#this is just a ramble you can ignore it :>

[goldfades]

TROUBLE ─── RAFE CAMERON (part two)

part one!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | after that fateful night, you begin to see rafe cameron differently - and it seems like he feels the same.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | ooc!rafe, teasing, descriptions of bullying (?), sweet rafe, a lot of word vomit, um... idk what else? it's pretty sweet and wholesome

⟢ ┈ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 | @psychicnatural @evermorx89 @slipawaylrh @renasjourney @aesthetic-lyss

The thing about Rafe Cameron is that he doesn’t linger.

Not in the way you might expect. He has a reputation for showing up, making noise, and leaving behind chaos in his wake. Rafe doesn’t hover, doesn’t check back, doesn’t get involved. But ever since that night—since the low rumble of his voice pulled you from the edge of panic and his steady presence walked you safely out of danger—it feels like he’s everywhere.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. A coincidence. But the truth is, you’ve caught him watching you more than once. At Sarah’s party last weekend, his eyes found you across the bonfire, the flickering light sharpening his sharp features and softening his smirk. At The Wreck, when you stopped by for takeout, he was there at the bar, casually nursing a drink, his gaze flicking to you the moment you walked in.

And now, standing in the backyard of the Cameron estate during Sarah’s infamous summer party, you can feel the weight of his presence even though you haven’t seen him yet tonight.

It’s like he’s threaded into the atmosphere now, an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

You’re holding a drink in one hand, the other resting on the edge of the pool as Wheezie chatters beside you about some drama from school. Sarah is off somewhere playing hostess, and the crowd is a mix of Kooks, tourists, and a handful of Pogues Sarah deemed “cool enough” to make the cut.

The air is warm and heavy with the scent of salt and chlorine, and you’re doing your best to pretend you’re not scanning the crowd for him.

You tell yourself you’re not hoping to see him.

But then, you do.

Rafe steps out onto the patio, a drink in hand, his posture relaxed but commanding as he surveys the party. He looks effortlessly at home here—like the house, the lights, the music all belong to him in some unspoken way.

When his eyes find you, it’s immediate, like he knew exactly where to look.

Your pulse quickens, and you glance away, trying to focus on Wheezie’s story. But even as she rambles on, you can feel Rafe’s gaze burning into you. It’s a mix of heat and challenge, daring you to acknowledge him.

And when you finally give in and glance back, he’s smirking.

He doesn’t approach right away. He never does. Instead, he takes his time, drifting through the crowd like he’s in no rush, talking to people here and there, all while his attention keeps circling back to you.

It’s maddening.

You take a sip of your drink, willing the flush in your cheeks to disappear, and try to focus on Wheezie’s latest complaint about her friends. But then Rafe’s voice cuts through the noise, low and unmistakable.

“Having fun?”

You look up to find him standing beside you, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other holding his drink. He’s close enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches you—something warm and sharp and entirely too intoxicating.

“Trying to,” you reply, your voice steadier than you expected.

His smirk deepens, and his eyes flick to Wheezie, who’s already grinning at him. “Don’t let her bore you to death,” he says, nodding toward his sister.

“Hey!” Wheezie protests, shoving him lightly.

Rafe chuckles, the sound low and easy, but his attention is back on you in an instant. “Come find me later,” he says, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the music.

And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the crowd, leaving you standing there with a racing heart and Wheezie’s teasing grin.

“Are you blushing?” Wheezie asks, her tone all too knowing.

“Absolutely not,” you say quickly, turning back to your drink.

But you are. And the worst part? You know Rafe knows it too.

There was a time when the idea of Rafe Cameron being anything but insufferable would have been laughable.

You remember those long, sticky summer evenings spent at the Cameron house, sitting at the kitchen island with Wheezie while her parents were out at one fundraiser or another. Babysitting wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it was better than working at the marina, and Wheezie was sweet enough to make it bearable.

Rafe, on the other hand, was a different story.

He had this knack for showing up just when you thought you’d have a quiet night. You’d be helping Wheezie with her math homework or making her one of those ridiculously specific sandwiches she liked, and then—bam. There he was, leaning against the doorway with that signature smirk plastered across his face.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he’d say, nodding at whatever you were doing, even if it was as simple as slicing bread.

“Doing what wrong?” you’d snap back, barely sparing him a glance.

“Existing,” he’d tease, stealing a chip off your plate and popping it into his mouth like he owned the place.

It was endless. He’d make fun of your clothes, your car, your playlist. Anything and everything was fair game, and he never missed an opportunity to remind you that you didn’t belong in their world. You were a Pogue, after all, even if your dad’s business had climbed its way into something respectable.

But there was one night—one moment—that always stood out, no matter how much you hated to admit it.

You were sitting at the island again, Wheezie at your side, her little hands clutching a glass of milk while you tried to get her to eat a handful of carrots. Rafe was there too, slouched in one of the barstools with his phone in hand, half-listening to whatever you were saying just to mock it later.

Everything was normal—until Wheezie came stumbling into the room, tears streaming down her face.

“What happened?” you asked immediately, rushing over to her.

“They—they were making fun of me,” she hiccuped, her words barely audible through her sobs.

“Who?” you pressed gently, crouching down to her level.

“Those boys…from down the street,” she managed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “They said I was weird and that no one likes me.”

Your heart clenched, and you reached out to pull her into a hug, murmuring something soothing about how those boys didn’t know what they were talking about. But before you could say much else, Rafe stood up.

It wasn’t dramatic or loud. He didn’t say a word. He just… stood.

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him as you sat there, stunned.

“What—where’s he going?” you asked, looking down at Wheezie, who just shrugged.

Fifteen minutes later, Rafe came back. His knuckles were scraped, his nose was bleeding, and there was a bruise already forming on his cheekbone.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “What the hell happened to you?”

He grabbed a dishtowel off the counter, pressing it to his face as he shrugged. “It’s taken care of.”

“Rafe…” you started, but he just waved you off, heading for the stairs like nothing had happened.

Looking back on it now, it’s almost funny how you didn’t see it then. He didn’t make a show of it or stick around for the praise. He just… handled it. The same way he handled everything, quietly and with a bluntness that often left more questions than answers.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t always like this.

You can still remember the version of him from when you were younger: loud, impulsive, and seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously. He was the type of kid who would shoot spitballs in class just to watch people squirm, who cared more about his next thrill than the consequences that followed. There was a recklessness about him then, a streak of carelessness that made you write him off without hesitation.

But now, standing on the edge of Sarah’s party and watching him weave effortlessly through the crowd, you can’t help but notice how much has changed.

His hair, once a shaggy mess of blonde that fell into his eyes, is buzzed now, the sharp cut emphasizing the strong line of his jaw and the defined shape of his cheekbones. He’s leaner, but more solid too, his movements deliberate instead of erratic. Even the way he holds himself is different—confident but restrained, like he no longer feels the need to demand attention because he knows it’s already his.

It’s not just his appearance, though that’s hard to ignore. It’s the way he seems more grounded, more present. You’ve heard whispers about him stepping up to help his dad with the family business, even if people still question his motives. You’ve seen him around town, not in his usual haunts, but at the construction sites or walking out of Grady’s hardware store with blueprints under his arm.

He’s working. Actually working. And it’s not just for show.

The realization hit you that night, downtown, when he pulled you out of a situation that could’ve gone sideways fast. The way he handled it—calm, capable, and protective—was so at odds with the Rafe you thought you knew that it left you reeling. You’d always thought of him as a spoiled rich kid, someone who relied on his family name to coast through life without lifting a finger. But in that moment, when his steady presence shielded you from danger, you saw someone entirely different.

And now you can’t unsee it.

It’s driving you insane, honestly. Because no matter how mature he’s become, no matter how different he seems now, he’s still Rafe freaking Cameron. The boy who used to mock you for your Pogue roots, who once threw a party so wild that Wheezie had to call you to help clean up the next morning. The boy who, for years, seemed to exist solely to prove that Kooks always win.

And yet, here you are, catching yourself looking for him at every party, every gathering, even when you don’t want to admit it.

You hate it. Hate how your pulse races whenever his sharp blue eyes meet yours, how your mind replays the way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay that night. Hate how, even now, as you stand with Wheezie by the pool, your thoughts are consumed by the memory of him leaning closer in the kitchen just a few nights ago, his tone teasing but his eyes saying something else entirely.

It doesn’t help that Rafe seems to sense it. The shift in the air between you, the way you’ve started noticing him in ways you never did before. And the worst part? He seems to enjoy it.

He’s not obvious about it, not in the way he used to be when he was younger. No, this Rafe is far more subtle. He doesn’t shout or flaunt or draw attention to himself. Instead, he waits. Watches. Pushes just enough to leave you questioning everything but never enough to let you get comfortable.

It’s infuriating.

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping the buzz will drown out your spiraling thoughts. But even as you try to focus on Wheezie’s chatter and the hum of the party around you, your eyes keep drifting back toward him.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even have to try.

It’s like he’s rewritten the rules of who he is, and now you’re stuck trying to figure out where you fit in the story.

