#pre-slash more like

[razzledazzletrassh]

no major fic updates just yet guys TAKE MY WOY OC I MADE LIKE. April of last year IM PLUGGING SOME INFO ABOUT THIS GUY IN THE TAGS.

I may also redesign her soon or something. Make her more bug-like with some stuff. I can cook guys let me cook !!!

[popcorn-plots]

who you say you are

i feel like shit so here we are

possible TW for discussions of periods and everything that happens during them, like bleeding through three layers of clothing (that was a wonderful night)

Stephen hated his periods. He hated the general feeling of unwellness during that week, and he hated having to clean blood out of everything after he inevitably bled through.. everything. The worst part about it, however, wasn't even the blood. It was the dysphoria. It was the fact that every month, his period would bring the lies of his mind, telling him that he wasn't a real man and never would be. That he was weak for whining about it.

That he was never Stephen and he never would be. That he was too feminine, or that he was never 'good enough' to pass as a man. The worst was his mind telling him that he'd always be a girl, that deep down... he was never Stephen in the first place. He was just little Lucy, trying on her dad's shirt.

On those days, Stephen would curl up on his bed, clutching a hot water bottle. Cloak would hold him as he sobbed, telling himself over and over again, like a mantra, that his name was Stephen Strange. On those days, he would ask Wong not to bother him, despite every fiber of his being yearning to be held, begging for someone to call him handsome and take away the pain.

He didn't think that Wong knew. He was near-positive that Wong had no idea that Stephen was trans. As far as the other sorcerer knew, Stephen was just another man. A man with a broken soul to match his broken hands and scarred chest.

~

It was one of those days (Dark Days, Stephen called them) when Stephen was in his room, clutching a pillow to his chest. A second was between his legs, pressed to his crotch. It was surprisingly helpful when dealing with cramps, the pressure on his lower abdomen easing the discomfort. Unfortunately, he had forgotten his heading pad in the library from when he last used it and when he finally needed it again, he was too comfortable to get it.

Magic was out of the option as well considering just how horrible he felt between the pain, dysphoria, and his hands. It was a bad hand day, because of course, and he really didn't want to move. Which, unfortunately, meant breathing through the pain and trying not to cry.

Eventually, he managed to fall into a light sleep, nodding off then jolting awake again. He woke up in a way that jarred his hands and he groaned. It might be time to sacrifice his comfort for some much-desired relief.

He was mentally preparing himself to climb out of bed when there was a knock at the door. "Stephen?"

Stephen blinked. "..Wong..?"

"You left your heating pad in the library." Wong announced.

Stephen sighed. "I know. Leave me alone."

"I warmed it up for you. I thought you might need it. May I come in?" Stephen didn't respond. Wong had found his heating pad and warmed it up for him. For a second, Stephen wondered if Wong knew, but he had hidden it so well-- "Stephen?"

"...yeah. you can come in."

There was a click as the doorknob turned, then Wong was walking across the room in brisk strides, stopping in front of the nest of blankets that was Stephen Strange. "Here." he set the heating pad down near Stephen's hands. "I also have tea and some of your painkillers. It's raining today."

Stephen let out a shaky breath. Maybe Wong was just looking out for his hands. That would explain it, right? But Wong was never so... caring. Aside from his the week after Everest and his usual quiet help when Stephen needed to handle large stacks of books.

"You're paler than usual. If you turned yourself into a vampire on accident, I will kill you again." Stephen huffed.

"I'm not a vampire."

Wong reached out a hand and felt Stephen's forehead. Stephen nearly froze at the contact, but didn't say anything. He tried to look anywhere but Wong until the hand was gone. "You're not running a temperature."

"I'm trans." Stephen found himself blurting out.

Wong looked at him. Blinked. "Do you need any supplies?"

Supplies...?

"Pads, tampons? You disappear in your room once every four weeks, only coming out for food and when you do, you look horrible. Deathly pale, hunched over as if in pain, it wasn't hard to figure out."

Stephen looked up at his friend. Wong had taken a seat in the armchair next to Stephen's bed -- one of the large library chairs that had found itself in Stephen's room after a few too many vigils of Wong's when Stephen found himself injured.

"You... you never said anything."

"If you wanted me to know, you would have told me when the time was right."

"You... always made my favorite meals."

Wong huffed a rare smile. "I have never menstruated, but I can sympathy. I have a sister. She was always... vocal with.. everything. I did what I could to make her feel better."

Stephen smiled. "It sounds like you love her."

"Very much." Wong was smiling ever so slightly. Stephen found that watching Wong smile seemed to take the pain away.

"What's her name?"

"Li." It was soft, spoken just above a whisper. "You'd like her."

"Li. Pretty name." Stephen sighed. "Mine was-- is--"

"Stephen."

Stephen paused. He stared at Wong. Wong stared back. "Your name is Stephen. You are Stephen Strange. Do not give me your dead name. It is dead for a reason. You are who you say you are, not what someone else wants you to be. You told me on your very first day that your name is Stephen Strange. That is who you are. If you wish for me to use a different name, then I will. I respect you, and I will respect you, whoever you decide to be."

Stephen swallowed, tears pricking his eyes. He refused to let himself cry in front of Wong, of all people. Wong looked at him again and nodded. "You are Stephen Strange. Remember that."

Before he knew it, Wong had closed the door behind him and Stephen was sobbing into his pillow.

A few hours later, Stephen woke up feeling a hundred times better than before. He decided to find his way to the kitchen for dinner, now that the cramps had disappeared.

He found Wong at the stove, making friend rice. Wong's go-to comfort food that had quickly become Stephen's as well."

"Thank you." Stephen whispered. Wong responded by dishing Stephen and himself a large helping of rice.

"Of course, Stephen."

[dracomort]

What are some nextgen fics you would recommend? 💖

So I haven't read that much next gen, but what I've read was top quality. This was very delayed because I was searching high and low for a fic, only to realise it was the 5th highest kudos'd Scorp/James fic 💀

Astra Inclinant by eleventy7

James Sirius Potter/Scorpius Malfoy, Harry Potter & Draco Malfoy

"The stars incline us, they do not bind us." For Harry, it's something he learned long ago on the battlefield. But for his son, James, it will be a painful lesson in the form of a friendship with a boy named Scorpius Malfoy.

