
Jeff attempts to both calm Eddie and explain while Mike and Lucas spend far too many minutes looking after Max.Â
âEnough!â Eddie howls, temper finally getting the best of him. âAre we playing or do you also need to go sit by the Kingâs bedside?â Â
âThank you,â Mike says, like he wasnât a third of the entire problem. âLetâs play!â
They make it about ten entire minutes before getting knocked off track again.Â
In fairness, not that Eddie would ever admit it--the second meltdown is his own fault.
xXx
Hellfire is Eddieâs domain.Â
Itâs one of the few places where he could relax without getting harassed or hounded, and having his freshmen--his!--abandon him for King Fucking Steve had set him off.Â
So heâd made a few comments about it.
Maybe introduced an NPC who sounded suspiciously similar to Harrington, only to instantly kill him off.Â
Made another couple of nasty comments.Â
Who cares? It worked him through his snit rather nicely, and his boys all knew to leave him be.
Except, apparently, for Lucas.Â
âDude, would you lay off?â The kid finally snaps, pencil slamming down on the table.Â
Which is the most backbone-like thing anyone has ever heard Sinclair say, and he gets far more whistles for it than he should.
Eddie pins him in place with a glare.Â
âWhat was that Sinclair?â He snarls, voice as menacing as he can make it.
(Itâs pretty terrifying, heâs practiced quite a bit with it.)Â
Sinclair flinches, but doesnât back down.Â
âI said lay off. Steve has migraines because of--â He stops, before seeming to come to a decision. âBecause of me. He took a hit for me, and I owe him a life debt for it.âÂ
To Eddie, he says; âYou get what those are, right?âÂ
Mike rolls his eyes. âIt wasnât just for you--â
âThat time with Billy was!â Lucas is quick to snarl. âBut you know what Mike, youâre right. It wasnât just for me. He T-boned a car for all of us!âÂ
Sinclaire is on his feet now, which is the unfortunate moment that Eddie realizes he has once again lost control of the room.Â
A situation he firmly blames on Steve Harrington, because heâs petty.Â
âOr did you forget that part? Thatâs you, me, Will, Nancy and Jonathan right there! Nevermind the tunnel. Or the junkyard!Â
âWe had the junkyard handled--â
Lucas scoffs.Â
âWe absolutely did not.âÂ
âI donât get why youâre all making such a big deal out of this. Heâs the fighter. Thatâs what he does. Thatâs why we brought him to the tunnel.â
âYou recall what happened at Starcourt, right?â Lucas challenges, furious. âYou did see him after, right?âÂ
This, finally, seems to shut Mike up.Â
âShouldnât you be mad at him for that?â He says after a moment, and the rest of Hellfire has completely put aside all actual gaming to watch this play out with a morbid sort of fascination.Â
Eddie allows it, only because heâs trying to breathe the way Wayne taught him to before he loses it entirely and throws both of the idiot kids out of the drama room.Â
âHe pulled your sister into it.â
âHave you met Erica!? You canât pull her into shit!â Lucas spits furiously. âThat wasnât D&D, Mike. It was the Upsi--real life.âÂ
Lucas is quick to correct himself, even in the heat of the moment--as all the kids are, like the entire school hasnât clocked that they have some weird ass secret theyâre terrible at hiding.
âAnd if weâre playing those games, then who pulled him into the tunnels? Who made him come to the junkyard?â
âDustin.â Mike says snidely.Â
âYou donât get to blame Dustin when Steve was the only person around.âÂ
âThere were people around! They just werenât people who--werenât--who couldnât--â
âFinish that sentence.â Lucas demandsÂ
âBe trusted.â Mike spits out, like it hurts him.Â
âExactly.âÂ
âEl went through way more than Steve ever has! El--â
âEl was using her po--doing mage things! And also, she shouldnât have had to go through all this shit either! We canât rely on her to save the day every single time, Mike--and look at how hurt she gets!â
âShe--â
âShe hides it from you, you know. How bad she hurts. Cause she wants to put your feelings first.âÂ
âI--â
âWill does too.â Is Lucasâs parting shot. His backpack is in his hands in a blink, papers and character figure shoved wildly into it, before heâs storming out the door in a poor mimicry of Mayfield.
âHarrington T-Boned a car?â Grant says, in the resounding silence.Â
âThat BMW of his hasnât had a scratch on it--â Jeff says, with an inquisitive tilt to his head.Â
âHe didnât use the Beamer.â Mike interrupts, angry and sulking. âAre we playing or not?â
âIâm gonna say not, given we are down two players.â Eddie tells him through clenched teeth.Â
âIâm going to be so mad if Steve doesnât have a migraine.â Mike grumbles, as he begins packing up his stuff.Â
The rest of Hellfire follow his lead, after one look at Eddieâs face convince the lot of them that itâs best to flee now, before Eddie unleashes all his pent up rage.Â
âNot as mad as Iâll be, Wheeler.â Eddie promises darkly.
And it is a promise--because now, heâs going to follow all his stupid (sans Mike, who isnât in his good graces either but at least stayed) freshmen--and go visit one fallen King.
If Harrington doesnât have a headache now, he will when Eddieâs done with him.
#steves kids are his kids#first and always#well later it becomes Steve and Eddies kids but#pre S4#pre steddie#IDK if I'll write more but this would lead up to a hurt/comfort fic#because Dustin bless him is great at many things but head injuries and the care of them arent one of them#he is in fact#making it worse lmao#So the plan was for Eddie to show up#rip roaring mad#and just wanting to take it out on someone he didnt care about#only to find himself caring after steve#but also#I wanted to focus on Lucas#and Lucas's relationship#he and Steve are bros#steve harrington#eddie munson#hellfire#0o0 fanfics
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you wanted zoro to be on whole cake island to fulfil your weird desire to see zoro punish sanji. I wanted zoro on whole cake island because I think he's stupid enough to right place wrong time the plan and accidentally marry Sanji in full view of the whole wedding party in what becomes the most elaborately constructed comedy of errors ever written. we are NOT the same.
#need a fic where zoro genuinely does marry sanji on wci without planning it#type of thing to happen to goofy pre ts zoro#zoro in the same mindset in which he created the usopp sword: well i didn't mean to but i guess this solves the immediate problem#and ofc he just rolls with it#they look at each other after the dust settles like. hey wtf was that. and immediately blame each other#pre relationship AND feelings realisation on both sides#dont get me wrong i love fake relationship that becomes real but hear me out#legal accidental relationship thats extremely convenient and also funny until you pavlov yourself into being in love#vinsmoke sanji#black leg sanji#roronoa zoro#zosan#one piece#sanzo#zoro
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âHey, have you seen Harrington? Guyâs totally wasted. Can't even stand. Tried to get up, fell down like a goddamn turtle. Garrison's over there throwing chips at him. Itâs hysterical, you gotta check this out, man.â
The upside to being the guy everyone calls âthe Freakââthe guy no one wants to talk to unless theyâre looking to buyâis that Eddie can disappear whenever he wants. And tonight, heâs been in full stealth mode, almost ghost-like in the way he drifts through the shadows of this overcrowded house party. When heâs not standing on lunch tables at school, giving speeches, or taunting the assholes who think they run the place, Eddie finds that people tend to forget heâs even there.
Which makes it real easy to hear all kinds of things he probably shouldnât. Not that Carver's announcement is any kind of secret, not with the way heâs broadcasting it to the entire room. Ever since Harrington lost his King Steve status, the rest of the jock squad has been scrambling to claw their way to the top. Itâs desperate. Pathetic, really, if you ask him. But no oneâs ever asking Eddie for his opinion.
He should get out of here. Most of his stash is gone, and itâs getting late. Thereâs leftover mac and cheese in the fridge with his name on it, and if he bolts now, he might just catch the midnight rerun of The Thing.
Eddie tries to ignore the mental image of HarringtonâSteve, Steveâsprawled out on that grimy carpet, covered in crumbs and dirt, drenched in stale beer. He must feel defenseless. The kind of defenseless that Eddie knows too well, the kind that gets you laughed at, or worse. But just because Harrington buys a dime bag off him every week doesnât mean theyâre friends. Even if theyâve had a few surprisingly not-awful conversations. Even if Steveâs actually kind of funny for a rich kid, for a jock.
Thereâs no reason for Eddie to care about whatâs happening to Steve Harrington, just like Steve never cared about him.
So why the hell are his feet carrying him toward the living room instead of the back door? Why is he elbowing people out of the way, pushing through the circle of gawkers around Steve? Why are his hands grabbing Steve by the shoulders, hauling him up, and dragging him out before anyone even knows whatâs happening?
And why, for the love of God, is he driving to his trailer with Steve snoring in the passenger seat, instead of dumping the guy at his parents' mansion and going home?
Eddie wishes he knew. But his bodyâs on autopilot, and heâs watching it all happen like he's outside himself, like heâs not the one doing it.
The trailer park is quiet, too quiet for a Saturday night, but thatâs January for youâcold as a witch's tit, and getting colder. The vanâs heater barely works, and Eddie can see both their breaths fogging up the air, little puffs of steam in the dark.