You shake the memory from your mind, blinking back into the present as the Cameron estate buzzes around you. The party has shifted into full swing now—music booming from portable speakers, a few brave souls splashing in the pool, and clusters of people laughing and drinking under the string lights that crisscross the patio. Wheezie’s long gone, swallowed up by her friends, and Sarah is playing hostess somewhere, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Or rather, alone with the memory of Rafe, the boy who used to tease you mercilessly but once left the house with a determined glare and came back bloody for his sister’s sake.

The worst part? That moment, that side of him, wasn’t as much of an anomaly as you’d tried to convince yourself. Sure, he was arrogant and annoying and drove you up the wall, but when it came to the people he cared about, Rafe was all-in. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t back down. And now, years later, you can’t stop replaying the way he showed up for you downtown, the same intensity in his eyes, the same protective edge to his voice.

It’s maddening, really.

You hate that you’re noticing these things about him. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt fits just snug enough to hint at the strength beneath, the way he moves through the crowd like he knows exactly how to command attention without asking for it.

You catch sight of him again, standing near the bar and laughing at something one of his friends says. The golden glow of the string lights above him catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, the subtle curve of his smirk. He’s relaxed, leaning casually against the counter, completely at ease in his element.

You should look away. You should focus on something else, anyone else. But your gaze lingers, drawn to the effortless way he commands the space around him. It’s maddening.

And then, as if sensing your attention, Rafe’s eyes flick up and find yours across the yard.

The breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze. He doesn’t smirk this time, doesn’t do anything but hold your stare, his expression unreadable. It feels like an eternity before he finally moves, pushing off the bar and heading in your direction with that same unhurried confidence that drives you crazy.

You glance around, your nerves buzzing. Part of you wants to walk away, to avoid whatever game he’s playing. But your feet stay rooted in place, and before you know it, Rafe is standing in front of you, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his cologne—something warm and woodsy that makes your pulse race.

“Looking for someone?”

Speak of the devil.

You turn, already knowing what you’ll find, and there he is—Rafe Cameron, standing just a few feet away, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His smirk is firmly in place, but his eyes carry that same quiet intensity you’ve come to associate with him, the kind that makes your stomach flip in a way you’re not proud of.

“No,” you say quickly, too quickly, and his smirk deepens.

“Sure about that?” he asks, stepping closer.

You resist the urge to step back, holding your ground even as your pulse quickens. “Positive. Just enjoying the party.”

“Right,” he drawls, his voice low and amused. “Because you look like you’re having so much fun standing over here by yourself.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. “What do you want, Rafe?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that always feels too knowing. “You,” he says finally, his tone soft but laced with something that sends a shiver down your spine, “are way too easy to mess with.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat rising in your cheeks. “Glad to know I’m such a source of entertainment for you.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” he replies, his grin widening.

He’s teasing, you know he is, but there’s something else beneath his words tonight, something that feels more real than the surface-level banter you’re used to.

“Seriously,” you say, trying to shift the conversation before your heart gives itself away. “Don’t you have a crowd to charm or something?”

“Maybe I’m right where I want to be,” he says, leaning just slightly into your space. His voice drops a fraction, soft enough that it feels like it’s meant just for you. “Ever think of that?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t think of a single thing to say. He’s too close, his presence overwhelming, and all you can do is stare at him, your mind spinning with thoughts you shouldn’t be having.

You huff, turning to look out at the pool instead of his stupidly smug face. “What do you want, Rafe?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you glance back at him, surprised to find his expression softer than you expected. “You looked like you needed saving,” he says lightly, nodding toward the now-empty lounge chair where you’d been sitting.

You roll your eyes. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Are you?” He leans a little closer, just enough to make your heart skip. “Because you seem a little... tense.”

Your breath catches, and you hate the way your body reacts to him—like it’s tuned to his every word, every movement. “I’m not tense,” you manage, though your voice betrays you with its slight waver.

He grins, and it’s infuriatingly charming. “If you say so.”

The silence stretches between you, charged and crackling with something you can’t quite name. You expect him to keep teasing, to push just far enough to leave you flustered before walking away like he always does. But instead, his gaze softens, and for a moment, he just looks at you—really looks at you, like he’s trying to figure you out.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.

The words catch you off guard, and your brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he says simply.

And maybe you do. Maybe that’s why your chest tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s looking at you like he’s seeing something even you don’t fully understand.

Before you can respond, one of his friends calls his name from across the yard, breaking the moment like a snapped string.

Rafe sighs, glancing over his shoulder before turning back to you. “Guess I’m needed elsewhere,” he says, his usual smirk returning as he steps back.

“Shocking,” you mutter, trying to ignore the weird ache in your chest as he starts to walk away.

But then he pauses, turning back to you with a grin that’s equal parts mischievous and genuine. “You ever need saving again, you know where to find me.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you standing there, flushed and frustrated and entirely too aware of the fact that Rafe Cameron is under your skin.

The rest of the night passes in a haze of chatter and laughter, but you barely hear any of it. Your mind keeps circling back to Rafe, to the way he looked at you, the way his words lingered in the air like a challenge and a promise all at once. It’s maddening.

By the time the party winds down, you’re exhausted—not from the noise or the crowd, but from the mental gymnastics of trying to convince yourself that Rafe Cameron doesn’t affect you. It’s a losing battle, and you know it.

Wheezie insists on walking you to your car, her arm looped through yours as she chatters about some drama with her friends. You do your best to focus, nodding at all the right moments, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

When you finally get into your car and start the drive home, the silence feels heavier than usual. The streets are dark, the glow of the headlights bouncing off the familiar bends in the road. You roll down the window, hoping the cool night air will clear your head, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the memory of Rafe’s gaze feel even sharper, like a ghost you can’t shake.

You pull into your driveway and sit there for a moment, the engine ticking softly as it cools. Normally, you’d go straight inside and crash, but tonight, you linger, your fingers drumming against the steering wheel. The night feels unfinished, like there’s something left unresolved.

You shake the thought away, grabbing your bag and heading inside. The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards under your feet. You kick off your shoes, toss your bag onto the counter, and start the familiar routine of winding down.

But even as you wash your face and crawl into bed, you can’t stop thinking about him.

The next few days pass without incident, but the memory of Rafe sticks with you, weaving itself into the mundane moments of your routine. You see flashes of him in the strangest places—in the sharp line of a customer’s jaw at the boutique, in the golden sunlight filtering through the trees on your drive to work, in the steady confidence of someone walking down the street.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s Rafe.

And yet, no matter how hard you try to push it away, the memory of that night lingers. The way he stepped in without hesitation, the quiet assurance in his voice, the way he didn’t make a big deal of it afterward. It’s all so at odds with the version of him you’d built in your head, and it’s throwing you off balance in a way you can’t quite explain.

The next time you see him, it’s at the Cameron house again. Wheezie had texted you, begging you to come over for dinner, and you’d caved, mostly because you missed her and partly because you were curious.

You tell yourself it’s not about him.

But when you walk through the front door and spot Rafe leaning against the kitchen counter, his head tilted back in laughter, your pulse stutters.

“Hey!” Wheezie greets you, bounding over to give you a hug.

You hug her back, trying to focus on her and not the sharp blue eyes that flick over to you from across the room.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Wheezie says, pulling you toward the dining room. “Come on!”

You follow her, keeping your head down, but you can feel Rafe’s gaze on you as you pass.

The meal is lively, filled with chatter and the occasional bickering between Sarah and Wheezie. Rafe is mostly quiet, chiming in here and there but keeping his attention on his plate. You try to ignore him, but every time he moves, every time his fork scrapes against his plate or his voice cuts through the conversation, your stomach twists.

After dinner, Wheezie and Sarah disappear upstairs, leaving you alone in the kitchen as you help clear the table. You’re stacking plates by the sink when you hear footsteps behind you.

“You always this helpful?”

The voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

You glance over your shoulder, finding Rafe leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Just trying to earn my keep,” you say lightly, turning back to the sink.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “You don’t have to do that here, you know. You’re practically family.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you pause for a moment before setting the plates down. “Didn’t realize you thought of me that way.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he says, his voice closer now.

You glance back again, finding him only a few steps away. His expression is softer than you expected, his smirk replaced by something more thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Guess I figured you’d still see me as the annoying Pogue babysitter.”

Rafe’s lips twitch, like he’s holding back a grin. “You were annoying,” he says, his tone teasing. “But you’re not a babysitter anymore.”

The air between you shifts, the playful edge to his words giving way to something heavier. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your nerves buzzing like live wires.

“I should—” you start, but your words falter as Rafe takes another step closer, his gaze locked on yours.

“You should what?” he asks, his voice low.

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you do, but it’s lost somewhere in the haze of his closeness, the way his presence seems to fill the room.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the tension crackling like a live wire. And then, just as quickly as it started, Rafe steps back, his smirk returning as he grabs a glass from the counter.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he says, his tone light but his eyes lingering on you for just a second longer than necessary.

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the overwhelming realization that you’re in deep trouble.

That night, lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling, your thoughts running wild. The familiar shadows stretch across your walls, the faint hum of the ceiling fan filling the quiet room. Normally, this is when your mind would wind down, drifting into blissful silence. But tonight, there’s no such luck.

Rafe Cameron is an enigma that refuses to leave your head.

You keep replaying the evening in your mind—his teasing smirk, the way he stepped closer like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way he looked at you with something you couldn’t name. It’s maddening.

And then, unbidden, another memory surfaces. One you haven’t thought about in years but suddenly feels impossible to ignore.