Fantastic character work and both funny and a real tearjerker at times. I do consider this a literature quality fic. Perhaps not surprising since it's eleventy7. Harry and Draco's friendship here is also really compelling (I ship it, of course).

Houses (orphaned)

James Sirius Potter/Scorpius Malfoy

Scorpius Malfoy goes away to school. And James Potter's legs keep invading his personal space.

I honestly can't talk in much detail on this one as I only read it once several years ago. But I remember I loved the portrayal of all the characters—warts and all. Probably not a fic for those who like Draco depicted as a good father, but I found it realistic, albeit depressing, considering his own upbringing, personality and war trauma.

My all time fave next gen fic is 'Coda to an Epilogue' by Maya, but as I mentioned to you in DMs, I won't link it since it has been deleted. But I loove Harry's character voice, the portrayal of the kids—Scorpius in particular, it's not a common Scorp portrayal... reminds me a bit of Tom, actually—and I love Draco's OC wife. I'd like to see more non-Astoria versions of Draco's wife in fic tbh. Another thing I like about 'Houses'.

[theokusgallery]

Unlike the other anon I wanna see Nick get worse his deranged behavior is very entertaining :3

Yeah same. He's my creepy little guy. I wanna see him get increasingly unhinged and obsessed and I want to see Sunny slowly realise what the Fuck he's gotten himself into.

Also yeah !! That video is very Nick-coded. (be careful with links though, especially on anon)

[impulsivemuses]

@brawlligator

"Look buddy, there's a LOT more people that deserve getting their skull beat than I do." Of course, that didn't excuse the beatings he did to other people... or the blaster holes he fried someone's head with... or even threaten people. He's just a runaway kid looking for a quick credit chip. An excuse to say 'fuck you' to his parent's heritage. The nineteen-year-old chuffed. "Listen if I give you credits, will you lay off my back?" Money would make people do anything for the right price, at the very least that's what he's learned in his lifetime.

[trashbatistrash]

,

[reinemichele]

The epic highs and lows of a new it-see song

[reasonsforhope]

It’s an open secret in fashion. Unsold inventory goes to the incinerator; excess handbags are slashed so they can’t be resold; perfectly usable products are sent to the landfill to avoid discounts and flash sales. The European Union wants to put an end to these unsustainable practices. On Monday, [December 4, 2023], it banned the destruction of unsold textiles and footwear.

“It is time to end the model of ‘take, make, dispose’ that is so harmful to our planet, our health and our economy,” MEP Alessandra Moretti said in a statement. “Banning the destruction of unsold textiles and footwear will contribute to a shift in the way fast fashion manufacturers produce their goods.”

This comes as part of a broader push to tighten sustainable fashion legislation, with new policies around ecodesign, greenwashing and textile waste phasing in over the next few years. The ban on destroying unsold goods will be among the longer lead times: large businesses have two years to comply, and SMEs have been granted up to six years. It’s not yet clear on whether the ban applies to companies headquartered in the EU, or any that operate there, as well as how this ban might impact regions outside of Europe.

For many, this is a welcome decision that indirectly tackles the controversial topics of overproduction and degrowth. Policymakers may not be directly telling brands to produce less, or placing limits on how many units they can make each year, but they are penalising those overproducing, which is a step in the right direction, says Eco-Age sustainability consultant Philippa Grogan. “This has been a dirty secret of the fashion industry for so long. The ban won’t end overproduction on its own, but hopefully it will compel brands to be better organised, more responsible and less greedy.”

Clarifications to come

There are some kinks to iron out, says Scott Lipinski, CEO of Fashion Council Germany and the European Fashion Alliance (EFA). The EFA is calling on the EU to clarify what it means by both “unsold goods” and “destruction”. Unsold goods, to the EFA, mean they are fit for consumption or sale (excluding counterfeits, samples or prototypes)...

The question of what happens to these unsold goods if they are not destroyed is yet to be answered. “Will they be shipped around the world? Will they be reused as deadstock or shredded and downcycled? Will outlet stores have an abundance of stock to sell?” asks Grogan.

Large companies will also have to disclose how many unsold consumer products they discard each year and why, a rule the EU is hoping will curb overproduction and destruction...

Could this shift supply chains?

For Dio Kurazawa, founder of sustainable fashion consultancy The Bear Scouts, this is an opportunity for brands to increase supply chain agility and wean themselves off the wholesale model so many rely on. “This is the time to get behind innovations like pre-order and on-demand manufacturing,” he says. “It’s a chance for brands to play with AI to understand the future of forecasting. Technology can help brands be more intentional with what they make, so they have less unsold goods in the first place.”

Grogan is equally optimistic about what this could mean for sustainable fashion in general. “It’s great to see that this is more ambitious than the EU’s original proposal and that it specifically calls out textiles. It demonstrates a willingness from policymakers to create a more robust system,” she says. “Banning the destruction of unsold goods might make brands rethink their production models and possibly better forecast their collections.”

One of the outstanding questions is over enforcement. Time and again, brands have used the lack of supply chain transparency in fashion as an excuse for bad behaviour. Part of the challenge with the EU’s new ban will be proving that brands are destroying unsold goods, not to mention how they’re doing it and to what extent, says Kurazawa. “Someone obviously knows what is happening and where, but will the EU?”"

-via British Vogue, December 7, 2023

[devotedlystrangewizard]

you ever just want to write and you have everything except for a plot so ur just sitting there. tired

[nosferatufaggot]

My AO3 expierence would be leagues better if I could remove tags. Not block tags, just like the "additional tags" box a "remove tags" box for that specific search.

[asunflowerana]

06:50 PM — Nanami Kento

"Fried or grilled chicken for dinner?"

"Uhm—" a grunt can be heard from the other line, followed by the sounds of slashing and inhuman shrieks. He must still be busy. "Uhm, grilled is good, love. What you're thinking for side dish?"