Eddie cuts the engine, and the sudden silence fills the van like a held breath. Steve shifts in the seat, muttering something incoherent, his head lolling against the window. For a split second, Eddie considers just leaving him here. Would serve him right, honestly. Let King Steve wake up alone, freezing his ass off in a busted van in a trailer park at the edge of town. But then Steve lets out a soft groan, and Eddie canât help but roll his eyes.
"You're a real piece of work, Harrington," he mutters under his breath, pushing open the driver's side door.
The cold air hits him like a slap, biting through his jacket and sending a shiver down his spine. He makes his way around to the passenger side, yanking open the door and catching Steve before he can tumble out. The guy's heavier than he looksâdead weight, limp as a rag doll. Eddie grunts, struggling for a grip, and finally manages to sling one of Steve's arms over his shoulder.
"Okay, big boy, up you go," Eddie mutters, half-dragging, half-carrying Steve toward the trailer. Steve's head drops forward, his hair brushing Eddieâs cheek, and he smells like a mix of beer, Steve's usual cologne, and something elseâsomething clean, like laundry detergent or fresh air. It's weirdly comforting, and Eddie has to shake himself out of it.
Inside, the trailer is dim, lit only by the glow of the old TV Eddie left on. He kicks the door shut behind them, maneuvering Steve over to the sagging couch. Steve flops down with a heavy thud, eyes still closed, mouth slightly open. For a second, Eddie just stands there, looking at him, wondering what the hell heâs doing.
Why didnât he just leave him there at the party? Why did he care?
Maybe it's because Steve looks different like this. Not the smug, popular guy who used to strut down the halls like he owned the place. Not the guy who had everything and then lost it all. Just... some kid, really. Some scared, drunk kid who probably doesnât know where he fits anymore.
âAlright, Sleeping Beauty,â Eddie mutters, leaning down to untie Steveâs sneakers. âLetâs get you comfortable before you choke on your own puke.â
As he pulls off one shoe, then the other, Steve stirs, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, his gaze is unfocused, hazy, but then his eyes lock onto Eddieâs, and thereâs a flicker of recognition.
âMunson?â Steveâs voice is low, rough from whatever heâs been drinking. âWhat the hellâŚ?â
âYeah, itâs me, genius,â Eddie says, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. âYou got yourself in a bit of a mess tonight, Harrington.â
Steve blinks, slowly piecing things together. âWhyâd you bring me here?â
Eddie shrugs, feigning nonchalance. âSeemed like the right thing to do, I guess.â
Steve snorts, like he doesnât quite believe him. âRight. The Freak playing Good Samaritan. Whatâs the punchline?â
Eddieâs smile fades. It inexplicably hurts to hear Steve call him that. âThereâs no punchline, man. Not everythingâs a joke.â
Steve stares at him, as if searching for something in Eddieâs face, something to latch onto. Finally, he just nods, leaning back against the couch, eyes half-closed again. âThanks,â he mumbles, almost too quiet to hear. âI guess.â
Eddie feels something strange twist in his chest. âDonât mention it,â he says, a little too quickly, like heâs trying to convince himself as much as Steve. He turns away, grabbing an old blanket from a nearby chair and tossing it over Steve. âYou sleep it off. Iâll be in my room.â
But even as he walks away, he can't shake the feeling that somethingâs shifted tonight, some invisible line crossed. Maybe itâs nothing. Maybe in the morning, Steve will wake up, make a snarky comment, and itâll all go back to the way it was.
Or maybe, just maybe, it wonât.
#steddie#pre relationship#pre steddie#steddie fic#stranger things#steve harrington#eddie munson#my writing
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âWhatâs the deal with you and Harrington?â
Robin Buckley glanced up toward the question asker, her brows slightly furrowed as she cast an inquisitive look toward Eddie Munson. Heâs leant up on one of his elbows, chin cradled in the palm of his hand. His eyes are on her, large and curious, instead of the usual half-lidded expression he wears during the âadultâ hangouts.
Theyâd all started hanging out ever since Vecna was destroyed, taking time away from the younger members of The Party to spend time all together. Herself, Eddie, Steve, Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle. Sometimes, every once in a while, it led them all to feel normal. As if they hadnât all been dealing with more Upside Down crap just a few months prior.
âWhat do you mean?â Robin instead asked, her eyes moving from Eddieâs to dart out toward the Harringtonâs pool. Steve is sitting on the edge of it with Jonathan, the two boys heads bent together as Argyle watched on- a dopey almost lovesick expression curled on his mouth. A spliff dangled from Jonathanâs fingertips, rolled by Eddie but the weed supplied by Jonathan.
âYouâre⌠not together.â Eddieâs voice is soft, and barely spoken above a murmur. Robin nodded slowly, and turned her head towards him to try and indicate him to continue. âNancy and the kids all repeat platonic with a capital P, but I just⌠how did you and Harrington even happen?â
âScoops Aâhoy,â Robin grinned wide, barely able to stifle the laugh thatâs on the backend of her words. She was able to catch the widened look that Eddie threw her way, before his eyes darted out to look towards Steve, before his eyes moved back to her own. âHe and I worked there back when the mall was open.â
âAnd⌠what? You instantly became best friends?â
âNo, actually.â Robin shook her head with another soft laugh, before she paused so she could rub her palms together. She allowed herself to twist one of her rings around her finger, brows pinched for a moment. âI actually thought he was like the worst, yâknow?â Robin scoffed to herself, before she sent Eddie a look. She knew what she must look like, her eyes wet with tears and her gaze all permanently soft.
âYou know how he was in school, King Steve and all that.â Robin continued on, and she flicked her tongue out of her mouth to wet the corner of her lips for a second. âAnd when my manager told me that Iâd be working with a Steve, well⌠there was only one Steve in Hawkins I could think of.â
âSo how did your opinion of him change then, Buckley?â Eddie cocked his head again, one of his hands coming up to twirl a strand of hair around his pointer finger. His brows were furrowed taut, creating a worry line in between them. âThe kids told me about the Russians-â
âIt was sort of before then,â Robin admitted with a small shrug, and she twisted the corner of her lip into a shy smile. âHe raved to me, yâknow? About uh, these kids. These five kids heâd babysit and shit, and it was so⌠soft?â Robin watched as Eddie mouthed out names to himself as he ticked his fingers, before he cast a look to her. âBut he always talked about this one, Ellie, who heâd call his little sister.â
Eddie drew in a sharp breath, eyes wide as Robin let out a soft hum.
âYeah, and I donât know if you submitted yourself to Harrington family lore-â Robin gestured behind her toward the Harrington house with a flick of her hand, before she continued. âBut I knew that Dick and Helen Harrington didnât have more than one kid.â
âSupergirl?â Eddie asked softly, and Robin let out a soft confirming hum as she watched Eddieâs eyes dart toward Steve. Steve was still talking to Jonathan, though Argyle had shifted forward so he was able to join in the conversation.
âAnd then imagine my surprise when one day our stupid sailor ice cream shop is visited by none other than the Chief.â Robin shook her head with a small laugh, before she continued on. âAnd he was so excited to see Steve, Eddie. Like genuinely excited to see him, ordered a couple tubs of ice cream togo and then said heâd see him at home.â
âFuck.â Eddie breathed out, and Robin let out another sigh of a laugh.
âAnd I asked Steve why the Chief of the Hawkins police force was visiting him at work, and Steve justâŚâ Robin shrugged slowly, shaking her head to clear her thoughts before she continued. âHe just gave me this look, like⌠like he didnât actually know either.â
âThen later, he told me why he watched all of the kids. He told me that he wouldâve given anything for someone to just⌠to just care about him when he was their age. That all he wanted was for just a person to give a shit about his wellbeing.â Robin shook her head again, before she carded a hand through her still chlorine sticky hair. âAnd after that my opinion just⌠it just changed about him.â
âThen the Russians?â Eddie asked softly, and Robin hummed as she dipped her chin in a curt nod.
âThen the Russians, and he didnât⌠he didnât even hesitate to take the attention onto himself when they started questioning us.â Robin shook her head again, sniffling. âAnd after I asked him why he would do that, and he told me it was because he knew I had a family waiting on me to come back home.â
âFuck.â
âYeah, and then afterwards when we were getting seen by the EMTs? He didnât have anyone to call Eddie. Because Hopper? Hopper was just⌠just presumed dead.â Robin let out a soft bitter laugh, and she twisted a strand of her hair around her finger. âMy parents decided to take us both home after, and he stayed with us for a couple of days- until his concussion was okay enough for him to sleep through the night.â
âAnd thatâs when you became best friends?â
âThatâs when I decided that, Steve? He deserved way more from people than he seemed to ever fucking get.â Robin shrugged, before she cast a soft smile toward Eddie. Eddieâs eyes were glassy, wet with tears and Robin just patted her hand soft against his forearm. âThatâs when I decided that he was my best friend.â
âPlatonic with a capital P?â
Robin cast a look toward Steve, where the older teen already had his eyes on her. He had a hand extended, fingers wiggling toward her in a small way to beckon her toward his side. Robin stood without responding to Eddie, and she left her towel on the lounge chair sheâd commandeered as her own. She took a moment though, cast a softer look toward Eddie- even as the corner of her lip twitched into a nervous smile.