You were sixteen, still babysitting Wheezie regularly, and you’d just gotten a new pair of shoes. Nothing extravagant, just a pair of sneakers you’d saved up for with months of odd jobs. You were excited about them, maybe a little too excited, and you made the mistake of mentioning it when Rafe wandered into the kitchen where you were helping Wheezie with her art project.

“Nice kicks,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned against the counter. “Did they give those away for free at the thrift store?”

You glared at him, bristling. “I bought them, actually.”

“With what? Spare change you found under the couch cushions?” he shot back, smirking as he reached over to steal a cookie from the tray you’d set out for Wheezie.

“Leave her alone, Rafe,” Wheezie piped up, frowning at her brother.

But Rafe didn’t listen. He kept going, poking fun at everything from the color of the shoes to the brand, all with that infuriating grin plastered on his face.

At the time, you’d been furious. You’d wanted to snap back, to tell him off, but you didn’t. Instead, you’d rolled your eyes, muttered something about how he didn’t know anything about fashion, and went back to helping Wheezie.

Now, though, lying in bed, the memory feels…different.

You remember the way his eyes lingered on your shoes, the way his teasing felt more pointed than usual, like he was testing you. You remember how, when you finally left the house that night, you caught him watching you from the window, his expression unreadable.

And then there was Ward.

Ward, who always seemed to have some sly remark about how much time you spent at the house, about how Rafe “just couldn’t leave you alone.”

You’d dismissed it at the time, laughed it off as some weird dad joke that didn’t land. The idea of Rafe Cameron—spoiled, obnoxious, impossible Rafe—having a crush on you was absurd.

But now?

Now, as you lie there, replaying every interaction in excruciating detail, the idea doesn’t feel so absurd anymore.

The way he teased you relentlessly, always finding a reason to be around when you were at the house. The way he’d watch you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his smirk would falter sometimes, just for a second, like he was debating whether to say something more.

It all takes on a new light, and the realization sends a shiver down your spine.

Rafe Cameron had been in your orbit for years, a constant, infuriating presence that you’d never thought to question. But now, as the pieces start to fall into place, you can’t help but wonder if you’d been blind to something that was always there.

And maybe—just maybe—you were starting to see it now.

The realization lingers with you, threading itself into your days like an invisible tether you can’t shake. Every time you think you’ve managed to push Rafe Cameron out of your head, something brings him back. A passing thought, a fleeting memory, the sound of a voice that’s too close to his. It’s driving you mad.

It doesn’t help that the Cameron house has become a second home again. Sarah and Wheezie keep pulling you into their plans, which always seem to conveniently land you back at the sprawling estate. And Rafe? He’s there more than ever now—clean-cut, focused, and still as infuriating as ever.

You keep telling yourself it’s nothing. That whatever strange shift you’re feeling is in your head. But the tension between you is undeniable, crackling in the air every time you’re in the same room.

The Cameron living room was alive with laughter, the sounds of dice clattering against the wooden coffee table and Wheezie’s triumphant cheer filling the air. Game night had started with its usual chaos, everyone fighting over who got to pick the first game, but now the competition was in full swing.

“What are the odds,” you muttered under your breath, eyeing the tiny slip of paper in your hand with a mixture of resignation and disbelief.

Sarah leaned over your shoulder, peering at the name written there, and burst out laughing. “Oh, this is too good.”

You shot her a look, crumpling the paper in your fist. “What’s so funny?”

“Just… you and Rafe? On the same team? It’s poetic, really.” She wiggled her eyebrows before ducking out of reach as you swatted at her.

Rafe, of course, was leaning back against the kitchen counter like he didn’t have a care in the world, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. His eyes slid to yours as if he’d been waiting for this moment, his smirk just wide enough to make you want to throw something at him.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

You forced a tight-lipped smile. “Looks like it.”

It wasn’t that you disliked Rafe—not anymore, at least. But being paired with him for family game night meant opening yourself up to endless teasing and that annoyingly competitive streak he’d never quite grown out of.

“Don’t worry,” he added, pushing off the counter and heading toward you. “I’ll carry us.”

“Oh, how generous of you,” you shot back, earning a quiet laugh from Wheezie, who was busy setting up the game board in the living room.

By the time everyone gathered around the coffee table, the mood had shifted to something lighter, easier. You found yourself sitting shoulder to shoulder with Rafe, his broad frame taking up far more space than was necessary.

“Alright, Cameron Dream Team,” Sarah said with a grin, motioning between you and Rafe. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first few rounds went about as expected—Rafe being overly confident, you rolling your eyes, and the rest of the Camerons watching the two of you with varying degrees of amusement. But as the game wore on, you realized something strange: you and Rafe actually worked well together.

It wasn’t just that you were winning (although that certainly helped). It was the way he’d glance at you for confirmation before making a move, or the way your banter seemed to flow effortlessly, pulling laughter from the rest of the room.

“Unstoppable,” he declared after another win, leaning back with a satisfied grin.

You snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Rose, who had been quietly observing from her spot on the couch, chimed in then, her voice cutting through the lighthearted chaos. “You two make a good team,” she said, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. “In the game and… otherwise.”

The words hung in the air like an errant firework, startling and impossible to ignore.

You felt your face heat immediately, your fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe shift in his seat, his expression unreadable for a moment before a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at his lips.

“Maybe she’s right,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

Your stomach flipped. Whether it was the implication behind his words or the way his gaze lingered on you just a moment too long, you weren’t sure. All you knew was that the heat in your cheeks was impossible to shake.

The rest of the night passed in a haze of laughter and friendly competition. Rafe stayed closer than usual, his elbow brushing yours every so often as he leaned over the board or reached for the dice. You told yourself it was nothing—coincidence, proximity—but your heart betrayed you, skipping every time his eyes found yours.

By the time the last game wrapped up, the clock had crept past midnight, and everyone was beginning to drift. Sarah and Wheezie headed upstairs, Rose disappeared into the kitchen, and Ward had retreated to his office hours ago.

You stood by the front door, pulling on your jacket, when Rafe’s voice stopped you.

“Hold up. I’ll walk you out.”

You turned to find him shrugging into a hoodie, his hands already sliding into his pockets.

“You don’t have to,” you said, though you didn’t mean it.

He shrugged. “It’s late. Humor me.”

The cool night air hit you as the two of you stepped outside, the faint crash of waves in the distance punctuating the quiet. You walked side by side down the driveway, the gravel crunching under your feet.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “remember when Wheezie tried to convince us she’d trained that stray cat to do tricks?”

You laughed, the memory flooding back. “She was so serious about it too. I think she even made a schedule for ‘training sessions.’”

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “And then it scratched the hell out of me when I tried to pick it up.”

“Serves you right for thinking you could pet a feral cat.”

“It wasn’t that feral,” he said, grinning. “Just… misunderstood.”

The conversation flowed easily, memories and laughter spilling out like water from a cracked vase. It felt natural, effortless, like no time had passed since the days you spent chasing Wheezie through the halls of the Cameron estate.

When you finally reached your car, the laughter faded, replaced by a quiet that felt heavier than before. You turned to face him, leaning against the door as his gaze dropped to the ground, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.

“So, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was thinking…”

You tilted your head, waiting, your heart thudding in your chest.

“Would you wanna grab dinner sometime?” he blurted, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Like… just us?”

For a moment, you stared at him, thrown by the nervous energy radiating off him. This was Rafe Cameron—confident, sharp-tongued Rafe—and yet here he was, looking at you like a boy afraid of being turned down.

You couldn’t help it—a soft laugh escaped you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth.

“What?” he asked, frowning.

“Nothing,” you said, your smile widening. “You’re just… nervous. It’s kind of cute.”

He rolled his eyes, but the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Is that a yes or not?”

“It’s a yes,” you said, still smiling.

His relief was immediate and almost comical, his grin spreading wide enough to make your chest ache. “Good,” he said, nodding like he was trying to play it cool. “Good.”

As you slipped into your car, he leaned against the door, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“Drive safe,” he said, his voice softer now.

“I will,” you replied, your heart still thrumming as you pulled away.

For the first time, the idea of Rafe Cameron didn’t feel impossible. It felt… right.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[razorblade180]

Ekko Location

Ekko:*thousand yard stare*….

Caitlyn:(Should I tell him? No, false hope doesn’t do any good. Especially in this case.) *looks left*

Giant mural of Jinx

Caitlyn:….Ekko?

Ekko:What could you possibly want after everything?

Caitlyn:Hopefully, an olive branch. I have to tell you something but you have to promise to not get your hopes up, or tell Vi. This is something I’m trusting with you specifically.

Ekko:And how in the world did I get such an honor?

Caitlyn:Because if it wasn’t for one act of kindness, I’d be in your shoes right now.

Ekko:…What do you have to tell me?

xxxxxx

One month later. Somewhere across the water, in a nice quaint land known for its view of the ocean and mountains, a cloaked girl bobs her head to music as she roams the back alleys streets without a care in her mind.

Jinx: 🎶Do you ever wanna catch me?Right now I'm feeling ignored. *turns corner*

Jinx:So can you try a little harder? I'm really getting bor-

Ekko:*cloaked* !?….