"Cheesy mashed potatoes and tomato sauce, just the way you like it." You close the fridge door, holding the phone with your free hand while the other arm carries the pot of fresh seasoned chicken you prepared a few hours ago. You organize the counter with all the ingredients, pan pre-heating with butter.

"Perfect." There are a few more distant grunts, but you can still understand your husband's approval, making you proceed with your dinner plans. "Don't forget to lower the heat, in case you want to practice your dance moves again."

"It was just once, Kento!" You sulk, not like being called out for grooving in the kitchen. Did you burn a few things back then? Yes, but who didn't? It was your favorite pop playlist, your body went on its own!

Making sure your phone stays still well between your ear and shoulder blade, you land the first filet of chicken breast on the hot pan, a not-so-usual sizzling sound taking place in the room. Yep, let's definitely lower the heat, you move your fingers around the knob. "I won't burn our food again, smarty pants. Stop bullying your wife."

But you can't stay mad at him for too long. Not when you feel his deep, breathless chuckles flowing right inside your ear, into your mind and heart, making your stomach flutter like a scholar girl just like every single time. "I'm sorry love, you're right. Your food 's heaven, burned or not."

Letting out a last huff, you roll your eyes, feeling your lips curve in a lopsided smile. You bet Nanami has a similar one on his face right now. "How long 'til you come home?"

There's a small pause, filled with lowly breaths and the far sound of crickets. Maybe he finished what he was dealing with. "45 minutes from now. Think you can hold tight?"

"You're not deserving, but I'll make an effort." Now you hear the perfect form of a snicker, making you wish you could kiss it away and fill that pretty cheeky face with even more kisses. You miss your husband. "Come safe, 'kay? I'll see you soon."

"See you soon, love. Stay safe."

And the red finish button is pressed. Nanami carefully returns the device inside his pocket, now investing his whole attention on the last, persistent curse gaping at him behind a pillar, thinking it could catch him out of guard.

Rubbing of the remains of blood coming from a small cut on his jaw, he roughly loosen the tight knot of his tie that you so lovingly did this morning. He needs to move without restraints if he wants to get the next subway, though.

"Let's finish for today, shall we?"

And like every weekday, Kento makes it on time.

© asunflowerana 2024

[seresinhangmanjake]

He Will Hope

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: Feyd is obsessed with his bride from the moment he sees her, but on their wedding night he finds out she might not feel the same. (Angst, but hopeful ending)

Warnings/Notes: Feyd POV, pre-smut and smutty-ish intentions (if that makes sense? idk, ignore me), instantly-in-love Feyd, unwanted marriage, baby(heir) talk, typos. Can absolutely be read alone, but also serves as something of a prequel to Do You Love? (same world, but big time skip), so I tried to kind of echo that with specific lines.

Words: 1500

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

You’re so…beautiful. He didn’t expect a peace offering to be this perfect. Yes, he knew his bride would be a daughter of a Great House, but you are one of many sisters and Feyd did not imagine your father would send him the loveliest of his bunch. 

It’s a loveliness that has you sticking out like a sore thumb on Giedi Prime. Hair and makeup and wedding dress styled in the traditions of your home world glue all eyes to you as you walk down the aisle, and he likes that there is so much attention on you. It makes his inability to cease staring more acceptable. 

Harkonnens are not meant to be enthralled by their brides at first glance. Discouraged, even, from caring about their appearance at all. ‘Brides are meant for breeding,’ his uncle told him as a child, ‘It does not matter what they look like.’ But he was not told what to do or how to act in the event the bride makes his heart involuntarily skip a beat. 

Maybe if your heart was reacting in the same manner navigating this new feeling would be less intimidating, but the tears streaming down your cheeks suggest that's far from the case. You can barely look at him and he’s not sure you would be able to speak if it was required of you, but thankfully, verbal agreements are not part of marriage ceremonies on Giedi Prime. 

When he takes hold of your hand and slices your palm with his knife, you give no indication of pain. You are supposed to do the same to him but you seem nervous enough as it is, so he makes the three-inch long slash in his skin for you before pressing his palm against yours. The mixing of blood is a swearing of fidelity from husband to wife and wife to husband; a tradition and promise that wore down with time as concubines became more common. But he will not do that to you. You will be his one, his only, and if he can help it, he will be yours. 

He barely detects the words declaring you married. They're dull and bubbly in his ears as if he's sunk under the surface of his bath water because he's too focused on your mouth. Your plush lips are pink and plump and glistening, and he wants them. So he takes them before he's told to do so.

You taste different than the Harkonnen women he’s had. There is salt from tears, but something distinctly you seeps through. It's sweeter. A bit intoxicating. The kind of taste that collars and leashes the unruliest of men, and he wants more. Much more. But there are too many eyes, some of which are full of relief at the match finally solidified while others are prying and suspicious. If he keeps his lips on yours too long, questions will begin to form from certain witnesses—Does he like her? Does he want her? Can she be used? Can she control him?—and the answer will be plainly obvious.

When he breaks the kiss, your eyelashes flutter with the gentle opening of your eyes and he knows then that nothing—no convincing from advisors, no threats from his uncle, no hatred on your end—could ever have him willing to detach himself and use you for the sake of an heir only to discard you later. You are his wife now, you will be the Baroness upon his uncle’s death, and he will protect you from anyone who values you for the sole purpose of providing a child. 

—

He sees that your assigned servants have quickly learned to manage your hair and clothing. By the time they deliver you to him, the pins have been removed from the twist on your head, letting the strands hang loose to frame your face, and you’ve been unstitched from that heavy gown to be dressed in night clothes from your home. He provided you with a nightgown, so he wonders if wearing the thin dress was your choice or your parents' idea to make you undeniably enticing, but either way, it’s effective. 

What drapes over your body is nothing like the opaque blacks and straight lines of Harkonnen attire. It's intricate both in color and design; flowing fabric that shimmers when you make the slightest movements and, at the moment, does little to hide your shape and curves. 