âHeâs not exactly my type, yâknow?â Robin kept her admission soft, even when Eddieâs eyes were quick to flood with confusion. She instead cast a look toward the sunbathing Nancy Wheeler, who had one of her arms strewn over her face across the backyard where she laid in the grass.
When Robin let her eyes move to meet Eddieâs again, he has a look of pure understanding on his face.
âI think I get what you mean.â Eddie murmured and Robin simply flashed Eddie Munson a shy smile.
Eddie Munson watched as Robin Buckley walked away from him, quick to tuck herself into Steveâs side once she reached him. Steve threw his arm around Robinâs shoulders, tucking her further into his grasp- though the flow of conversation that he was having with Argyle and Jonathan didnât even pause.
Itâs in that moment when Eddie Munson realizes something extraordinarily fucking crucial.
Heâs in love with Steve fucking Harrington.
---
this is gonna become a multipart fic i think btw! it will probably be on here / ao3, havenât fully decided yet but hope you enjoyed nonetheless!
now with a part two! click here
#angeldreamsoffanfic#steddie#steddie ficlet#steddie fanfic#platonic stobin#background jargyle#background ronance#but itâs pre every relationship#steve harrington and robin buckley are bffs#robin would die for steve#steve harrington has bad parents#but jim hopper adopts him because i said so#steve and eleven have a sibling bond#heâs the only one allowed to call her ellie by the way#this is gonna become an ao3 fic i think
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I'll lay my head down here
Sterek fanfiction Stiles needs a place to sleep. He chooses Derek.
Also available on A03.
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âIâm not sleeping on the floor again, you assholes!â Stiles throws a balled up burger wrapper at the infuriating werewolves who took over his intended sleeping space.Â
Isaac bats the greasy paper ball away with a quick flick of his hand, hardly having to look at it. âYou snooze, you lose, Stilinski,â he says meanly, as he snuggles deeper inside the couch pillows to drive his point home. âBesides, I gave up my bed, I shouldnât be the one to sleep on the floor.â
Stiles perks up when an idea crosses his mind. Upstairs, in Isaacâs room, are Lydia and Cora. Maybe he could -
âDonât even think about it, Stilinski!â Jackson cuts his unspoken thought off with one sharp remark. He glares at him from his spot on the couch heâs sharing with Isaac: one asshole werewolf on each side. The guy is extra touchy because Lydia picked Cora as a sleeping partner over him - which is more than fair, if you ask Stiles, both Lydia picking Cora over Jackson and Jackson being sour over getting the cold shoulder from his girlfriend.
âIâm sorry, Stiles, I donât think youâll fit,â Allison offers apologetically from his right. Sheâs squeezed in the large armchair with Scott, whoâs already fast asleep and snoring softly.Â
He waves her offer away. If heâd try to squish himself in the chair with them, neither one of them would sleep a wink all night. Same goes for the couple in the other available chair, although Stiles is more sure to survive the night with Scott and Allison than with Boyd and Erica. That only leaves -Â
âYou could try Derek?â Allison blinks innocently at him.Â
Stiles huffs a laugh, letting the sarcasm bleed through in generous helpings. âYeah, right.â He leaves it at that, too tired to hope to put up the proper facade of pretending to dislike the Alpha werewolf. Hey, we all deal with our crushes in our own way! Stiles has to do what he can when literally living with a pack of wolves, who can smell pheromones and who knows what else.
Eventually, he settles for stretching out on the rug that Lydia made Derek buy a while back. Itâs not overly cushiony, but itâll do the job. Itâll have to. Besides, he hasnât had a proper night of sleep in four or maybe even five days, staying up researching and worrying most of the night. The Big Bad is dead, the worrying is over and his research paid off: he should be able to sleep now, right?!
At first, Stiles uses his hoodie for a pillow, yet after about twenty minutes he gives up and pulls it back on because he wonât be able to sleep if heâs cold. Derek patched up most of the holes in his loft and itâs actually resembling a nice apartment these days, but itâs still the middle of the night in February and Stiles is lying on the floor without a blanket or a pillow. He misses his own bed. His comforter. His pillow. His other pillow, the one thatâs older than him and oddly lumpy, but it was the one that was in his motherâs bed until the day she died. It hasnât smelled like her in a long, long time. Stiles has also washed it a couple of times during the years, heâs not that much of a pig, despite popular opinion. But itâs familiar and comforting and he still takes it with him for sleepovers with Scott.Â
He considers whether or not he wouldâve brought his pillow if this impromptu sleepover had been planned in any way. Heâs known Scott since kindergarten, heâs his best friend. He wouldnât say or even think anything bad about Stiles still needing a special pillow to sleep even when heâs almost twenty one years old. And while he knows most of the people in this room for five years or even longer and trusts them with his life, that doesnât mean that theyâre not a bunch of dickheads who will tease him every chance they get.
Itâs a pointless thought exercise, because nothing about this sleepover was planned. They were supposed to kill that wyvern during the day, when it slept in his creepy little cave. That's what all Stilesâ research was for! He even found a way to kill the beast without having to hack it to pieces, which was nice because in the end he was against animal cruelty, you know? But then there were witches, two of them. They werenât planned, neither was the ensuing fight in the woods. The unexpectedness of it all had left everybody antsy, especially the werewolves. And even though they recouped with a movie night and a nice pack pile, nobody wanted to be very far away from the others. Hence the impromptu sleepover that had Stiles sleeping on a rug, between the coffee table and the couch. Which wasnât fair, because he totally knocked a witch out with his bat! He did his fair share and pulled his weight and what not. The least he deserves is a nice night of sleep.
Another hour later, Stiles is sore all over and chilled to the bone. Thereâs no way he can sleep like this. âDesperate times call for desperate measures,â he whispers to the leg of the coffee table that he knows has Isaacâs claw marks on it.Â
As quietly as he can he makes his way upstairs on the rounding stairs. On the landing thereâs three doors to choose from: the one on his left leads to Isaacâs bedroom, where Lydia and Cora are sleeping. The one in the middle is the bathroom - with a bath, for heavenâs sake, Derek has a tub! - and that leaves the master bedroom on his right. The Alphaâs den. Stiles has never been inside it. He even doubts if Isaac has set foot in the room very often, besides for cleaning purposes.
Stiles never really intended to go into Derekâs room, because despite what the others seem to think, he actually values his life. And his dignity. He thought it better to take a chance with the girls, take on the risk of Jackson wanting to kill him the next morning when he discovered Stiles had slept in the same bed as his girlfriend.
ButâŚ
The door to Derekâs bedroom is cracked.
Stiles can see inside.Â
He canât see that much, with it being the middle of the night and the only light coming from a gap between the curtains in front of Derekâs window. But the moonlight is just right, illuminating the sleeping form of the Alpha in the bed. A bed that is more than large enough for two people and Derek is neatly sleeping on one side of the bed. If Stiles is quiet enough he might even be able to slip into the bed without waking Derek. The werewolf got hurt pretty badly today and healing always takes a lot out of him. Thereâs a pretty good chance the guy is sleeping like a log.
Stiles takes a deep breath. Heâs gonna risk it.
***
He didnât think heâd actually do it, but after a few minutes of indecisiveness on the landing, Stiles quietly tiptoes into Derekâs bedroom. He rounds the bed to the unoccupied side of the mattress and gingerly lifts the tip of the blanket.
âYouâre not getting in with your jeans on,â Derek says, without opening his eyes.
Stiles yelps and heâs already stammering halfway through an apology when he suddenly shuts his mouth. His back teeth actually click together. Thereâs a few seconds of silence and then: âYouâd let me into your bed?â
âNot with your jeans on,â Derek repeats. Usually he wouldnât do this, but heâs been listening to Stiles toss and turn downstairs for a while now and with all of his pack members sleeping peacefully, heâd like the last one to get some rest too. Besides, Stiles would continue to keep him up with his restless behaviour otherwise; Derek just canât seem to tune him out. Itâs been that way for years already, maybe even from the beginning.
âO-kay.â He can feel Stiles staring at him in the dark and he patiently waits for the decision he knows the boy is gonna make. No, not a boy. Stiles will be 21 this Spring. Derek has seen him grow up, literally and figuratively, along with the rest of his ragtag pack of teenagers. Stiles still wears jeans and plaid most of the time, but the garments donât hang as loose on him as they did when he was 16. Heâs grown into a handsome young man, with a good head on his broad shoulders. Derek counts himself lucky to have Stiles as part of his pack, to have him close. Not as close as he sometimes might wish, yet Derek is always conscious of not playing favourites. So he usually keeps Stiles at an arm length and takes care to treat him just like everyone else. It helps that the two of them elevated snark and banter to an effective communication style. Despite all the sarcasm and barbs, Derek is pretty sure there is no-one in his pack who sees through him like Stiles does. It was scary at first and it made him lash out, but Stiles stood firm. Derek is immensely grateful that he did.