Jinx:…..(Just when I thought I’ve wrangled all the voices. This is a low blow, me.) *closes eyes* (Just gonna breathe in and-)

Ekko:*grabs her wrist*

Jinx’s eyes immediately shoot open to see him right in front of her. She starts looking back, forth, everywhere; her thoughts trying to rationalize this moment because what do you mean he’s real!?

Jinx:Y- wha- how? How!? Fuck everything else. How?

Ekko:Let’s just say someone offered me a little hope. Honestly it was more like wishful thinking.

Jinx:Ekko, that’s not a “how” at all! You left Zaun to chase wishful thinking? That’s alone is crazy, but not as crazy as you actually finding me! I could’ve gone in any direction and stopped anywhere yet somehow you’re right here searching in the correct city? Gasps Did you put something in me?!

Ekko:What? No! Jinx, we used to spend literal hours talking about all the places we wanted go; the sight ls you wanted to see. Sometimes you rambled so much I never got a word in to say mine!

Jinx:So you’re telling you just remembered all that ramble and started flying to the places I yapped about!? Who the heck remembers stuff like that!?

Ekko:Me!! Since when have I ever forgotten anything!? Especially stuff about you!?

The girl was too stunned to speak. Ekko told no lies and he had a point, however, what the hell? How was she supposed to respond to that? She told absolutely nobody that she was leaving and left no trace, yet somehow wishful thinking from probably the world’s most annoying enforcer and childhood memories was enough for Ekko to find her in a little over a month. Jinx could only squint at him in disbelief. Sure, she could definitely break free of grip and make a break for it, yet this moment only gave her the strength to exhale tiredly before him.

Jinx:Anyone else know?

Ekko:Nope. You think people have time to chase hypotheticals?

Jinx:So you just left??

Ekko:Told them I needed some air. Had to move quickly. You don’t exactly stay in one place for long.

Jinx:…..Alright. Out with it. I know you have some rehearsed lecture and rant you’ve prepared in case you actually somehow weren’t crazy and found m-

Ekko:*hugs her* I can tell at you later.

Jinx:You really just might be crazier than me.

Her entire body relaxed as she finally put her arms around him. Despite all odds, he really was right here. Leave it the Boy Savior to yet again foil her schemes.

Jinx:At this point I should call you Ekko Location or something.

Ekko:I this point, I should put a fucking bell on you.

Jinx:I’d still get away.

Ekko:And I’d find you again.

Jinx:Heh, yeah. *hugs tightly* You would, wouldn’t you?

[angel-in-your-basement]

First time I’ve been sick in months and it’s on the day I was supposed to go get fucked within an inch of my life. There is no justice in the world.

[callme-holly]

Hi!!! i was wondering if you could do gang x reader where they always come up with the most biazzare but funny insults on the dot. like i mean telling someone who was rude to them they have the hairline of the golden gate bridge, the build of a dented refridgerator, etc. etc. and they just pull this shit out of normal and usually uses it in playful banter feel free to delete / setaside / ignore if you want! have a lovely day!!!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤-𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - im back y'all. just a reminder than my requests are still open!!

The gang x quick-witted!reader

Darry Curtis:

Darry seems like the kinda guy who would try his hardest to keep a straight face when you joke/insult someone, but most times he can’t help but crack a small smile. The first time he heard one of your insults, he couldn’t help but laugh, because it was the most random shit he’d ever heard. If y’all are in public, he’ll try to shush you, or keep you somewhat calm to keep the insults at bay, but he loves hearing what you can come up with on the spot, and he’ll probably tease you for it later on.

Sodapop Curtis:

Soda LOVES your insults. They will make him double over laughing every single time, no matter what it is. The first time he heard you insult someone was when they’d pushed past you at the DX; he was so ready to defend you when you just pulled out the wildest comeback known to man. He was stunned for about 2 seconds before both of you were in fits of laughter and the person walked out without a word. 

Ponyboy Curtis:

Pony would probably get some second hand embarrassment, but he’d still love every little insult that comes from you. You don’t exactly hold back when it comes to people who have annoyed you, and most of the time he’ll just let you ramble/hurl whatever insult you can think of without stopping you. Most of the time he’ll just look away, trying to hide his smile so he doesn’t get in trouble for it. He probably admires your lack of shame and, because we know he’s sassy as hell, he’ll probably steal a few of your insults to use on his brothers and the gang. 

Johnny Cade:

Much like Pony, Johnny strongly admires what little shame you have. If someone shows even the slightest hint of rudeness towards either you, or Johnny, you’re shooting some crazy insult straight back like it’s a first language. You don’t even need time to think. He’ll give small laughs and will break out into a smile at every single one before following after you when you walk away, not even looking back at the person. You definitely help to give him confidence boosts and he loves that. 

Dallas Winston:

You and Dally are a dangerous combo when it comes to insults. The shit the two of you will say is so crazy that most people can do nothing but laugh because it’s so out of the blue and random. The first time Dallas heard you insult someone, he just grinned and wrapped an arm around you. He was pretty damn proud to say the least. After that, it became a challenge of who could come up with the best insult towards the other, and people very quickly learnt to never mess with either of y’all.

Steve Randle:

Steve is pretty much your partner in crime when it comes to insults. He loves listening to you rattle off the craziest, most absurd shit everyone has ever heard, and most of the time he’ll join in to. He’ll laugh everytime you hit someone with something especially wild, and if anyone ever dares talk back, Steve’s got five more insults locked and ready to go. He’ll always defend you, but it doesn’t take long for him to realise you can definitely hold your own. 

Two-Bit Mathews:

Two lives for your insults. To him, it’s literally peak entertainment and you’ll have him rolling with laughter every damn time. Thing is, he isn’t just cracking up at you’re insults; he’s hyping you up, egging you on, and throwing in his own little comebacks when necessary. Most times, he doesn’t even care who your target is, he just loves listening to you. And once the two of you get started on someone, it’s a one way ticket to a roast so bizarre that even the person y’all are insulting has to laugh it off. All in all, Two-bit loves your creativity, and sometimes envies how quick you are to come up with something. 

[steddieasitgoes]

you can call me boyfriend for the weekend

I posted this earlier as a link to ao3 but I know some people like to read things straight on tumblr so this is for you people lol As noted, this was supposed to be a short little ficlet inspired by unfortunate "Black Out Wednesday"/hook up with someone in your hometown pre-Thanksgiving ritual and then Steve got a backstory and Eddie wanted a POV and it spiraled out of control like most of my work lol Also I wrote this all in twelve hours and it's not beta read at all lol but enjoy! And please ignore the wonky timeline. It's canon-divergent/no Upside Down. But basically in my head, all the normal things that happened to Steve/Eddie still happened in this universe and they got close during the Autumn months of 1986. I think that's all you need to know! wc: 8.8k | rated: M Read on ao3

The Hideout is unusually packed.

In hindsight, Steve should have figured as much. It’s not like he’s the only former resident in town who needs a shot or two (okay, maybe three, but who’s really counting other than the barkeep logging everyone’s tabs) of liquid courage before heading home to spend a few days with family. The overflowing parking lot and illegally double and triple-parked cars on the street are still a sight to see when he steps out of the Yellow Taxi.

Maybe he should have taken the cute stewardess up on the alcohol offer on the plane. Would have saved him a couple of bucks that’s for damn sure. Still, every time he was about to, Robin’s nagging voice would pop into his head, spewing one of her nonsense rambles about the importance of being fully coherent on an airplane, lest they have to land the plane as if he’d have the skills to land a plane in the first place. And yet, he remained stone-cold sober on the couple-hour flight into Indianapolis from Boston just in case.

Sure, there’s liquor at his parent's house — at least, he hopes they haven’t packed up the dry bar if they did, he’s really fucked this weekend — but he needs something now to keep the anxiety bubbling in his chest at bay. And last time he checked The Hideout is the only place within a twenty-mile radius that can serve up a quick, cheap drink. Plus, there’s the fact that the Yellow Taxi he took here from the airport has already disappeared into the night, and he’s not about to go inside to call another cab without buying something; that would be rude.

In yet another surprising twist, that shouldn’t be surprising given the parking situation; there’s a small line of people waiting to get in. In the nineteen and a half years he spent in Hawkins, Steve’s never seen a line in front of The Hideaway. He knows for a fact that the place never had a bouncer, much less one who meticulously cards everyone who walks in.

Well, everyone but him it seems.

Steve doesn’t even get his wallet open, much less out of his pocket, before the man is wrapping a bright orange ’21 and over’ wristband on his wrist. Which, like, ouch. He knows he just got off a flight after working a half-day shift at the stupid office, but he can’t look that much like an adult. Can he?

Thankfully, there’s no time to dwell on his fleeting youth as he’s pushed into the crowded bar with the rest of the customers who patiently waited their turn in the frigid Indiana November evening.

The familiar scent hits him the second he’s more than three steps through the opened doors — stale beer, nicotine, the undeniable musk bodies emit when they’re dancing and, well, horny. But there’s also something new going on, too. Crisp leather, a piney scene that can only be associated with floor cleaner, and something minty, peppermint, he thinks, maybe for the upcoming holidays. Gone is the stench of piss that no amount of power washing the concrete floors could ever scrub up. Steve notices the concrete floor is gone, too, apparently, as his shoes squeak against the shiny black laminate.