As you stand in front of him, patiently awaiting instructions, he can only stare at what’s on display. Pebbled nipples, a plane of smooth skin down to your navel, your slit and the folds between your legs—he wants it all. All of you. Now. Here. Wherever he can have you. 

Rising from the chair where he’d been waiting, he dissolves the space between you. His arm snakes around your waist. His hand slides across your cheek to the back of your head. Lips slam into yours, chests meeting despite that sliver of fabric, and he tastes that taste again, instinctually feeling a need to lift his chin, bare his neck, and let you tighten that collar.

It takes you a few seconds but when your lips start to move, he kisses you harder, pulls you closer, weaves his fingers through your hair and lightly tugs. He guides you backward toward the bed, skin warming at the image of sliding the nightgown down your body. That warmth fans into pure fire and he can’t stop kissing you, can’t stop taking from you, collecting what little you’re willing to give him. Two of his fingers tuck themselves under one strap of the nightgown and begin to slip it down your shoulder. 

But then he stops. 

He stops because your lips freeze.

He stops because you're starting to shake under his fingertips.

He pulls back to look at you and it’s undeniable, so terribly undeniable, and he feels a bit ill. “You don’t want this,” he states. 

You don’t answer; you just stare up at him with those doe eyes that he can now see are full of fear, and his heart squeezes. His gut tightens. He suddenly has the urge to throw things, break things, watch things shatter to pieces because you don’t want him. His own wife doesn’t want his touch and he does not like this—not at all—but you’re scared, and he doesn’t like that even more. 

Sighing, he resets the strap on your shoulder, drops his hands from your body, and steps away. 

“I'll leave you alone,” he says. But as he passes by you, you grab onto his wrist. 

“We have to,” you rush out. “They'll know if we don't.”

He shakes his head. “They won't know anything that happens between us unless I allow it,” he tells you.

“B–But they expect an heir.”

“Yes. And eventually, we will have to produce one. That does not mean we have to share a bed tonight if that is not what you want, and it's clear that is not what you want,” he says a little too harshly. He isn’t trying to be snippy, none of this is your fault, but it hurts, and not in the way he enjoys.

You suck in a sharp breath as if preparing to argue, but then something shifts in your eyes. Instead, you say, “Where will you go?”

“The adjoining room,” he answers, nudging his head to the door on the opposite wall: the room for the concubines that he will never take. You turn to get a look.

“Oh,” you swallow. “O-Ok.” 

He grants himself a few more moments to study you, to soak in your soft and delicate features and the swollen lips he cannot have before he walks away, leaving you behind for the bed he had no intention of ever sleeping in. 

When he reaches the door, he glances over his shoulder to get one last look. You’re facing away from him, sitting on the mattress with your head low, your back arched forward and arms wrapped around your middle. You look small like that, slowly huddling into a ball, and he’d do anything to make it stop. Because you are his. His wife. His na-Baroness. He’s well aware he’ll fall for you in no time—it’s already begun—and he wants you to be happy with him. 

But you're not. And that already threatens the predictability of your future together. These foreign feelings he has for you are not guaranteed to be requited; something he isn't sure how to accept, and yet he may not have a choice. He cannot force your affection. He cannot demand you grow to love him. All he can do is try and hope that one day, he will win you over.

So that is what he does.

---

@avidreader73 @alwaysadreamingoptimist @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @workof-a-rr-t

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[noceurous]

lights, camera, action

your boyfriend gets his hands on a handycam, later on you

warnings: mentions of divorce, mentions infidelity, Dave’s family is also mentioned, some self-doubt and angst, looots of feelings (sorry idk what took over me ehehe), swearing, smut: fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), p-in-v sex, slapping, daddy kink, usage of various nicknames (baby, darling, etc) minors dni (18+) reader is able bodied + has some length of hair + afab.

a/n: my birthday is officially on 10th of september, but this fic turned out to be longer than i expected, so i said post it with a fic you feel good.

a/n2: this fic takes place in the same universe with [take the heat away, make the girl stay] but they can be read separately.

Carol was a really nice woman after the divorce.

It was nice of her to call you a homewrecker, among many other names.

It was nice of her to fill Molly and Alice’s heads with wrong ideas about you.

It was nice of her to call Dave in the middle of your date and tell him that he’ll come back crawling back to her after he’s done with you. just like the girls before and made sure you heard it.

Lastly, it was nice for Carol to send all of his belongings to your tiny apartment. You didn’t even know how she got your address. Just after a simple ring of the doorbell, you were standing between piles of light brown boxes.

“Shit, did she really do that too?” Dave asked over the phone as you stood inside the labyrinth made of boxes.

“Yep, what’s left of your relationship is now inside my living room.” You said as you eyed over the boxes. Trying to find out if your relationship was enough to fill one box.

“They’re mostly clothes, family photos and Father’s Day gifts. There is nothing left of the relationship.” You were familiar with the last sentence. Dave used that to reassure you during the beginning of your relationship. 

He also used that sentence to girls, and Carol. When any one of them accused you of breaking them up.

“Yeah, probably. I’m gonna take a shower. When will you be back?”

“Fifteen minutes tops. Do you want anything?”

“No, just you.” His chest hurt when he heard how your voice cracked before you ended the phone call.

He hated Carol when she did that. Blaming you for everything went wrong in the marriage. Taking her anger out on you, when in truth you came into him long after he decided on a divorce.

—

“Darling? I’m home.” He didn’t hear your reply, but the water sound came from the bathroom.

He took off his long coat, his keys still in his hand when he walked towards the living room. Greeted with a pile of boxes. He couldn’t imagine how you felt when a box after a box came into your place. He would call Carol again, but he knew pretty well whatever he said to stop her, just would fuel Carol’s anger.

He raised his key, slashing and opening one right through the tape with it.

Fake plastic trophy of being the Best Dad Ever, broken hand painted coffee mugs, a photograph in a frame from Alice’s first soccer game. 

He went through some of the boxes more. As he assumed they were mostly clothes and stuff related to girls. Mainly photo albums which were half empty since Carol only sent him photos he was included. Nothing more.