Thereâs the rustling of clothing hitting the floor, jeans and a shirt, then the blanket lifts and Stiles scoots underneath. Derek feels him settle in behind his back, a foot or so away. âThanks,â Stiles whispers in the dark.
âGo to sleep,â Derek grunts, eager to go to sleep and not think about the young man who is sharing his bed.
***
Derekâs bed is pretty comfortable, Stiles thinks to himself as he digs himself in. Oh, who is he kidding?! Derekâs bed is amazing. The mattress is just the right combination of firm and soft, the pillow hugs his head and shoulders just right and the comforter is warm but still light to the touch. Itâs a million times better than his bed at home, even when heâs not counting the fact that heâs sharing the bed with a hot werewolf.
Yet Stiles canât sleep.Â
Yes, the pillow is heavenly. Yes, the mattress allows his tired body to finally relax. Yes, the comforter hugs him nicely. But thereâs something missing and Stiles knows exactly what it is. His pillow.
He needs to hold something. He needs to be able to curl around something. Or someone, his traitorous brain suggests as he feels Derek move across from him.
âWhy arenât you asleep, Stiles?â Derek asks in that long-suffering tone he uses when Stiles is doing something to annoy him. Which is pretty often, although Stiles knows the annoyance is mostly for show these days. He has turned onto his back, his eyes glinting in the moonlight where they are looking over at Stiles.
âCanât,â Stiles laments, trying to catch the comforter between his arms in lieu of his dearly missed pillow. It doesnât really work, because the comforter also has to cover Derekâs bulk and thereâs little left to use. Little to none, especially when Derek snatches the comforter back from where it was probably leaving a cold gap on Derekâs other side. The sudden move has Stiles sort of falling over from where he was laying on his side. Heâs more on his front now, filling up the space that was between them at first. He can feel the warmth of Derekâs body from just a few inches away. Itâs actually kind of comforting.
âTry harder,â Derek commands and he closes his eyes again.
Stiles thinks of answering âYes, Alphaâ, but thinks better of it. It might make Derek move again, to push Stiles out of bed instead of pulling him in to have a cuddle. So he stays quiet and closes his eyes, focussing his mind on the almost tangible presence of Derekâs bare shoulder mere inches away. Derek is warm and smells nice and if Stiles was a werewolf, heâs sure heâd feel even better about having his Alpha so close. Yet even though heâs not a werewolf, he still enjoys it. A lot.
He falls asleep.
He knows that, because he wakes up at some point, at an unknown hour of the night. Heâs warm, so warm. And comfortable, even though his pillow is a lot firmer than he remembers it being. It also moves a little, because his pillow is Derek and the Alpha werewolf gently moves his arm in what Stiles suspects is a more comfortable position. He would panic about sleeping half on top of Derek if he were not so damn comfortable. Itâs hard to keep his eyes open. Surely if Derek wouldnât want him sleeping on him, heâd push Stiles off. Instead, Stiles feels Derekâs arm wrap around his back, accompanied by a soft sigh from the Alpha.
Stiles sleeps.
***
Derek is not the first to wake up, although he is certainly not the last. He becomes aware of the world with Stiles wrapped around his torso, his head pillowed on Derekâs chest. Heâs only a little surprised by how good it feels to wake up like this and it takes a while before he brings himself to carefully move out of Stilesâ embrace. The boy mumbles a little, but doesnât wake up. Derek watches him for a moment, standing beside his bed. Heâs not sure how to feel about this, except for some embarrassment about wanting to crawl back into bed and slot himself back into Stilesâ arms.
Downstairs, most of the pack is still asleep. Isaac has his arms wrapped around Jacksonâs lower legs, as if heâs cuddling a particularly bony teddy bear. Jackson is still asleep, even snoring softly. Scott snores too, curled around his girlfriend in the large armchair. In the other armchair, Boyd is watching him carefully, his arms wrapped around his sleeping girlfriend.Â
âMorning,â the dark man rumbles quietly, not to wake Erica.
âMorning,â Derek answers, keeping his voice down as well. âCoffee?â
Boyd inclines his head in thanks and Derek ambles on to the kitchen, where he finds Lydia, immersed in a science journal. She has a cappuccino sitting in front of her, the cup half empty. âGood morning, Derek,â she says, briefly glancing up from her reading material.
âMorning,â he repeats, busying himself with the coffee maker. He brings a cup to Boyd when heâs done and returns to join Lydia at the table. He sits back in his chair, his coffee in front of him, to catch the rays of pale sunlight that slant through the high windows. Itâs quiet in the loft, with most of the people still sleeping and the ones that are awake quietly starting up their day.
He sips from his coffee, listening to the sounds of Cora waking up and going into the bathroom. She comes downstairs not long after, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt - same as her brother, her bare feet hardly making a sound. He points to the mostly full pot of coffee on the counter when she enters the kitchen and he gets a hair ruffle as thanks from his little sister. She pours herself a cup and leans against the counter, enjoying the sunlight on her face just like he is.Â
Itâs Stiles who comes down next, although Derek can hear from the way he drags his feet that heâs barely awake. Why heâs not sleeping in like he should be, is anyoneâs guess. He expects Stiles to stop in the living room, to wake up Scott or maybe even Jackson if heâs feeling particularly cheeky, but he doesnât. The footsteps pretty much make a beeline from the stairs towards the kitchen. Derek opens one eye from where he closed them against the sunrays to see Stiles shuffling towards him in his boxers and T-shirt, rubbing a hand over his face and yawning soundlessly. His hair is standing up on one side. Heâs wearing socks, navy blue ones with a red line near the toes.
The werewolf opens his mouth to point his packmate towards the coffee maker, but before he can say anything, Stiles has reached his chair and slings a hairy leg over his lap. He plonks down unceremoniously and lays his head on Derekâs shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around his waist.Â
âYou were gone,â Stiles mumbles disapprovingly, his mouth moving against Derekâs collarbone. And just like that his heartbeat evens out and heâs fast asleep again.
Derek sits frozen in his chair, his heart beating loudly inside his ribcage. If Stiles were awake he could probably feel it pound against his own chest. His hands hover uselessly on either side, not knowing whether to wrap around Stiles or pick him up and toss him to the floor.Â
Stiles is oblivious, his sleeping body moulding easily against Derekâs. Heâs warm and pliant, just like he was when they were sleeping together in Derekâs bed.Â
When he chances a look at Lydia across the table, sheâs already watching him steadily with a sly smile playing around the corners of her lips. âGlad to see you two finally got your heads out of your asses,â she comments eventually, before primly taking a sip from her cappuccino and going back to her reading.
Behind him, Cora snorts quietly in amusement. She comes up at his back and puts a hand in his hair again, running her fingers through the short strands. Itâs grounding and Derek only notices how much he needs that when she lightly scratches her nails across his scalp.Â
âHeâs cute like this,â his sister remarks and even though he can hear the humour in her voice, he can also hear the truth in her heartbeat. âBest not wake him up, big bro.â She runs her hand through his hair one last time and then she wanders off, leaving him to carefully wrap one arm around Stilesâ lower back.
Slowly, Derek feels himself relax. The loft is quiet and peaceful and Derek is in his own little bubble, with the sunlight on his face and Stiles in his lap. Almost automatically, he starts to rub his hand slowly up and down Stilesâ back. Aside from some sleepy snuffling, thereâs no real response. Derek picks his coffee back up and slowly drinks it, tilting his face towards the sun. Itâs a nice morning.
#sterek#stiles stilinski#derek hale#teen wolf#teen wolf fic#sterek fanfiction#sterek fanfic#written by ilse#derek hale x stiles stilinski#stiles x derek#pre relationship#ilse writes fanfiction
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miss me, but let me go
âI have - Iâve carried this grief, for you, for so long, and I know I canât let it all go, because a part of me is always going to grieve for you,â Eddie paused. âBut I canât feel like this forever, Shannon. I donât think youâd want me to, either. So - I need to let some of it go. Okay? I need to - I need to be myself now. For me, and for Christopher. I want to be me."
On November 1, Eddie builds an altar for Shannon and finds a way to let her go.
ao3 link
November 1. The date is not one Eddie is likely to ever forget. Even before Shannon died, Dia de los Muertos wasnât a holiday he ever missed - as a child, he would help his abuelo make their altar every year, a picture of his abuelo front-and-centre, Edmundo Diaz Senior, the man heâd been named for, looking sharp in his suit as he looked out from the glass picture frame where heâd lived all of Eddieâs life. Heâd never met his grandfather - only carried his name.Â
Over the years, more faces found a home on the altar - friends, and family, time a fickle thing and the only certainty about life that it ended. Death was familiar, a constant in a world Eddie felt like he could never quite figure out.
After Shannon died -
The first November 1 after she died, Eddie built his own altar for the first time, explaining the tradition to Christopher. They had done it every year since, Christopherâs face in a set line as he made sure everything was absolutely perfect. No less than his mother deserved, Eddie knew.Â
Shannon hadnât grown up with the traditions of All Saints and All Souls, but sheâd embraced them wholly when she and Eddie had gotten married, making the altar herself when Eddie wasnât there. It felt right to honour her with the traditions she had loved herself. That was why Eddie had taken to adding a picture of Shannonâs mother to the altar too, when she died the year after Shannon did. Breast cancer, theyâd said, but Eddie knew heartbreak had been the thing that had pushed her over the edge.