There are a few new booths from the looks of things, and the stage has gotten a major upgrade since the last time he was here to see… He shakes the thought from his head and keeps walking until he finds an open spot in the corner of the bar.

A bartender materializes the second his ass makes contact with the new vinyl seat. She looks vaguely familiar, too young to be in his class, but maybe someone from Henderson’s year. He figures he’ll be downing glasses of expensive wine when he finally musters up the courage to go home, so he orders a shot of tequila and a rum and coke in the meantime. She pours the shot right there, excusing herself to grab the rum bottle from one of the other bartenders working tonight.

He grimaces as he shoots it back, tequila burning his throat as it goes down before he sucks the sliver of lime between his lips. It’s impossible for the effects to kick in this fast, but he already feels the tension easing from his shoulders. He uses the reprieve from his anxiety to really take everything in. The Hideout may have gotten some major upgrades, but he can’t say the same about its patrons.

It’s a real who’s who of Hawkins High has-beens. Andy and a couple of younger guys he remembers playing ball with his junior year of high school, all wearing their Greek letter crewnecks, downing beers and slapping each other on the back. Jason’s in the center with his arm around a stereotypical-looking blonde who is clearly not from around here. Heather Holloway is unmistakable, pressed into a booth arguing with some guy Steve thinks was on their swim team while their three kids jump around unchecked. And is that Chrissy Cunningham with… Gareth? That nerd from Dustin’s D&D group? Steve makes a mental note to bring it up with Dustin when the little shit calls him next because holy shit.

It takes him a minute to spot Tommy and Carol, but once he does, he doesn’t know how he didn’t see them sooner. They’re pressed up against each other, practically dry-humping in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. Tommy’s got his tongue shoved down Carol’s throat, and her hand is fisted into his buttoned shirt that’s definitely a size too small. 

Somethings never change, he thinks, rolling his eyes as the pair stumble their way towards the bathrooms at the opposite end of the bar.

Steve’s about to turn back around and disappear into the shadowy corner he’s found himself in when the static feedback of the seemingly brand-new speakers goes off, sending every patron in the bar covering their ears.

“Sorry! Sorry!” A man calls from the makeshift sound booth a few yards away from Steve. “Give it another go for me?”

“Check one, check one, two. Sounds great, Frank. We’re all set up here if you are,” a woman says from the stage. Steve figures she gets a non-verbal cue from Dave because then she’s talking again, her voice bright and way louder than it needs to be. The giggle that comes next is even worse. “Hi everyone! Lots of familiar faces in the crowd tonight.”

It takes his eyes a minute to adjust to the bright spotlight illuminating the stage, but when it does, he nearly falls out of his seat. Is that?

“Anyways, I’m Tammy, and these are the Townies, and we’re Tammy and the Townies!”

Holy shit! It’s Tammy Thompson. The Tammy Thompson. Robin is going to be so pissed when he calls and tells her about this tomorrow morning. She’ll probably say that he was just seeing things, blame it on the single shot of tequila he’s had since he’s still waiting for his drink, but he knows the truth. Especially when Tammy launches into the opening lines of “Santa Baby,” trying her best to be sultry but still sounding like a rejected Muppet.

Someone chuckles behind Steve, before an all too familiar voice says, “I haven’t heard that one before.”

His first thought is: Shit, did he say that out loud?

And then comes something even worse: Wait, I know that voice.

All the anxiety the shot of tequila chased off comes surging back to Steve, swirling in his gut, threatening to creep up his throat and out his mouth. No. He’s not going to throw up in The Hideout after one shot, not with the entirety of his high school class in attendance. And definitely not in front of Eddie Munson.

There’s no doubt in Steve’s mind that it's anyone but Eddie Munson standing behind him and the bar. He would know that voice and chuckle anywhere, could pick it out in a line-up if he had to after the fall of 1985 when they— nope, not going there.

The way he sees it, he has two options. One, get the hell out of here without turning around. It’s dark in the corner, so there’s a chance Eddie hasn’t realized who he’s talking to yet; in fact, Steve’s pretty sure if Eddie knew who he just spoke to, he never would have opened his mouth to begin with. So, yeah, he could get the hell out of here, maybe leave a couple of bucks at the opposite end of the bar on the way out so he’s not drinking and ditching, and then hail a cab and head to his childhood house.

Or, he could woman the fuck up, as Robin would say, turn around and meet the gaze of a man he hasn’t seen since he was nineteen, confused and desperate to make something out of himself.

He weighs the cons: spend a few extra hours with his parents or face Eddie Munson, the only person other than Robin to ever see him. The real him.

The answer is easy.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie says, sizing Steve up with those big doe eyes of his the second Steve turns in his chair. “If it isn’t Steve Harrington in the flesh. What the hell are you doing around these parts? Thought you left to go make daddy dearest proud?”

Ouch.

Steve should have expected Eddie not to mince words, even if he is a paying customer and all. He doesn’t allow himself to get a good look at Eddie, meeting him with his own mean-spirited retort instead.

“Guess I should have known you’d still be around, Munson,” Steve snarks. Eddie wants to play? Steve’ll gladly participate. “Still flunking out of high school?”

“Now that one I have heard before.”

Eddie doesn’t stick around for a response. He slams Steve’s rum and coke on the bar counter and gives it a rough shove. The glass slides across the sleek countertop before crashing into Steve’s awaiting hand. The drink sloshes in the cup, a few droplets spilling out, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to wave Eddie down and demand a replacement, so he shuts up and brings the now half-empty glass to his lips. He takes a much-needed gulp and then another, alcohol going down better than the shot from earlier, dulling the regret from his mean-spirited retort with it. He sulks for a moment before letting his eyes drift behind the bar. Searching.

If The Hideout is crowded, the bar is just as congested. At least four bartenders shimmy around each other. Hands reaching for various bottles, glasses clinking as ice falls in. It’s the most people Steve’s ever seen behind the small bar top, and he’s willing to bet it’s more than they’re legally allowed.

Fire code and all that.

Not that he knows much about that.

Not yet, at least.

He will once he starts his Fire Academy classes in the new year.

That is, assuming his dad doesn’t kill him the minute he finds out about his career change.

That’s a problem for tomorrow, Steve thinks, shaking the thought away and chasing it further by draining the rest of his drink.

“Can I getcha’ another round?” The young bartender asks, reappearing like a damn bar fairy.

Steve’s not sure he’s fully thought his order out, too preoccupied stealing glances at Eddie, but his lips start moving anyway, words escaping before he has a chance to stop them, “Actually, can I get a Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice instead of pineapple.”

“Pickle juice? Are you sure?”

Shit.

No.

Yes.

Steve quietly contemplates changing his unusual order, tilting his empty rum and coke glass to his lips, desperate for another teaspoon of liquid courage. He’s met with the cool sensation of ice hitting his teeth instead. Another not-so-subtle sneak at Eddie, and Steve doubles down. “Yeah. Eddie should know how to make it.”

“Oh, uh, ” the bartender says, nervously glancing to her right.

Steve follows her line of vision, giving himself permission to do more than glance this time, and finds Eddie on the opposite end tossing around bottles and the shaker like he’s fucking Tom Cruise in Cocktails and not a super-senior who half the town was convinced was a Satanist.

“Let me see what I can do for you.”

Steve gives her his best customer service smile and a quick nod before watching her shuffle through the other bartenders on her quest to get to Eddie.

He lets his eyes linger as Eddie finally doles out the drink he’s been working on. Five years and some change has been good on him. His hair is still as unruly as ever, twisted back in a low bun at the base of his neck. Tending to the bar has clearly served his arms well judging by the tone biceps peaking out from under his black shirt. It’s done wonders for his entire body, if Steve’s honest, sizing up the way he finally fills out his jeans.

Eddie turns just so, new piercings catching in the reflection of the spotlight from the stage. Steve catalogs them, a few new ones to his ears, a hoop in his left nostril. There’s new ink, too, decorating his strong forearms and peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

Steve’s attraction to Eddie isn’t a surprise, especially after the Fall of ‘86. But it’s like a match has just ignited a new flame in the depths of his body. He looks good, is all. Really, really good.

Steve’s pulled from his not-so-subtle ogling when the young bartender finally gets Eddie’s attention. He can’t hear the conversation, but he spent enough time around Eddie to know what the man is saying without even looking at his lips. Her back is to him, but Steve knows the minute he brings up the drink because Eddie’s body goes stiff, his head jolting toward Steve, eyes growing wide as he glares at him from the opposite end of the bar.

For a moment, Steve thinks he’s truly fucked up. Well, more than he did five and a half years ago when he let his dad convince him to set him up with a job in Boston that forced him to leave without saying goodbye to anyone, least of all Eddie. But then he sees the moment Eddie’s stubbornness sets in, clouding his eyes and forcing his chunky boots to stomp through the hoard of sweaty bartenders.

“Did you come all the way home to fuck with me?” Eddie barks, still a foot and a half away from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the bullshit, Harrington,” Eddie snaps, hands smacking onto the countertop.

When Steve doesn’t say anything, Eddie rages on. If it wasn’t for Tammy Thompson’s wailing in the background, Steve’s pretty sure they’d have everyone’s attention right now. Thank God for Tammy Thompson.

“Seriously? Pickle juice!”