When he was going over his last box, something silver at the corner of the box caught his eye. When he took it out, he was greeted with an old handycam.

“No way.” He smiled as he took it out. Shocked when he found out it was still charged.

He heard your footsteps when you came towards him, wrapped a towel around your body and another one around your head.

“What is that?” You walked towards him, the scent of your shower gel filling his nostrils.

Orchids.

“That’s my old handy-cam. Got stuck between stuff, still works.”

He explained as he checked if there were any pre saved videos. He remembered using it for Alice’s school plays and Molly’s soccer practice. Half remembering that he already saved them to Carol’s computer.

He pressed on the record button, when he saw the red blinking light he raised the camera to you.

“What are you doing!” You chuckled, covering your face.

“Recording my lovely girlfriend.”

“I’m in a towel.” He shrugged, still keeping the camera on you.

“That’s better.” He said as he zoomed on your legs, slowly lifting the camera to your body. “Don’t be shy. Camera loves you.”

“Is it the camera? Or is it my horny boyfriend?”

“Both. Give me something baby, come on.” You rolled your eyes, blew a kiss and winked at the camera.

“That’s better.” He said as he placed his hand on your towel, raising an eyebrow.

Before you could understand his next move, he tugged the towel down, watching it pool around your ankles.

“Dave!” You protested, hands covering your breasts.

“Don’t be shy honey. This is just for me. Show it to me.” You huffed, placing your hands at your waist. Sticking out your chest more as he pointed the camera at your breasts, recording every inch for you.

He licked his lips at your sight. “I’m a lucky bastard aren’t I?”

“Try the luckiest.”

He chuckled, motioning you to the couch. “Take a seat.” You rolled your eyes, swinging your ass as you walked towards the couch. You knew he was zooming in there.

He whistled, “That’s my girl” as he followed you. Sitting further from you on the coffee table. “Open your legs for me, come on.” The sight of your glistening pussy was on camera, Dave’s hand was slightly shook, blurring the view for a second. He tried to play it like he was affected less from the sight of you than he actually was. 

“Hmm, you’re wet baby.” You smirked at the camera, slowly nodding. “Who made you this wet?”

“You did.” You pressed your fingers on your lips, spreading them to show him your swollen clit covered in your silk. “See? It’s all for you.”

He felt his pants tighten, he didn’t even find the time to take off his tie since he got back. Now you were standing all naked for him, showing off your perfect body. And he had too much clothes on to feel you on his skin.

“Be a good girl, play with yourself for me. But don’t cum.” He said as he slowly placed the camera on the coffee table. Angling it to the perfect angle.

Your eyes were looking into his eyes, as he clicked his tongue pointing at the camera. “Eyes on the camera baby.” You swallowed down your whimper. Thumb pressed onto your clit, feeling your walls clench around nothing.

You pushed a finger inside you, moaning at your wetness. You closed your eyes, for a second, your other hand was on the cushion, grasping it tightly.

You started moving your finger, in and out, playing with your clit then back in. “Open your eyes.” You opened them, seeing Dave in front of you, behind the camera.

He was naked, his cock in his hand, slowly pumping himself. You could tell he was rock hard, it was painful for him not to touch you. “See what you’re doing to me?” You gulped, nodding quickly.

“Add another finger.” You did as he said, your toes curled, walls clenching around your fingers. You didn’t have to look down to know your juices were dripping down on your couch, making a mess.

You continued to finger yourself slowly, eyes locked on the red light on the camera. You could feel you were close to reaching your orgasm, trying to hold it as long as possible.

Your whimpers filled his ears, his eyes locked at the way your naked chest came up and down. Each second it became harder for him to not feel you on his skin. You were a sight for his sore eyes, all he carved for his life.

“Show me.” He said as he knelt between your legs. You took your fingers out of your pussy, the wet sound of it crying made both of you moan.

Your fingers were glistening with your juices, you took them inside your mouth, sucking off your juices.

His warm breath fanning your weeping pussy. He quickly hooked your legs on his shoulders. Diving into your pussy, drinking your juices right from your core. 

Your body trembled as his warm tongue touched you. Drawing long strokes with the tip of his tongue. “Oh Fuck!” You said as your hand went back to cushion. Supporting yourself as Dave continued to lick over your folds aggressively. 

He raised his face, his lips and chin covered with your juices. The corner of his lips raised into a smirk. “You taste so good.” He said before he dove back in. Sucking down your clit.

You smirked at the camera, hand going to your breast. “Fuck! Dave! You are so good!” You pinched down your swollen nipple. Pulling him closer to your core by pressing your ankles on his back.

He pushed a finger inside you, eyes pointed up to your blissed face. You were looking right at the camera just like he told you. His pretty girl always followed his orders without making him give them twice.

“Fuck!Fuck!Fuck!” You were chanting out as he was brutally fucking you with his finger. His lips on your thigh, kissing along the soft flesh, pressing his teeth on your inner thigh.

He pushed another finger inside. “Are you going to cum?” You looked down at him, eagerly nodding.

“May I? Please daddy, I’ve been so close.” He chuckled, curling his fingers inside you. Earning a loud moan from you. “Please.”

Who was he to deny you from pleasure?

“Cum for me.” He said as he sucked your clit once more, fingers still moving inside you. Your body shook when he brushed along your sweet spot. Pads of his fingers pressing on it just right. “Fu—“ Your body jolted backwards, your mind went blank as the white pleasure surrounded your body.

You were panting heavily, as he got up between your legs slowly, his hand wrapped around his cock. Fingers shining with your juices. Your mouth watered with the sight. You wanted him. You wanted more.

With the dark look in his eyes, you knew he wanted the same. “Get on the floor. On your hands and knees.”

You got in the position like he asked, shaking your ass a little when you got on your knees. He slapped you harshly causing you to fall on your hands. Your lips parted, showing him one of his favorite views; your ass in the air, your hole greedily waiting for him.

He pressed his tip on your entrance, “Look at the camera, don’t close your eyes, or I’ll stop.” You knew this was more of a statement than a threat. Before you could say something he gradually pushed himself inside of you, letting go of his breath when he reached your limit. His cock twitched inside you when your walls welcomed him inside.