Every year, Eddie celebrated Shannon, and her mother, his grandfather, the people heâd served with who had died -Â
Except this year.
Eddie felt bad. Really, he did - he was going to build the altar himself, but when his dad had texted a picture of the Diaz family altar, Shannon front and centre, Eddie couldnât quite bring himself to make his own. Shannon was being remembered - that was what mattered. Heâd gone to her grave instead, only half listening as the priest had said mass over the graveyard, praying for the salvation of the souls who were buried there.
Grief was a funny old beast, Eddie knew. Grief had made him do crazy things - grief had driven his son to Texas, for crying out loud. The grief didnât hit standing by her grave, but it did when dusk descended over Eddieâs house, and the absence of an altar began to feel like one of the worst things heâd done amongst a year of terrible decision-making.
Maybe he should have taken Buck up on his offer of coming over to make an altar with him, but Eddie had asked enough of his best friend in the last four months. Eddie knew Tommy had bought them tickets for some movie Buck was dying to see, and as much as Eddie was a near-professional third wheel now, he didnât think heâd make a good addition to the back row of their local movie theatre.
Eddie winced as he looked at the candle heâd swiped from the dining table. âItâs cedarwood,â he said, apologetic as he lit it, setting the candle down in front of the framed picture of Shannon that lived on their fireplace. âI know you hated cedarwood, but Iâm working with what Iâve got here, Shan.â
Eddie pressed his cheek against his folded arms, taking one, two, three shaky breaths. âI really struggled after you left, Shannon. I donât think I really even realised how much until now - and itâs not just because you were gone, but you were gone and you wanted a divorce, and I - suddenly, I was never going to get answers.â
Heâd been talking about Shannon a lot in therapy, lately, unpacking all his complicated feelings during his excruciating weekly hour with Frank.Â
âI donât know if I even wanted to stay married to you,â Eddie admitted, the candle flickering in the growing dark of his living room. That was terrifying to admit out loud - that even if she had stayed alive, he and Shannon wouldnât have made it work. There were a thousand reasons why, and Eddie could sit, and list them all, but one was more important than the others.Â
âI think Iâm gay, Shannon,â Eddie had never said it out loud before, despite the thought never quite leaving his mind, Pandoraâs box open, now. âIf you were here, I bet youâd have such a laugh with that - not like, in a bad way. Just - I think youâd find it funny, that your momâs gaydar was right after all.âÂ
He couldnât help but laugh at the thought himself. Shannonâs mom had been the bitchiest woman heâd ever met, and Eddie loved her for it.Â
âIâve made such a mess of things,â Eddie paused. âBut with you, most of all. Iâm sorry - for my part in it all. I thought I was doing the right thing, joining the army. I just wanted to take care of you and Chris, and I didnât see any other way out. I know it was the wrong choice - but I really thought it was the right one. You know?â
Shannonâs picture stayed silent.Â
âI have - Iâve carried this grief, for you, for so long, and I know I canât let it all go, because a part of me is always going to grieve for you,â Eddie paused. For the life she might have had, if not for the car crash - Eddie sometimes liked to indulge himself and think of an alternative life where Shannon had survived, where they got divorced, and learned how to co-parent, and maybe they found their way back to being friends. It was a nice thought.
Eddie wiped roughly at his eyes. âBut I canât feel like this forever, Shannon. I donât think youâd want me to, either. So - I need to let some of it go. Okay? I need to - I need to be myself now. For me, and for Christopher. I want to be me.âÂ
With a shaky hand, Eddie pressed a kiss to the framed picture, setting Shannon back down with the candle. It was a half-assed altar, and somehow, that made Eddie feel worse. He scrambled to his feet, heading for his bedroom, and the box of Shannonâs belongings he knew was stashed at the back of his wardrobe. He hadnât kept much for himself - most of it was for Christopher - but he had a few things. There was a necklace in there, he knew that Eddie had bought her for their first wedding anniversary. It was a cheap thing, because they were always broke, but it was something of hers - it would make it a more acceptable offering.
Eddie couldnât help the breath that hitched in his throat as he spotted what was in his bedroom. A butterfly, resting on his pillowcase, on the side he always slept on. âHey, little guy,â he whispered softly, not wanting to startle the tiny creature. His abuela loved butterflies - they were spirits of the people you loved, who had left, coming back to visit. Eddie felt slightly ridiculous, but he said it anyway. âShannon?â
The butterfly didnât move.Â
âIâm so glad Christopher isnât here, because he would really think Iâve lost it,â Eddie crouched by the side of his bed, holding out a finger. âHey. Is this your way of telling me itâs okay to let you go? Did you hear all of that?âÂ
The butterfly moved, tiny wings fluttering as it came to land on Eddieâs outstretched finger.Â
âI hope thatâs a yes,â Eddie knew tears were streaming down his cheeks, now, but he didnât want to freak the butterfly out by wiping them away. âHow did you get in here, eh? None of the windows are open.â
If Eddie Diaz believed in a higher power, still, heâd blame God - or the universe.Â
âLetâs get you outside,â Eddie said, and the butterfly flapped, a little, coming to land on the windowsill instead. âYeah? Youâre ready to go?â
The butterfly flapped in response again.
âI think Iâm ready to let you go, this time,â Eddie admitted, carefully unlatching the window. âWeâre going to be okay, me and Christopher. I promise. You can go. You donât need to worry about us.âÂ
The butterfly seemed to pause, for a second, before it flew out the open window, disappearing into the beginnings of the evening. Eddie wasnât sure how long he stood there, tears pouring down his cheeks, rolling off the curve of his chin and onto his shirt, but the next thing he knew, he could hear -Â
âBuck?â
âEddie! Youâre a firefighter - how long have you left that candle unattended, huh? Eddie - Eddie, where are you, man?â
Buck appeared in the doorway of Eddieâs bedroom, a family-sized bag of sour patch kids tucked under one arm. âDo I need to teach you the basics of fire safety all over again?â he huffed, pausing as he noticed Eddieâs tears. âEddie - you okay?â
âYeah,â Eddie offered his best friend a teary smile. For the first time, Eddie might actually mean that yes. âIâm okay. There - there was a butterfly,â he explained, gesturing at the window vaguely. âI had to let it out.â
âA butterfly?â Buck looked confused.Â
âMy abuela always said butterflies were the spirits of people whoâve died,â Eddie explained. âI lit a candle for Shannon, and there was a butterfly just sitting on my pillow, when I came in here. ItâsâŚâ he paused. âItâs stupid.â Â
Buckâs face softened. âItâs not stupid,â he shook his head. âYou think it was Shannon?â
Eddie glanced at the window again. âI hope it was,â he admitted, taking a deep breath before he closed the window. That in itself felt like symbolism, Eddie decided - a closing of a chapter he should have let go a long time ago. Thatâs what he needed it to be, at least. âWait - arenât you meant to be on a date?â
Bcuk shrugged. âWe changed the tickets to tomorrow,â he explained, holding up the bag of candy. âYou said you werenât going to make an altar, and I didnât want to let you skip out on it. These were her favourite, right?âÂ
Eddie could cry all over again. Buck, like Shannon, hadnât grown up with Dia de los Muertos, but here he was, with a bag of Eddieâs dead wifeâs favourite candy, ready to sit in Eddieâs grief with him. Eddie wasnât sure what heâd done in a previous life to deserve a friend like Evan Buckley, but he thanked whatever God or universe was listening for giving him Buck anyway.
âSheâd eat so many sheâd give herself a stomach-ache,â Eddie grinned, and the memory didnât hurt, the way it used to, the grief a dull ache that he could grow around, now. He leaned into the embrace Buck offered, breathing in the familiar cedarwood scent of Buckâs favourite cologne. âThanks. For being here.â
âNowhere Iâd rather be,â Buck hummed, pressing a ridiculous, loud, smacking kiss to the top of Eddieâs head. Eddie loved him. âBut Iâm buying you one of those electric candle warmers if youâre going to keep leaving candles unattended, Eddie.âÂ
Eddie was mostly listening as he let Buck guide him back to the living room, the candle still flickering golden in front of Shannonâs picture. It was the same one heâd put on her memorial programme - bright, and beautiful, just like sheâd always been when she was alive.Â
Buck grinned, as he set a piece of candy in front of her picture. âBerry,â he explained. âMy favourite,â he added, tossing a handful of the sour sweets into his own mouth.Â
They sat, the television playing reruns of a procedural in the background, eating candy until their stomachs hurt, the candle burning all the way to the end.Â
The butterfly didnât come back.
Buck stayed.
Eddie was ready to move on.
(Buck stayed.)