Steve’s hit with the familiar woodsy, nicotine smell he spent months chasing around town as Eddie drops to his elbows, leaning in closer to Steve. For a second, he thinks Eddie is going to deck him, at the very least fist his hand into his shirt and yank him forward, but he doesn’t.

“I know damn well you’re not ordering Vodka Party Punch with fucking pickle juice at the fancy bars wherever you ended up. What makes you think you can order one here now?”

“You’re right, I don’t order them in Boston,” Steve says, answering the question Eddie really didn’t ask. “But I’m ordering it now because you’re the creator of the drink, and I know you’ll make it taste right.”

Steve watches Eddie’s jaw drop. The bar is dimly lit but it doesn’t take florescent lights to catch the red tinting the tips of Eddie’s ears, fully exposed with his hair pulled back in a bun. It’s been a minute since Steve attempted this game with anyone, but Eddie’s always been a fun participant — especially when he’s pretending he doesn’t like it.

“I’m charging you double,” Eddie concedes, twirling the giant skull ring still perched on his finger.

“Better make it worth my dime, Munson.”

“You know I always do, Harrington,” Eddie taunts, clearly finding his footing in this flirtatious sparing match they’ve started. 

* * *

By the time Eddie returns with his drink, Tammy and the Townsies have wrapped up their set for the night — thank god — and The Hideout slowly starts to empty out. With a few less bodies occupying the actual bar, Eddie has no problem sticking around, tossing his dish rag over his shoulder as he slides the Vodka Party Punch with pickle juice over to Steve, much gentler this time.

The drink smells exactly like he remembers, but the presentation has improved since their days of mixing them in the Munson’s crowded kitchen. A mini pickle is skewered through a toothpick as garnish, and the glass is tall and clean, a rarity in the mug-infested kitchen of that autumn.

Steve makes a show of his first sip, slowly raising the glass to his mouth without breaking eye contact with Eddie as he licks his lips in anticipation. Eddie’s eyes dilate the second Steve’s tongue makes an appearance, and it takes everything in Steve not to jump across the bar and shove it down Eddie’s throat a la Carol and Tommy style. He knows the Eddie from five autumns ago wouldn’t mind, but this Eddie might.

He does the next best thing instead, taking a slow sip of the drink, exaggerating when he swallows before punctuating the first taste with a low moan of approval. Judging by the smattering of pink moving to Eddie’s cheeks, it works.

“Delicious, just like I remembered.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it the minute the words leave his lips, and the flush on Eddie’s cheeks drains to a ghostly white , eyes turning to fire.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that,” Eddie scoffs, snapping his dish towel off his shoulder to wipe the counter.

“I just, I—“ Steve groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. Leave it to him to be back in Hawkins for less than three hours and already fuck things up. “Thank you,” he finally says, eyes trained on his drink. “You didn’t have to make it, and you did, so thanks.”

“Whatever customers want, they get here at The Hideout.”

Steve can’t help but snort, “S’that a new motto?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

When Steve glances up, Eddie’s smiling at him. Not his toothy grin Steve loved to coax out of him, but his lips are definitely quirked into a grin which he’ll take as a win. Small victories and all that.

“That what they pay you the big bucks for? Slinging drinks like Tom Cruise and coming up with new slogans?”

“Something like that.” Eddie finishes wiping down the counter in front of Steve and moves half a step to his right, working on the next area that’s vacated.

Steve thinks that’s it. The beginning and end of their civil conversation, but then Eddie looks across the bar, no doubt taking in the empty state of things, before turning back to look at Steve. Really, look at him.

If it weren’t for the liquor coursing through Steve’s veins, he doesn’t think he’d be able to sit there under Eddie’s gaze. But he does have alcohol on his side, so he stays glued to his seat, his own cheeks heating up as Eddie’s brown eyes roam over his body, taking him in the same way he did with Eddie a while ago.

When he’s done, Eddie cocks his head to the side and tuts. “You’ve seen better days, Harrington. I think your eye bags have eye bags.”“Corporate life’ll do that to you,” Steve grumbles, taking another sour sip from his drink. When Eddie doesn’t throw a dig he knows is on the tip of his tongue, Steve breaks the silence. “You look good behind a bar.” Jesus, maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. “I mean, uh, how long have you been working here.”

Eddie snorts, coming back over until he’s right in front of Steve. He drops to his elbows again, pillowing his chin in his hands as he makes direct eye contact. “About five-ish years ago. Right after I graduated.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“I, uh, thought the plan was to get the hell out of here?”

Eddie hums. “It was. Took the job to save money so I could do just that.”

“And you ended up loving it?”

“Hated it at first, actually, but you know we’re not all lucky enough to be able to get the hell out of Hawkins just because people tell us we should,” Eddie says, eyes boring judgment into Steve’s own. “Figured if I have to stick around I might as well try and make it better for those of us still here.”

“That’s what you’re doing, then?” Steve asks, generally curious. He always knew Eddie had a savior complex, saw it firsthand when Dustin and the rest of the kids started high school, and immediately got swept up in Eddie’s inner circle of outcasts. “Making Hawkins better?”

“Trying to,” Eddie says, and Steve can feel the walls around him shrinking, only for them to harden in an instant. “Turns out it’s a lot easier when the assholes flee.”

Steve winces and downs the rest of his drink. When it’s drained, he sets it down and fumbles through his pockets for his wallet. He gets no more than three measly bucks out before Eddie is shooing him away.

“It’s on the house tonight.”

Steve shakes his head, digging back into his wallet “Don’t think your boss’ll be happy about that.

“Good thing m’the boss then.”

Steve gawks. He’s pretty sure his jaw is fully open, but it's worth it to see the pleased look on Eddie’s face. “Shit, seriously?”

“What, you think old Dave was the one to plan the renovation of this place? That cheapskate was slinging water tinted brown with food coloring to the regulars once they got drunk enough not to tell.”

Steve laughs, but doesn’t get distracted with the anecdote like he knows Eddie hopes he will. Eddie Munson might have his heart in his sleep, but if there’s one thing Steve knows about him, it’s that he hates being emotionally vulnerable. Steve can’t say he blames him, but still, he presses on.

“Eddie Munson, CEO of the Hideout. Who would have thought?”

“I don’t know about CEO,” Eddie says, fingers struggling with the elastic holding his hair back. It takes a second for him to get the strands untangled, and when it does, his hair cascades over his shoulder in those same unruly curls Steve tried to tame once or twice. Eddie’s hand immediately finds a strand, twirling it around his fingers and pulling it towards his lips. “Owner as of the first of the year, though.”

“Eds, that’s really fucking cool. Holy shit! Congrats! I feel like we should toast or something.”

If Eddie catches the nickname slip up, he doesn’t mention it. Maybe Robin’s patenting ramble so they can’t comprehend every embarrassing thing you’ve said method actually works.

Instead, he waves him off. “Sounds to me like you’re just trying to get another round of free liquor in you before heading home to the parents.”

“Damn,” Steve says, happy to play along. “Am I that obvious?”

Eddie rolls his eyes but ducks behind the counter for a moment, popping back up with two clean cups. He blindly reaches for a top-shelf whiskey and pours just a bit too much to be considered a shot, but not a full serving either. They clink the glasses together in a silent toast before throwing back the over-poured shot like they’re nineteen and twenty again.

“You know,” Eddie says, closing the distance between them as he leans against the countertop again. “We’re looking for some silent investor, partner types to help out with financing. If you, uh, know anyone who might be interested.”

“Oh,” Steve says, liquor making his brain slower than usual.

Eddie pushes off the bar, shaking his head. “Don’t look too excited, Steve. I was just joking.”

“No, shit, I mean, yeah, I would invest. Love to even,” Steve rambles, desperate to keep Eddie from joining the rest of the bartenders in tallying up their tips. “It’s just, uh, I’m actually getting out of the investment world.”

“You don’t have to lie, Harrington. A simple no will do.”

“I’m serious. Today was actually my last day. I’m enrolled in the Fire Academy come January.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, that toothy grin finally making an appearance. “Way to bury the lede, Stevie! We should be toasting to you! Finally getting out from under your dad’s thumb!”

Unlike Eddie, the nickname isn’t lost on Steve, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Not if he wants to keep Eddie smiling, and dammit he does. It’s the only thing he’s ever really wanted.

“I mean, I still have to break the news to my dad. But yeah, assuming he doesn’t kill me, it’s happening.”

“Hey, Munson,” a bartender he realizes is Jeff calls from the opposite end of the bar. “Get your ass over here and close out so we can go home. Some of us actually want to see our families.”

Eddie flips Jeff off but doesn’t budge from his spot in front of Steve.

“I should probably head out, too,” Steve says, slowly rising from the stool. His legs are full of pins and needles, asleep from sitting so long, but he manages to stay upright.

“Wait,” Eddie says, shouting even though all Steve’s done is duck behind the counter to grab his duffle from the floor. “Did you drive here?”

Steve shakes his head. “Took a cab from the airport, gonna use the payphone out back to call another.”

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says in a rush. “I mean, I can’t let you waste your money on a cab when you’re unemployed now.”

“I’m not unemployed, I’m going to—“

“Fire school, yeah, yeah, I got that,” Eddie says, waving him off. “Just give me two minutes, and I’ll drive you home, okay?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Steve makes a show of sounding inconvenienced, which earns a dramatic eye roll from Eddie and a victory for himself. His streak of pretending not to care actually working lives on another day.