“Oh.” You moaned at feeling full, still sore from his fingers. Your pussy greedily accepting him, already addict to the sweet pain.

He could see your glossy, lustful gaze thanks to the camera. Cursing himself for not thinking this sooner. Not thinking of saving these moments of you. Not starting saving anything he could save from you.

He placed his hands on your waist. Getting his momentum as his hips started slapping against your ass, not wasting any time with being gentle. Today was not one of his gentle, love making days. He needed you. He needed to take what was his.

He was not having a great time at work. Now he also had to handle Carol and stop her from attacking you.

He had to protect you and he had no objection to that. If it was allowed, he would tear up the limbs of anyone who dared to hurt you. It does not have to be physical abusive, just a simple word was enough to get him violent. There was nothing in this world that would stop him to protect you.

You were his purpose in life, his guiding light.

“Please.”

Your crying voice turned him back to reality, his eyes snapped back to the camera from your shaking ass. Your eyes teared from pleasure, thin layer of sweat covering your cheeks.

“Yes?”

“Please cum inside me. I missed feeling your cum inside. I’ve been empty for days.”

He had some stuff to take care of in Denmark. Unfortunately his little business trip took longer than he expected. So all you were able to do were some quick calls and exchanging text messages. Whispers of “I miss you” were exchanged as you bit your tongue not to say “I love you” too soon.

“Baby…” He said, getting faster than before, chasing his pleasure. You moaned, when he pushed in a bit too hard. Your hand stopped you from falling forward. Forehead almost hit the coffee table.

He cursed his ignorance, wrapping his arm around your neck, leaning over figure. He pressed his lips on your sweet spot behind your ear, feeling your body tremble between his arms. He nudged your temple with the tip of his nose, taking in your smell.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered, eyes locked with yours on the screen.

“You look so good, baby. I feel how you tighten around me, you want to cum again don’t you?”

“Yes, please.”

“You want me to make you?”

“Ye—yes...” His hand went to your clit from your waist, flicking it rapidly. “F—fuck! D—dave!”

“Go on, come all over my cock baby! Fuck you’re milking me so good.” He slapped your ass, grabbing a handful of the soft flesh before whispering to the shell of your ear. “You want me to cum inside don’t you? Fill you right to the brim?”

He groaned at how your walls tighten around him with your question. “Yes! Fuck yes! Please fill me up. I’ll do anything, please.” He sucked a bruise your neck, his hot breath from his nose fanning on your throat.

“If you really want to…” He said as he spurted out his cum inside you, pressing down on your swollen clit. Holding your body with his arm still wrapped around your neck as it trembled with your orgasm.

“Dave!” Your voice shook as you tried to keep yourself up. Feeling his hot cum spill inside you. He turned your head to the side, smashing his lips to yours. You moaned into the kiss, opening your mouth for his tongue to enter. Your salty taste on his tongue as he sucked yours.

Taking everything you offered to him.

He slowly took himself out, some of his cum spilled out from your hole. He tsked, gathering them with his fingers and pushing them back in. You hissed with the contact, looking over your shoulder to him.

“I’ll send someone tomorrow, to take care of the boxes. I don’t want you to worry about them.” You nodded, as he lied down next to you. Pulling your naked body to lie on his naked chest. You buried your head on his chest, kissing right above where his heart his.

You took the camera from the table, stopping the recording. You smiled at the video, thinking how better you looked than you guessed.

“Like a true temptress.” Dave said, as he buried his nose in your hair, his fingers drawing circles on your upper arm.

“Can I keep a copy as well?”

“Anything you want darling.” He said as he kissed you, slowly moving you to his lap between kisses. “Anything for you.”

—

The next morning Dave’s men came to collect the boxes. And Carol had an anonymous email in her inbox with no subject.

It was a small photo where Dave was eating you out. When she scrolled down, she saw your text added underneath.

Mine, back off.

Needless to say, the email disappeared a few minutes later it was read, without leaving any trace.

—

please provide comments/reblogs if you liked this fic. they always mean a lot 💙

[steveseddie]

limited time offer

steddie | rated: t | wc: 2,3 k | tags: vol. 2 missing scene, pre-relationship, eddie munson needs a hug, hurt/comfort

click here to read on ao3

Steve starts doing headcounts. 

After what happened with Max at the cemetery, Steve starts going over a list of names in his head, checking off each of his friends once he makes sure they haven’t been taken by Vecna- like ticking off boxes on a very fucked up grocery list.

He starts with Max every time. By now she has probably noticed the way his eyes constantly dart to her or the way he visibly relaxes when he notices the headphones still hanging from her neck, but at least she hasn’t said anything about it. 

Next is Nancy- the sight of her eyes rolled back into her head still too vivid in Steve’s mind. Then is Robin, Henderson, the Sinclairs-

After Skull Rock, Steve adds Eddie’s name to the list. He doesn’t know if they can be considered friends yet but he is part of their group now and Steve isn’t letting anyone else from his group almost die again at the hands of Vecna.

It’s only been a few minutes since Steve last did one of his headcounts- sitting outside the RV making homemade bombs.

But as the battle draws closer, Steve grows more and more anxious about losing one of his friends so after toasting to killing Vecna slash Henry slash One, Steve’s eyes roam the field where they’re preparing for battle while going over the list in his head.

Max and Nancy sawing off shotguns. Check. 

Robin pouring gasoline into a bottle. Check. 

The Sinclairs building spears. Check. 

Eddie and Dustin building shields- and sparring? Check. 

Steve breathes a little easier after that. 

His eyes linger on the last pair. He can’t hear what Eddie is telling Dustin but he can see the way they’re both smiling. 

That is until Dustin turns his attention back to his shield and Eddie’s face crumbles, his smile disappearing completely as his expression turns anxious and terrified. Steve watches as he takes a few shuddering breaths, his hands flexing at his sides. Even from a distance, Steve can tell they’re shaking. 