#911 abc#eddie diaz#evan buckley#its pre relationship buddie but mostly its about eddie and grief#in which i ramble#in which lorna writes fic
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@blitzbee-week || life or death â that's the difference between megatron appreciating him, isn't it?
prev comic || fanfic
#BlitzbeeWeek2023#blitzbee#maccadam#ah yes. a ship week .......they hate each other.#jk jk but this is pre-relationship ghsdfsfs#i'm late but pls enjoy i lost so much sleep for this LMAO#it was worth it!#transformers#bumblebee#blitzwing#vart#color! in vodid art! scary!#vulnerability fic
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The Lion Knight and Dragon Princess
Robert Baratheon believes he has wiped out the last Targaryen children, but what if that isn't the case. What if Jaime Lannister who everyone refers to as "Kingslayer" had a hand in it. Would the middle daughter of the Mad King and Rhaella Targaryen wish to claim the Iron Throne. Read the story of Vaella Targaryen.
1 - The Lannister Kingsguard
2 - One Day It'll Be Just You and Me
3 - The Reputation Of A Princess
4 - We Have A Thing For Knights Donât We?
5 - Tavern to Red Keep
6 - Here's to Aerys Targaryen
7 - Smells like Fire
8 - We're Family Now and Always
9 - Secretly Vaella Lannister
10 - Still A Golden Lion
11 - Heâs Finally Mine
12 - Guilty of being a Dwarf
13 - Facing Cersei Lannister
14 - Targaryenâs and Lannisterâs
15 - This is Home
16 - The Loyalty of Dragons
17 - Myrcella Lannister
18 - The Rock Shall Never Fall
19 - Targaryen Sisters Finally Clash
20 - Back to being a Prisoner
21 - The Lannister Trials
22 - More than One Plan
23 - The Legacy of Rhaegar
24 - When Dragons Flew to War
25 - The Dragon Island
26 - Playing the Game Now
27 - War Between Kin
28 - Loyalists of Queen Vaella
29 - Two Dragon Queens
30 - The King in the North
31 - Who Really Deserves The Throne
32 - Message of a Dragon
33 - Dragon vs Dragon
34 - From the South to the North
35 - Acting Like Our Father
36 - Heirs of the Rock or Throne
37 - The Night King part 1
38 - The Night King part 2
39 - Winterfell Celebration
40 - Rhaegar and Lyannaâs Child
41 - No Longer A Bastard
42 - All the Dragons Roar
43 - The People of King's Landing
44 - Securing the City
45 - The Rightful Queen
46 - Creating the new Westeros
47 - The Rightful Heir
48 - History Sometimes Repeats Itself
????
Comments really appreciated â¤ď¸
Tags- just send an ask to be added @cdragons @kmc1989 @starkleila @noirrose21-blog @lover-of-books-and-tea
@melvia-ito
#jaime lannister fanfiction#jaime lannister fanfic#jaime lannister x oc#jaime lannister x reader#jaime lannister fic#roberts rebellion#house targaryen#got fandom#got fic#got fanfiction#got x oc#game of thrones fic#game of thrones fanfiction#game of thrones fandom#game of thrones x oc#the mad king#rhaella targaryen#daenerys targeryan#viserys targaryen#rhaegar targaryen#ask box is open for feedback#comments really appreciated#imogen waterhouse#house velaryon#pre got timeline#aerys ii targaryen#asoif/got#asoif fanfic#secret relationship#knight and princess
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How about jealous Lando or Max? They seem like the quiet type, but be very touchy and try to make sure people know your theirs, like just touching and staring at the one trying to flirt with you
ooo yeah yeah i spoke on jealous!lando a bit here. but i think like his mood/expressions post-race in austria is indicative of properly jealous lando. not quite as severe maybe because i think that was mixed with a lot of frustration/anger at the race. but yeah i think there are different degrees to it. first stage heâs trying to act normal about it and is like⌠gently possessive, very touchy and sweet in a way. but stage two is when heâs got mega feelings for you and actually genuinely cannot stand to see you flirting/dating another person. i think heâd just go very silent, very closed off if it was really hurting him. maybe bitchy, maybe hurtful in the right circumstances. but overall yâknow, trying to be fine about it. i think heâd be tenderly trying to hold your hand or things like that. just trying to convey all his feelings to you without actually having to say it.
and yes i think formerly mad max would have a ROUGH time being jealous. i am actually writing a max jealousy one shot right now so u will all see my concrete thoughts soon-ish. max would be a huge glare-er like absolutely fucking staring down the person flirting with you. does not have a clue how obvious it is thoâ and if he did he would not care!!! i donât think heâd give a shit if it was revealing his feelings or whatever. heâd just be thinking like, sheâs mine. sheâs my friend why is this asshole talking to her??? i should be talking to her. bonus points if itâs charles, heâd be SOOO mad about charles taking up your time. UGH anyway yeah iâm writing something for this rn, very keen to share it.
#i always end up writing these from a pre-relationship perspective lol#donât know why probably because my fav thing about fic is pre relationship tension#đasks#đconcepts#max verstappen x reader#lando norris x reader
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On April 25, Cellbit finds himself crashing onto a tropical island filled with the weirdest goddamn people he's ever met in his life.
(On one side of the glass is Cellbit. On the other is a man in a red hoodie who takes one look at Cellbit and winks before rushing to talk to the other trapped Brazilians.
For a moment, Cellbit swears there's a spark- a literal pink spark in the air directly between the two of them where they had locked eyes, and he swears that the man's eyes glitter the same pink just for a second.
But that's ridiculous. It's probably a concussion. Or something.)
On April 26, Cellbit wakes up to a heavy pain in his chest and back and a foreign weight to his limbs as he tries rolling over in bed. There's a pressure behind his eyes, all... all two of them.
Cellbit's eyelids twitch unhappily as a ray of incoming sunlight hits them from the window.
He hisses, and that's when he notices two very important things:
He doesn't have two eyes. He knows the familiar discomfort of keeping one's eyes closed when they're ready to open, and he can recognize the fact that this discomfort is multiplied by goddamn two. That makes... four eyes.
He isn't in his own bed. He went to sleep without a blanket or a pillow, just his hat and his jacket because, big surprise, spending most of the day in a cave didn't get him any luxuries besides a sore back and a definitely-not-dead child.
Cellbit opens his eyes, all four of them, and he's only a little surprised to see that he is not, in fact, in his own house.
"What?" he croaks.
He grimaces. Sore throat, almost like he'd been screaming in his sleep. Nothing he isn't used to, but it doesn't feel right in this body. In... whoever's body this is.
He pushes himself so that he's sitting up and against the wall. His chest pulls with every movement of his arms, muscles twinging in pain, and it almost reminds him of the War, almost. (He caused wounds like this, anyway. He didn't get hurt like this. He was too good.)
He looks down. Spider-Man boxer briefs. Naked chest, huge scar cut across the middle of it over his heart. Hairy legs, bruised arms and knuckles.
Vaguely, he thinks that he recognizes the house. Kinda. Sort of. Maybe? But he'd only seen the outside, and it would be crazy if his soulmate turned out to be that guy.
But, well. There's only one spider hybrid on the island that Cellbit knows about. Maybe there are more, but he's pretty sure that he met everyone yesterday. (He thinks; he was pretty distracted by the whole what the fuck I have a child now??? thing.)
Cellbit should be happy. And he kinda feels like it, in a distant way. But it's with a sense of numb fear that he grabs Roier's communicator off of the bedside table and opens a new message with... himself? His comm. That Roier has. Because he's in his body. At his house.
[iRoier whispers to Cellbit: I think we have a problem]
-
When Cellbit had finally officially turned 16 years old, Bad sat down in the middle of a warzone and told him that, one of these days, he might wake up in the body of one of his enemies.
"What?" Cellbit had grimaced, blood coating his face and crusting under his nails. "Why? Is that a new origin or something?"
Bad shook his head. "No, you goof. It's a soulmate thing. You know. Soulmates."
And that's when he realized that Cellbit's amnesia really was, in fact, amnesia. Of course he wouldn't have remembered his parents giving him the Soulmate Talk, Cellbit- at the time- didn't believe that he even had parents. ("I was born from blood, and to blood I shall return," he said when Bad tried asking, so Bad stopped bothering after a while.)
And so it fell to BadBoyHalo to give Cellbit the Soulmate Talk.
"When you turn 16, the universe assigns you a soulmate," Bad had explained. "And when you meet that soulmate, you'll both switch bodies with each other overnight. It'll only last 24 hours, though, so it should be fine if you meet your soulmate out here."
Cellbit had blinked, confused. "What? Ew, no."
Because, as romantic as the idea of soulmates sounds, Cellbit was a 16-year-old boy. Why would he give a shit about his soulmate when he could be thinking about, like, blood and violence and stuff.
By the time Cellbit was arrested, he had finally warmed up to the idea of having a soulmate if only because having someone assigned to him by the universe meant that there'd be someone on the outside willing to break him out of prison and help him get his revenge on all the fuckers who had dared try and mess with him while he was in there.
But then, after prison- after everything, Cellbit had realized that maybe he wasn't meant to have a soulmate, after all. Why would he? Why would the universe be so kind as to give him someone to care about who would actually love him back? Who would like him back?
Whoever his soulmate might've been, Cellbit had always hoped that they were dead. They'd be better off dead than stuck with a monster like him.