* * *

Seven minutes later, thanks to a mathematical error and a hushed conversation between Jeff and Eddie, Steve finds himself in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. “I can’t believe you still have this thing.”

“How is it any different from you still driving the Beamer?”

“How do you know I still drive the Beamer?”

“Please, the only thing you love more than that car is Buckley. Speaking of, where is your platonic other half?”

“Still in Boston. She got asked to write an article for her grad department’s journal.”

“Ah, so she sent you to the lion’s den all on your own,” Eddie teases, slowing to a stop despite the light still being yellow.

“Figured this was one Harrington vs Harrington battle she didn’t need to bear witness to.”

Eddie gasps, clutching a hand over his heart. “My, my, it seems like us lowly mortals are in the presence of the Great Sir Stevebert tonight.”

Steve can’t help but snort. He’s missed this. The easy teasing, the openness. Eddie and his silly voices and even sillier words. He can’t believe he’s gone almost six years without him.

“So,” Eddie says, drawing out the vowel. “Isn’t Dick going to be extra pissed off that you’re showing up on his doorstep at three in the morning?”

Steve shrugs. “Probably.”

“What time were they expecting you?”

“When are they ever really expecting me?” Steve laughs dryly. “I didn’t really give them a set date. Figured if I told my dad I was flying out today, he’d figure out the whole work thing so I told them I’d try to catch a late flight after I finished for the day and be there by Thanksgiving dinner at the latest.”

“So they don’t know you’re in town.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not unless someone at the unofficial Hawkins High reunion tonight ratted me out.”

“Jesus H. Christ you caught that too?” Eddie shouts, smacking his left hand against the dashboard. “I’ve worked plenty of Wednesdays before Thanksgiving, but none of them have pulled that many of our former classmates out. I don’t know why everyone is back in town this year.”

“Back in town or never left?”

“Hey,” Eddie scolds. “Watch it. Your life is in the hands of a Hawkins townie right now.”

Steve holds his hands up in surrender and is glad to see Eddie grinning at him when he musters the courage to steal a glance. He wishes he could offer a careless smile back, but the closer they get to Loch Nora, the more he feels the anxiety creeping in again. Eddie must sense it, too, because he slows to well below the speed limit.

“I wouldn’t mind having a roommate for the night,” he says nonchalantly. Like Eddie’s talking about the weather and not offering to spend the night in Steve’s presence. Steve, the guy who disappeared on him one day after months of fucking around — literally and figuratively. The same Steve who hasn’t been back to Hawkins because he’s been avoiding this exact situation like the chickenshit he is.

“Wayne probably will, though,” Steve says, trying his best to turn Eddie down without actually turning him down. It’s not that he doesn’t want to spend the night with him. Hell, he’d sell his left arm for the chance. The problem is it’ll just be one night, and Steve doesn’t think he has that in him. Not when he wants all the nights.

“Good thing he’s not home.”

“Wait,” Steve says, turning in the passenger seat to look at Eddie. “He left you on Thanksgiving? Isn’t that against your Munson Family Code or whatever?”

Eddie snorts, mumbling something that sounds an awful lot like ‘I can’t believe he remembered that’ under his breath. “I told him it was okay. He’s up in Chicago spending the holiday with Scott Clarke’s family.”

“Scott Clarke? The middle school science teacher?”

Eddie nods.

“I didn’t know they were friends.”

Eddie breaks in the middle of the street, leveling Steve with a look he finds himself receiving from Robin all the time. She says people like them are supposed to know when other people are like them, but so far, Steve has yet to inherit that superpower.

“Oh, shit,” he says, finally. “I didn’t know your uncle was into guys.”

“Neither did I,” Eddie laughs. “It was a real memorable day in the Munson’s house when I found out.”

A comfortable silence falls between them as Eddie eases the van back on the rode. They stay like that for a light or two before Eddie rolls to a stop at a familiar intersection.

“Great Sir Stevebert,” he says, switching into his deep, DM voice. “It seems you have a choice to make. Shall you continue on your travels, taking the golden brick road to the lone castle on the hill, or shall you take the road less traveled and embark on the twisting journey to the Moors?”

Once again, the decision is easy.

“If you really don’t mind,” Steve says instead of a definitive answer.

Eddie whoops and makes the sharp right turn that’ll take them to Forest Hills. “Onward, Sir Stevebert, to the Moors, we go!”

_ _ _

Eddie has no idea what he’s doing. One minute he’s fighting with himself, desperate to keep his attention on the out-of-town in-laws of some Hawkins High alumni in need of a blissful night out before the family shit starts and not on the sulking figure of Steve fucking Harrington on the opposite end of the bar. And the next second, he’s ushering that same Steve up the steps of the Munson trailer like he did so many times before.

Jesus H. Christ.

He should have listened to Jeff. He should have called Steve a cab and paid for it himself if it made him sleep better at night. Hell, he should have kicked Steve out the second he mouthed off to him. But he didn’t. And he couldn’t.

Despite all the bullshit, Steve put him through, despite five whole fucking years without so much as a call, Eddie still has a soft spot for the goddamn fallen King. Time heals many things, but the love he has for Steve isn’t one of them.

Love?

No. Strike that from the record.

Infatuation.

A crush, maybe.

Not love.

Not anymore.

Eddie shrugs his shoulders, shaking the thought from his entire body, and moves to unlock the door. He gestures for Steve to enter, and Eddie trails behind, bending down at the entrance to untie his work boots and free his sore feet. He wasn’t lying when he told Steve this is the busiest pre-Thanksgiving shift he’s ever worked. He’s pretty sure his blisters have blisters at this point.

His knees ache at the position, so he lets himself fall back, ass on the worn welcome mat as he finishes the task at hand. It feels nice to get off his feet, and he lets himself linger there for a moment. A hand massaging the ache from the arch of his foot while his eyes drift up, watching Steve asses the trailer much like he did the very first time he found himself in the humble abode.

As nice as it is to get off his feet, the last thing Eddie needs is for Steve to turn around and catch him staring at him from a spot on the floor. With a quiet groan, he hoists himself back into a standing position and dusts his hands off on his jeans.

“Wayne getting rid of his mug collection?” Steve asks, breaking the silence. Eddie follows his pointed finger to the top, empty rack shelf the patterned couch.

“No, just relocated ‘m. He spends most nights at Scott’s house now. I basically own the place. Wayne refuses to let me pay the full rent, though, since it’s his name on the lease.”

Steve lets out a low whistle that doesn’t do anything, Eddie, nothing at all, and turns to face him with a look of mischief in his hazel eyes. “Now, who’s the one with a silver spoon.”

He can’t help but laugh at how absurd that sounds. As if inheriting the trailer is some kind of privilege, but in some ways it is, right?

“It’s no rent-free apartment in a big city, but it’ll do,” he says, trying his best to throw a dig back at Steve, but it doesn’t sting the way he wants it to. If anything, it makes Steve’s lips dip into a frown instead of stroking that familiar petty flame he knows stays lit in his gut.

“Come on,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “You think Dick Harrington pays for my place in Boston? The asshole got me a shit job and told me to figure the rest out. I was lucky Robin was already there when I showed up. Her RA wasn’t too pleased, but we made it work that first year.”

Great, now he’s the asshole.

It’s such a different picture than the one he’s spent the last five years painting in his head. That good ol’ Dick Harrington shipped his only son off, far enough away that the town freak couldn’t continue sinking his teeth (and dick) into him without him knowing about it. Set him up with a good job and a nice place to sleep at night that left Steve no choice but to stay even though he knew that’s not what Steve wanted. Never was.

But that’s not the story, is it?

The real story is that Dick Harrington is an even bigger prick than he thought, and Steve is a coward. Eddie can understand Steve staying away if his dad made his new life nice for him and kept him comfortable and just shy of miserable, but he didn’t. And yet, Steve stayed in a job he hated, in a dorm he had no business crashing in because Daddy Dearest told him to do it.

A part of Eddie wants to ask why. Wants to dig his grimy finger into the still-fresh wound in Steve’s chest, judging by the grimace on his face, and get to the bottom of what the hell his dad has over him to keep in line. But what good would it do, really?

Eddie opts for a different strategy instead.

“Why now?”

Steve cocks his head, brows knitting together in that cute confused face Eddie used to love coaxing out of him with a single nerdy phrase back in the day. “Why now what?”

Eddie sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. He could change the subject, shrug off his question, and steer the conversation into calmer waters to get them through the night. But that wouldn’t be fair to him or Steve. Not in the long run.

“It’s been five years since you’ve been in town, Steve,” Eddie says blankly. “Why now?”

“My parents are selling the place,” he answers, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Said they wanted one last family Thanksgiving in the place before it’s not ours anymore. It’s bullshit if you ask me. I can’t remember the last time we spent the holiday together, even when I lived here, but here I am.”

“Here you are.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Steve groans, collapsing on the couch behind him. “I don’t know what it is about my parents that has me running to them every time they ask, even though they don’t give a damn about me 99% of the time.”

Eddie follows Steve's lead, settling on the couch but leaving the middle cushion open. An unofficial barrier between them. “I’m no psychologist, but it sounds like textbook daddy issues to me.”