Steve sighs. He knows how hard it is- being hurled into this interdimensional monster fighting bullshit. This is Steve’s fourth time dealing with it and he can’t say that it gets any easier. And for his first time, Eddie already had it worse than any of them. He’s been alone for most of it and he also has people coming after him on top of everything. 

This whole time Steve has been waiting for him to snap, for him to say fuck it and run off, for him to start screaming or crying but he hasn’t done any of that. He’s still here- scared shitless but here, trying to put on a brave face. And Steve knows all about that so he can see right through Eddie’s act. What he doesn’t know is what to do about it. If this was one of the kids or Robin or even Nancy, Steve would know but he hardly knows Eddie and he doesn’t know what he needs. 

He looks like he needs a hug. Steve saw Eddie’s face when Henderson hugged him at Skull Rock, the relief written all over it. When the kid pulled back, Steve felt the urge to walk up to Eddie and hug him next, even if the only contact they’d had at that point was when Eddie pinned against the wall with a broken bottle to his neck.

Steve wanted to hug him again in the Upside Down- every time Eddie flinched or curled in on himself when Demobats screeched in the distance or lightning painted the sky red, but Steve was half-naked, covered in blood and goo and he didn’t think Eddie would appreciate any of that. 

He wanted to hug Eddie at Max’s house- trap his hands between their chests so he would stop running his fingers through his hair, scrubbing his hands down his face, aggressively wringing his fingers together so hard his knuckles cracked, but Eddie might’ve punched him for doing it in front of everyone when he’s supposed to be cool and metal.

He doesn’t look cool or metal right now. He looks on the verge of tears and Steve is shaking with how badly he wants to walk over there and hug him, tell him that everything will be okay but Steve has a job to do. 

They all do. 

Eddie seems to realize it at the same time. After one last shaky breath, he goes back to his shield, leaving Steve with no choice but to turn back to Robin and focus on his own task. 

***

It’s not until they’re getting ready to leave that Steve does another headcount. 

Max and Erica are inside the Winnebago, loading it up with weapons and supplies.

Nancy and Robin are going over the stages of their plan to make sure they thought of everything.

Sinclair and Henderson are trying the walkies, checking the batteries and making sure they’re on the right channel.

Eddie is-

Steve frowns, his eyes roaming the field one, two, three times but he still doesn’t see Eddie anywhere. 

Panic starts bubbling up inside him at the thought of anything happening to Eddie. 

Don’t go there, Steve tells himself. Maybe Eddie needed to take a piss and went to find a tree somewhere. Maybe he just needed a minute away from everyone.

Or maybe Vecna got to him. Maybe it’s already too late and Eddie is the fourth victim and all they did was for nothing.

He tries to remain calm as he looks for Eddie but his heart is beating frantically. He checks inside the RV first and when he realizes he isn’t there, he goes around it, planning to go into the woods next if he doesn’t find him there either. 

But he does- he finds him crouching on the ground with his back against the RV, his face buried in his hands, framed by a curtain of hair.

“Eddie?” Steve asks warily, still unsure if Eddie might be trapped by Vecna.

But then Eddie jumps, whipping his head up and staring at Steve with wide, scared eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington!” 

He holds his hands up in front of him. “Shit, sorry, I thought-”

“That Vecna got me?” Eddie scoffs. He taps his knuckles against his temple. “Nope, just me up here.” His hands fall to the space between his legs. They’re shaking. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, shoving his own hands in his pockets when he feels the urge to grab Eddie’s and hold them until they’re not shaking anymore. 

Eddie breathes out a humorless laugh. “Dude, I’m so fucking far from okay.”

Steve grimaces, ducking his head in embarrassment. “Right, of course, that was stupid.” 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Eddie shakes his head. “No, not stupid, sorry. I’m just on edge, man. This whole monster fighting thing.” He waves his hand vaguely. “It ain’t for me.”

“I thought that’s what you did in that dorky game of yours,” Steve says, hoping to distract Eddie with a joke. 

Eddie snorts. “It’s really fucking different when you can actually, you know- die.”

“You’re not gonna die, Munson,” Steve says with a frown.

Eddie shakes his head repeatedly. “Oh, I have a baaad feeling, Stevie, a feeling that I ain’t gonna make it out-”

“Fuck that, man,” Steve hisses. The thought of something happening to Eddie or any of his friends making anger bubble up inside him. “You can’t think like that. We got this, okay?”

Eddie sighs, lifting his gaze to meet Steve’s eyes. “How do you do it, man?”

“Do what?”

“How are you so,” he gestures at Steve, “calm about this shit.”

“It’s not my first time,” Steve shrugs. “My first time I was scared shitless, but I made it out okay and you will too,” he says as confidently as he can, but Eddie doesn’t seem convinced. He’s no longer looking at Steve but down at his hands as he nervously wrings his fingers together, his leg bouncing rapidly. His hair falls like a curtain around his face but Steve can still see the tears gathering in his eyes. 

Eddie looks like he’s falling apart at the seams, and once again Steve wants to hug him. Only this time they’re alone, they’re not covered in blood or Upside Down goo and they’ve come a long way from Eddie trying to slash his neck open with a bottle so Steve thinks fuck it and takes a step forward. 

“Come here.”

Eddie’s head snaps up. He frowns. “What?”

“Get up,” Steve says. Still frowning, Eddie pushes himself to his feet. “Now come here.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Steve holds his arms open and Eddie’s eyebrows disappear behind his bangs. “I’m giving you a hug.”

“You’re- what?”

Steve shuffles his feet. He feels stupid, standing there with his arms open while Eddie stares at him like he grew a second head. The back of his neck feels like it’s burning, the heat slowly spreading to his face. “You- you just look like you could use a hug.”

Eddie breathes out a startled laugh. “Holy shit, this is by far the strangest thing to have happened to me ever, and considering the days I just had, that’s saying something.”

“Munson,” Steve mutters but Eddie ignores him. 

“Steve Harrington wants to give me a hug?” Eddie gasps, clutching his chest. 

Steve huffs. “Yeah, and it’s a limited-time offer so are you gonna come here or are you gonna be a dick about it?”