-
By the time Roier makes it to his own house, the sun is high in the sky and Cellbit has managed to find a a shirt and a pair of shorts to throw on on top of his underwear. (On top of Roier's underwear?)
Bobby is still asleep upstairs, Cellbit thinks. At least, he hasn't heard anything from him. Should he be worried?
But then Cellbit looks out the window and watches his body trip over itself on the dirt and faceplant, and, well, Bobby can wait.
Roier's body is... heavy as Cellbit pulls a pair of shoes on. It doesn't want to cooperate, but that can't be right, it's supposed to be natural. Or something. Cellbit thinks. Maybe.
So he doesn't actually know how soulmates work, but it's supposed to be natural, right? That's how he remembers Bad explaining it, but he also remembers Bad having as much emotional awareness as a rock.
Vaguely, he wonders if the problem isn't with the fact that it's Cellbit being in Roier's body but that it's because it's Roier's body and that this is just how it is for Roier all the time. But that's none of Cellbit's business.
(Yet.)
(Maybe.)
(Eventually?)
(Turn the detective brain off, fuck.)
Whatever!
Cellbit runs out the door and goes to help Roier up. He isn't hurt at all as Roier swears at him and grumbles and pushes himself up onto his knees.
"I'm fine," he insists. "See?"
He gestures towards himself with a sharp-toothed grin, eyes squinted shut, and, wow, it's weird for Cellbit to see himself smile. His body doesn't really... do that. It's unnatural. Kinda creepy, like looking into a fucked-up mirror.
Cellbit offers an awkward smile in response, and it hurts. Not his face, no, his soul. Well, not his soul, because that would be silly, but some weird little part inside his Everything stings and pulses with a dull, throbbing pain so sudden and harsh that his throat chokes up and tears threaten to well up in Cellbit's eyes.
With a shuddering breath, Cellbit drops his smile and his eyes. He looks at the ground, and he says, "Uh. We should talk inside, maybe?"
He doesn't wait for a response before turning on his heel and walking back into Roier's house. He does hold the door open, though, remembering that Roier's house has that weird security thing on the door that keeps everybody but him out.
"Your legs are too short," Roier complains as he brushes past Cellbit and walks into the house. "I keep tripping over shit."
"...I'm sorry?" Cellbit offers. (He internally smacks himself. No, stupid, why is he sorry? He can't control his genetics, fuck!)
Roier waves him off. "Nah, it's fine. It's just for today, right?"
He sits at his table with a groan, eyes slipping shut and head tilting over the back of the chair. He looks so... calm. Which means that Cellbit's actual real normal face looks calm, and that's weird. He doesn't do calm.
Hesitantly, Cellbit joins him at the table. He sits directly opposite him, leg bouncing nervously, hands clasped in his lap.
And then? Silence. Absolutely nothing but the slight rattle of the table as Cellbit's (Roier's?) knee bumps against it and the quiet sound of snoring from upstairs. (So Bobby is still asleep. That's normal, right?)
Cellbit glances at the goggles still firmly on his body's head.
"Thanks for keeping them on," he lamely says.
Roier hums a question mark and cracks an eye open, following Cellbit's gaze. He smiles, then, small and clearly fake.
"Hey, man, it's fine," he replies. "It kind of hurts, but it's fine."
Cellbit winces. "I mean, you can take them off! It's fine, it's just us."
Roier shrugs, but he doesn't move to take the goggles off.
Quiet again.
This is... fine. It's fine! Cellbit's soulmate is just a guy who probably maybe dislikes him, that's all. It's nothing he wasn't expecting from his soulmate, he knows how he is as a person. Roier is probably just disappointed, that's all.
"We don't have to do anything, you know," Cellbit says after a moment.
He looks back down at the table as Roier sits up to look at him.
Cellbit wrings his hands together, fingers hooking together and pulling-pushing and they throb from the bruises, and where did Roier get them, anyway? From the pattern, Cellbit would say Roier had punched something, but here are also small cuts indicating the involvement of glass, and-
(Detective brain. Off.)
"I mean, it's crazy, right?" Cellbit laughs weakly. "Us, soulmates? We don't even know each other."
"I mean, yeah, but that's normal, I think. You don't know your soulmate until you meet them, that's how it works."
"I guess? But-"
"And!" Roier interjects. "I know you better already! You sleep with your sword and you have cat ears, that's more than I know about half of my dates!"
Cellbit winces at the mention of his ears, but he manages to huff out a quiet laugh. He even feels himself smile, though it hurts bad enough for him to force it away after a moment.
"Okay," he breathes, and he looks up to meet Roier's (his own?) eyes. "So... it's fine?"
"What the fuck do you think I've been saying, pendejo?" Roier exclaims. He reaches across the table and lightly taps Cellbit on the forehead between his top set of eyes. "I know my body isn't deaf, so start listening."
He sits again, continuing speaking before Cellbit can say anything:
"I don't know you, and that's fine. You don't know me, and that's fine. You threatened my son yesterday, and that's fine. I'll threaten your son to make it even."
"Hey!" Cellbit protests.
Roier ignores him and keeps talking. "We're stuck on this island, Cellbit. We aren't allowed to leave. If we try, Osito Bimbo shoots us. So that gives us plenty of time to get to know each other."
Cellbit's eyes widen in alarm. "We're what?"
He thinks he remembers somebody mentioning that to him and the others yesterday, but there was so much going on that he didn't really register it. Prison, again? At least it's open-air this time...
Roier shrugs his concerns off with a literal wave of the hand. "So see? It's fine. We'll figure each other out, and then we'll kiss and have sex and stuff. Right?"
"Um," Cellbit stammers, the tips of his ears going red. "Maybe just the kissing part."
"Sure, sure. Point is..." Roier stands out of his chair and leans across the table, reaching down and pulling Cellbit's hands out of his lap. He holds them and looks Cellbit in the eyes and gravely asks, "...Cellbit, will you be my soulmate?"
Cellbit rolls his eyes and gently pulls his hands away. "I don't think I get a choice."
"Aw, come on! You're no fun," Roier pouts.
"There, that's a third thing you know about me."
"Shut up, what the fuck?"
And as the argument continues, the weight in Cellbit's heart slowly starts to lift. Just a little, because it's just the beginning, but maybe... maybe having a soulmate won't be that bad, after all.
-_-_-_-
A/N:
Thank you so much for reading! Please reblog maaaaaaaybe with a comment or a tag and tell me what you think! Or send an ask, I'm fine with anything!
#a.d.'s fics i suppose#a.d.'s fics i suppose.#or: a soulmate au :D#guapoduo#spiderbit#well. pre-relationship i suppose#this one is full of Implications#it's short but like i'm sleepy and i have a tummy ache so this is fine
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Saxaphone player Gallagher has not left my mind since the jazz night art dropped AND THEN Robin saying Halovianâs innately have good voices and Sunday used to hum lullabies to her as kids happened in the 2.2 special program, and Iâm sure you guys can see where my unfortunate Galladay heart is going with this.
Whoever decided to make this art, I love you. I hope your pillow is cool every night, youâre never stuck in traffic, and your water is refreshing with every sip.
Also the art of Sunday with the White Gentlemen drink in the S.P.A.R.K.L.E jazz night event has also spiraled into me delusionally thinking thatâs his go to drink. Which is hilarious since Robin has hinted before that he seems to have a massive sweet tooth in her letters.
(Sunday how do you even make holding a drink menacing, Sunday please get some therapy-)
So imagine this:
Pre 2.0 Galladay, where theyâre both wary and suspicious of each other but didnât do anything outright. Sunday slowly began to visit Gallagherâs bar whenever he had time to observe the Hound, initially on the down low just to get a sense of what he was working with and what to keep an eye on. He always gravitated to that one corner booth that every bar had with the most privacy, and just stalked there for a few hours before leaving. (Smol menacing birb in a tree vibes)
Gallagher obviously knew that Sunday was doing this (even though everyone else seemed to somehow completely miss him, Gallagher wouldnât be surprised if Sunday was doing some weird Harmony mind tricks), and after the first few âstakeouts,â he bit the bullet and actually approached the table to engage with Sunday, on the off chance this was some weird âtest of loyaltyâ by the Halovian to see if the Hound would swallow his pride to serve his so-called masters.
Nothing terrible happened, but he remained passive-aggressively polite when serving him, and Sunday remained passive-aggressively cool-headed in response. There was some snark of what dear âsweet-toothedâ Sunday would want at a bar, and an icy reply of âarenât you the master drink smith? Why donât you show me those skills you boasted about?â which led to Gallagher being petty and giving Sunday the White Gentlemen drink, both for the story behind it being such a metaphor for Sunday, and because it was on the more bitter side of alcoholic drinks.
Sunday wasnât too against the drink; it wasnât something he would have ordered if it had been his choice, but it wasnât a bad drink by any means. He couldnât help but continue to drink it even after Gallagher left his little hidey booth to go back to the main bar, but heâd never stoop so low as to complement the Hound. Of course, he never ordered anything else from then on, only White Gentleman. In fact, over time it seemed to slowly get better, the flavors grew on him, and he couldn't help but look forward to it during difficult nights in the Dreamscape.
If Gallagher tried to needle him into a different drink, Sunday just bit back a âoh? Admitting defeat? I thought this was your best drink for me?â with a little smirk while Gallagher had to use every bit of self-control to not punch him in the face.
As time went on, the bar slowly became a place Sunday frequented to not quite relax, but to get away from the hustle and bustle of Penacony and his duties as one of its main faces. The stresses slowly started piling up, especially with the Charmony fast approaching in a few months and all that came with it.
Gallagher didnât seem to loosen up regarding his attitude with Sunday, but he did get better at shoving down the visceral hatred he had for everything to do with The Family and Sunday as time went on. He didnât get soft with Sunday per se, but he definitely kept an eye out for him, and definitely knew when to cut off his drinks on days where it seemed that Sunday wasnât all that there for their usual veiled comments towards one another when he went to serve him his drink.
It started small, with Sunday staying later and later until sometimes he was the last one to leave the bar to return to reality. Gallagher wasnât quite sure what to make of it, still wasnât quite sure this wasnât some weird long-term test Sunday was devising, especially since he still seemed to be the same ruthless Family member, the same Head of the Oak Family, when Gallagher was working as a Bloodhound outside the bar. For some reason though, within the enclosed space of this strange sanctuary, it was almost peaceful between the two.
One night, there was something wrong when Sunday entered the bar during Gallagherâs shift. He saw a bit of a crowd near the small stage that was within eyesight of his little hidey booth, it seemed some of the musicians of the live band were arguing? He watched as Gallagher came over, seemed to try to speak with the group before honing in on one of the musicians who had been making the most noise and seemed to be about to get physical with the rest. Sunday watched as Gallagher picked up the musician by the scruff of their suit with one hand and carried them towards the doors and lightly tossed them out.
(It was the first time Sunday had actually seen Gallagher perform anything resembling the actual duty of a Bloodhound. It only hit him that heâd only ever seen the other when giving reports, orders, or at the bar. Why was this so shocking to him, heâd seen the manâs arms before, hard not to with his slovenly dress and messy clothing style, as if he couldnât bother to hide away his imperfections from the world, not like Sunday who refused to be seen by the world, to dare to show one thing off about himself despite his countless failings- heâs getting far too distracted by one meager showing of strength, focus Sunday)
There had always been a live music segment. Sunday was curious to see what would happen with the band missing a member, but was distracted by Gallagher placing his usual White Gentlemen in front of him before heading back to the musicians without a single word to him. Gallagher took a moment to speak with the rest of the band, who seemed to be coming out of their shock and took on worried looks. Sunday could only watch in muted shock as Gallagher went behind the bar and came back with a case, opening it to reveal a saxophone. He then went on stage with the rest of the group, positioned himself further to the side and in the back amongst the shadows within Sundayâs line of sight, and played with the band for the rest of the night.
Sunday couldnât look away.
He was frozen as he watched Gallagher seamlessly transition from song to song, taking only small breaks to continue serving the other patrons before heading back in. Sunday only remembered about his own drink when his gloves began to get wet from the ice melting into condensation on his glass.
Something felt off within Sunday, and for the first time since Robinâs debut, he couldn't help humming to the music of the band, music that wasnât of his own sisterâs making. He couldnât help but remember those little concerts the two would have, taking care of his little sister, his only world. He would do anything to keep the Harmony, to keep their family going. When was the last time they truly spent time together? Before he became the Head of the Oak Family? Before he couldn't recognize his own smile?
He was so lost in his thoughts, in memories he thought he buried, that he didnât realize that it was once again closing time, and he was once again the last one left. He only snapped out of it when Gallagher came by to grab his empty glass, only quirking a questioning brow at him before heading back to the bar.
Gallagher had been keeping a quiet eye on the Halovian that night from the back of the band, in the shadows he felt the most comfort in when in the Dreamscape of Penacony. He had watched Sundayâs eyes glaze over, and the only reason he hadnât felt offended by the seeming disinterest was the look in the other manâs eyes reminding him of his own when he looked in the mirror. The same look of shame, regret, loss, longing, of the wishes to regain everything he had lost. The same look he strove to hide under every bit of the facade he had crafted of this new self, but came back all too often with every reference of the Family found within his prison in the Dreamscape.
Maybe it was the shared nostalgia within his own heart, that little bit of his true self that he thought died when the Family tore out everything that made him who he was, that made him return behind the bar and begin making Sunday another White Gentlemen, giving Sunday a small nod to beckon him over. He wasnât expecting anything from it, and he masked his own surprise when Sunday actually left his little shelter to come and take a seat in front of him at the bar. Even while out of it, Gallagher made note of the quiet confidence the other still carried himself. Nothing seemed wrong to anyone else looking at him, only for the lost look in his eyes.
The first time in the many months that theyâve been skirting around each other, and finally they seemed to be face to face.
It was quiet as Gallagher made Sunday his usual drink, a drink he had been slowly changing over the months to be sweeter and sweeter that Sunday never quite seemed to notice, or if he did, he never said anything, only seeming to savor it more each subsequent night. Maybe not even Gallagher noticed his own changes to the drink, subtle as they were.
It was quiet as Sunday took the finished drink, and it was quiet as his eyes slid over the bartop to see the saxophone case laying open with the instrument inside. It was quiet as Gallagher followed his eyes, as he came out from behind the bartop to take the saxophone out and take a seat in a chair only one seat down from Sundayâs. It was quiet as Gallagher began to play to his audience of one.
It was quiet as Sunday quietly hummed along.
It was quiet as they both knew that it would not last.
OK yea so this was all because I heard âLa vie en roseâ at the end of the Jazz night event and went âDamn I wish thatâs Gallagher playing on his Saxâ and then we spiraled.
Uh. Idk what it is with me having a small ship moment which then spirals into a full blown writing session. My mind blanked out and as I came to I find out that I made a whole ass little one shot over here then completely forgot about it WHOOPS
So yea, hope my fellow Galladay enjoyers⌠enjoyed! I think Iâve slowly begun to crave⌠not domestic or fluff per se from these two, but after every AO3 fic being super dark between them (which I get! They are the toxic yaoi kings of Penacony as of writing this, no one is denying that!) I think I want to see them be explored in a more melancholic sense. Not quite the âforbiddenâ love angle, but in the âdamn we kinda have some parallels, and maybe in another life we could have gotten along but thereâs too much baggage and anger, both historically and currently to really even try anythingâ
I have this feeling this may not be the last time I write about these two⌠is Galladay going to be the ship that gets me to actually use my AO3 account?
#hsr#honkai star rail#hsr gallagher#hsr sunday#galladay#idk what Iâm doing anymore#theyâve kinda taken over my mind#shoutout to that one ao3 fic where both of them go ââthis wasnât supposed to happenâ as theyâre making out#thatâs the exact vibes Iâm feeling when I think about these two pre-relationship#of course we donât run away from angst in this ship#everything follows exactly up until the 2.1 end credits scene#letâs see what happens in 2.2#I NEED ANSWERS#ALSO MISHA#I WANNA THROW GALLAGHER AND MISHAâS KINDA WHOLESOME RELATIONSHIP IN HERE TWO#idk wtf is going on there#but until 2.2 explains#Gallagher is mishaâs weird drunk uncle/dad figure#it adds more comedy to Galladay whether Sunday knows of/can see Misha or not either way#oof new writing idea#next time#I need to work on tagging#this is just another post all on its own#marrapost
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my favorite madney scenes: [4/?] ⢠Buck, Actually, 2.08
#madney#chimney han#maddie buckley#911 fox#911 abc#911edit#madneyedit#chimneyhanedit#maddiebuckleyedit#*911#*#madneyscenes#the coloring is SO WEIRD#s2 has this weird magenta-ness to it so in order to make it look okay-ish i have to add a gross amount of blue and green to cancel it out#rip to my 5+1 pre-relationship madney fic that died when i didn't know how i should write buffriday's origin story you would've been fun
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part 2 of my lil fan comic for @fox-quills fic,,, (part one here - they're not consecutive dw).
(again,, warning,, this fic is explicit,,)
A lot of art got covered up bc paneling so i'll post them separately.
*edit: posted some them here
#my art#fanart#fan comic page#fan art for fics#bnha fic#omegaverse#aideku#erasermic#time travel#dekumic ? what actually is the ship name ???#higari maijima#izuku midoriya#i still don't know#they're a triad/throuple#but this scene is pre-relationships#so rn they just down bad bois â¨#plus higari (read: agent of chaos)
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they're not together - they don't even see each other as that yet - so why does he feel so uneasy?!
#zosan#technically pre-relationship zosan#one piece#roronoa zoro#sanji#sanji looking at zoro flirting with other pretty men: hmmmm. I Do Not Like This#bumbling 19 yo sanji not yet realizing his attraction to zoro#while zoro already has feelings for sanji but is like 'no way hes gonna like me back. oh well what can ya do'#& then proceeds to have one-night-stands with other men#who tends to have similar characteristics to one feisty blond#inspired by a fic
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