“Well, if His Majesty insists,” Eddie jokes with a hand flourish but his tone lacks any lightheartedness. He’s nervous, fidgety. Despite his words, he hesitates, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. 

So Steve takes matters into his own hands. Literally. He closes the distance between them with two long strides, grabs Eddie’s shoulders and pulls him in.

Eddie goes stiff, and for a moment, Steve worries that he’ll pull back but then he lets out a soft noise and melts into Steve, shaky hands coming up to grab his waist. 

“You’re going to live, Eddie,” Steve whispers, one of his hands moving to cup the back of Eddie’s neck. He shudders in his arms. “We’re going to win and we’re all going to live, okay?”

Eddie tucks his face into his neck. It’s Steve who shudders this time. “If you say so, Stevie.”

Steve makes a stubborn noise. “I do,” he says, squeezing Eddie a little tighter. He ignores the whine Eddie lets out or how it makes something hot burn in his belly. He focuses on Eddie’s arms wrapping around his waist instead- like he fears Steve might pull away. 

He doesn’t.

“You just have to trust me, okay?” Steve says, absently playing with the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck, feeling him go limp in his arms. Pride surges through Steve at being right. Eddie clearly needed a hug. 

“Okay,” Eddie whispers, sounding a little more confident. 

Neither of them let go. They stay like that for a while, just holding each other, Steve’s fingers still moving in Eddie’s hair. 

“Steve?” Eddie says, breaking the silence after a few minutes. 

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“For what? You’re a good hugger, dude, I’m enjoying myself,” Steve teases but the truth is that he means it. He likes hugging Eddie, he wishes he didn’t wait this long to do it or that he didn’t need to let go of him soon, before their friends come looking for them. He knows what Robin will say if she finds them like this- she has yet to shut up about Eddie calling Steve big boy and how Steve momentarily forgot how to function because of it.

He forgets how to function now when Eddie giggles, his breath tickling Steve’s neck. “You keep surprising me, Harrington.”

“Get used to it, Munson,” he says as he finally, regrettably, pulls back. He keeps his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “’Cause you’re stuck with me, man.”

Eddie blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, squeezing his shoulders. He gets an idea. “After we’re done, I’m taking you out for a drink. I think we’ll both need one.”

A smile plays at the corners of Eddie’s mouth. He seems infinitely more relaxed now than he did when Steve found him. “What- like a date?” He asks, clearly trying to make a joke even if his eyes dart a little nervously over Steve’s face.

Already missing the way Eddie’s arms felt around his waist or how his fingers felt in Eddie’s hair, Steve stops himself from brushing it off as a joke. He can’t, not when the idea of going on a date with Eddie makes his stomach fill with butterflies. With a smirk, he shrugs. “Guess you’re just gonna have to live long enough to find out?”

A nearly hysterical laugh bursts out of Eddie but his eyes sparkle like the idea of going out on a date with Steve doesn’t make him want to run off into the woods. “Guess so, big boy,” he says, making Steve’s cheeks heat up. “Let’s go make that Vecna fucker pay then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with a big grin. “Let’s kill that son of a bitch.”

And with that, they head back to their friends. Eddie isn’t okay, he probably won’t be until this is over but now there’s a spring in his step and his hands aren’t shaking anymore.

And when his eyes meet Steve’s on the rearview mirror as he drives them to the Creel house, Eddie gives him a big dimpled smile- the first one to reach his eyes since they found him in that boat house. 

Steve is happy to have hugged him. He can’t wait to do it again- because he needs it, because they made it or just because this time. And then hopefully many times after that. 

[megamindsupremacy]

my very important and well-thought-out thoughts about the shipping options within the Bill-Stanford-Fiddleford-Stanley love square

Billford - The classic. Toxic old man yaoi. Pre-portal Stanford is well and truly completely religiously obsessed with Bill, who is just using him like a mildly interesting pawn. The second Ford goes flying through that portal, Bill realizes how badly he fucked up and spends 30 years obsessed with getting his situationship back but by this point Ford is OVER it. Basically they flip-flop who is maniacally unhealthily obsessed with the other at any given time and it's a horrible experience for everyone involved

Fiddauthor/Ford^2 (pre-portal) - Toxic young man yuri. Fiddleford is desperately pining for Ford but Ford is too up his own ass (and obsessed with Bill) to notice.

Fiddauthor/Ford^2 (post-portal) - The happiest slash healthiest (?) option on the list. Ford has gotten his shit together and his head out of his ass, as well as several dozen reality checks and a fist to the face (he needed... all of that to fix him). Fiddleford has more or less recovered from wiping his own memory due to the Horrors he experiences while working with Ford. They are able to happily settle down and build giant robots to harass small children with in their free time.

Fiddlestan - I will accept this ship ONLY with identity and memory-wiping angst. I want neither of them to be happy about it. Fiddleford either thinks Ford is finally returning his feelings and refuses to examine "why the hell is he acting so different (nice)" further, or he's well aware that this man who looks like Ford isn't Ford, and is willing to turn a blind eye just to Feel Something. Stan thinks Fidds is his brother's boyfriend and he has to maintain this relationship for the dude's sake, and also this is the first true affection he's experienced in a decade so he's keeping his mouth shut about the identity stuff just, again, to Feel Something.

Billfiddlesford - funny as hell and i refuse to accept any other ship name. Everyone is having a great terrible fun time except they're all having a wildly confusing time. Bill is fully aware of Fiddleford's feelings for Ford and is trying to manipulate Fidds with them. It's working but only kinda because Bill is starting to experience this strange emotion called Jealousy. Ford is caught in the crossfire of being obsessed with this triangle thing but the triangle is lowkey putting their portal-building plans on hold just so he can figure out what is WRONG with these two scientist freaks. And himself. Ford kisses Fiddleford first and Fiddleford's first reaction is "Bill why did you do that" then he has to explain why his first instinct, upon being kissed by Ford, is to assume Ford is being possessed by his Triangle Muse God. I dearly love this ship because there is no possible way it could happen in canon but I need to throw these three in a room together and shake it just to see what would happen.