Steve shoves at Eddie’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move, too stunned by the sudden contact to do anything else. Steve’s hand leaves his shoulder as fast as it finds it, but the effects are already in motion. Eddie’s entire body vibrates under the ghost of Steve’s touch, skin alive and hot in a way it hasn’t been in years.

Eddie turns, expecting to find Steve staring off in the distance, but instead, he’s staring at him with those open, honest hazel eyes. All it takes is one look, one single slip of his eyes to Steve’s lip and back again, and Steve’s surging forward, closing the distance between them.

Steve tastes like cheap liquor and pickle juice, and all it takes is one swipe of Steve’s tongue, and Eddie’s transported back to the Fall of 1986. Of experimenting with whatever ingredients they had on hand in the kitchen and throwing back drinks to nurse their respective education wounds — Eddie not graduating again, Steve failing to get into college. Memories of playful shoves turning into wrestling matches turning hot and heavy until lips met lips and skin, so much skin.

Five years may have passed, but it feels like no time at all as Eddie sinks further into Steve’s embrace, fingers tangling in the wisps of hair on Steve’s neck, and Steve’s own hands find themselves tangled in his curls.

It’s only when Steve moves to straddle Eddie’s hip that the reality of the situation hits him. Eddie jolts away; hands braced on Steve’s shoulders to keep a respectable amount of distance between them. He hates himself the moment he looks into Steve’s cloudy hazel eyes, but he’d hate himself more if he let this continue without checking in.

With Steve an arm's length away, Eddie studies him. Squinting as he stares into Steve’s eyes, checking for glassy, unfocused eyes, excessive sweating, and flushed face — all of which Steve has, but maybe not for the reasons Eddie is checking for.

“You’re drunk,” Eddie says plainly.

Steve shakes his head, words, not even the least bit slurred when he says, “No. Maybe a little buzzed, but that’s it. I promise.”

Something snaps inside of Eddie at those two words, releasing the anger his horniess has been holding at bay. In an instant, he feels the rage boiling inside of him, and he shoves at Steve hard enough to send him back to his end of the couch.

“With much offense, Steve,” Eddie says, venom dripping from his lips as he spits out Steve’s name. “Promises don’t mean shit coming from you.”

And just like that, they’re back where they started the evening off. Opposite sides of each other, scowling and hurt in their own ways.

Steve sighs and shifts on the couch, not-so-subtly adjusting himself in his pants. “Eds,” he whispers, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I fucked up, okay. I know I did, but what was I supposed to? My dad was threatening you just as much as he was threatening me, and it was just easier to leave.”

“Easier for you, maybe.”

“I—“

“What are we doing here, Steve?” Eddie asks, cutting off whatever lame excuse is coming next.

“I thought I was trying to apologize but clearly I was wrong.”

Eddie can’t help the dark chuckle that escapes him. “So you apologize, and then what? We fuck, you get one last blowjob by the former freak of Hawkins, and then poof, you’re gone again?” Eddie rises from the couch in an instant, sock-covered feet pacing the length of the living room. He steals one glance down at Steve and shakes his head. “I should have listened to Jeff. Should have listened to everyone and stayed the fuck away. This is nothing but a pre-holiday fuck, and I’m so fucking stupid for falling for it.”

“No!” Steve shouts, standing up now too. “I’m not, I mean, I didn’t even know you’d be at the Hideout. I just stopped there because I couldn’t stomach the thought of showing up to my parents' place sober.”

“You think that makes me feel better?” Eddie snaps. “Tell me this: if I wasn’t at the bar tonight, would you have come to find me?”

Steve says silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I didn’t even know you were still in Hawkins until tonight!”

“Bullshit! I know for a fact Henderson has mentioned seeing me when he comes back for the holidays. Just stop lying!”

“You want me to stop lying?” Steve shouts, stalking over to where Eddie’s stopped pacing. He boxes him in against the new bookshelf he installed in the corner where Wayne’s roll-away mattress used to sit. With his shoes still on, Steve’s got half an inch on Eddie and it’s daunting staring up into those eyes when Steve’s jaw is set in a hardline. “I fucking love you, okay? I have for years! And yeah, I was a fucking coward for leaving, and I could have, should have called in the years since, but I was scared, okay? I was scared you figured out that I’m not worth it and found someone better, just almost everyone else in my stupid fucking life and—“

It’s Eddie’s lips that crash into Steve’s this time. The words die on Steve’s lip, and for a maddening moment, Eddie wonders if he’s broken him beyond repair. That maybe he sould have left him keep spiraling and hit rock button, but then Steve kisses him back and it’s perfect. Well, as close to perfect as they can get considering they’re both angry and exhausted and Jesus h. Christ when did Steve learn to do that with his tongue? It’s headier than the kiss on the couch, leagues better than their awkward teenage makeouts from that autumn. They’ve both grown up, practiced, and found what works, and god damn, does it work.

When they pull apart this time, it's only to catch their breaths before diving back in. Eddie gets his hands on Steve’s shirt, rucking it up and over his head in a tangle of limbs, his own shirt isn’t too far behind, flying through the air with reckless abandon. Steve’s lips find his throat and Eddie doesn’t know if he wants to scream or sink into him further so he does a mix of both, a wanton moan falling from his lips as he pulls Steve closer by his hips and ruts against him.

They’re really moving now, stumbling down the familiar hallway until they’re crashing into Eddie’s unmade bed. Eddie hovers over Steve, admiring his flushed torso and blissed-out face for all of two seconds before Steve pulls him close, whispering want you and need you, and who is Eddie to deny Steve anything, much less mutual pleasure?

They fumble with each other’s jeans, hands shoving and hips lifting and twisting until there’s nothing between them but the thick, musty air. Eddie’s hands trail up and down Steve’s body, his lips and teeth following leaving marks on his favorite moles. He licks a stripe from the dip of his waist to his belly button and back down, and Steve keens under him.

“Please,” Steve whines. “Stop teasing.”

“It’s call foreplay, sweetheart,” Eddie chirps, but ultimately gives in, taking all of Steve in his mouth in one go.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve swears, fisting a hand into the sheets.

Eddie pulls away, eyes wide and full of mischief. “First you say no teasing, then you get mad when I take you? What do you want from me, Stevie?” He cups Steve’s ball, rolling them with enough pleasure to coax another moan from Steve’s lips.

“Just play nice, Eds.”

Eddie hums, then dives back in, slower this time but still just as desperate. He’s missed this almost as much as he’s missed Steve in general. Maybe even more, if he’s honest. There are a lot of dicks in the sea, but none as beautiful and responsive as Steve’s.

Eddie laughs at the cheesy thought, and the vibrations do something to Steve to elicit the most beautiful sound Eddie’s ever heard. He almost laughs again just to hear it again, but before he has a chance, Steve’s shoving him off and flipping them over.

“Wh— what’s going on?”

“M’too close, and I don’t want cum without tasting you first.”

Despite his protests, Steve dives straight in with no preamble and Eddie feels the familiar coil of pressure building in an instant. He’s not going to last, not if Steve keeps doing that with his tongue and Jesus h. Christ he’s never going to live it down if he cums two seconds into getting Steve’s lips on him.

He tries to think of anything else. The disgusting bathrooms at the Hideout he’s going to have to clean tomorrow and the grocery list on the fridge he has to brave the last-minute holiday shoppers for, but nothing seems to work.

Eddie squirms, tries his best to get away from Steve but Steve hand settles on his hips, holding him to the mattress as he continues to move up and down. Eddie sees the stars building in his eyes without even closing his eyes and his hand moves on its own volution, finding Steve’s leaking cock and wrapping his hand around it.

If he’s going to cum embarrassingly fast, so is Steve.

He matches his strokes with Steve’s and they both fill the room with their moans and cries until finally they collapse on each other. Eddie’s hand and chest are sticky with Steve’s cum, and his own is spilling out Steve’s lips, but he doesn’t care. He pulls Steve closer, capturing his lips in a searing, sweaty kiss.

* * * 

Another round and an hour-long make-out session later, they finally get up to clean themselves up. Eddie leaves Steve in his room and disappears into the bathroom. One look at His debauched self in the mirror and Eddie can’t help the smile that breaks out. If someone had told him this was how he’d be spending the early hours of his first Thanksgiving without Wayne, he would have laughed in their face.

When he returns to the room a few minutes later, Steve’s back on the bed, the thin sheet doing little to cover his lower half while his torso lays on full display, light by the warm light seeping through the cracks of Eddie’s blinds as the sun rises outside.

“Hi,” Eddie whispers, suddenly shy as he slips back into bed.

“Hi,” Steve whispers back, shuffling across the bed and making himself comfortable on Eddie’s chest.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate, wrapping an arm around Steve’s bare middle before bending the other behind his own head. He looks down at Steve, slowly drinking in the look of peace on his face and the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he starves off sleep they’re both desperate for.

“How long are you in town for?” Eddie asks and mentally curses himself. Fucking Munson, just enjoy the moment!

Steve shifts, chin digging into Eddie’s solar plexus as his sleepy eyes find Eddie’s. “The weekend, at least. Maybe a few extra days.”

“Yeah?”

“I could be persuaded,” he says, reaching up to wrap a lock Eddie’s hair around his finger. “I mean, I am unemployed until January, as you so kindly pointed out.”

A part of Eddie wants to laugh, maybe even apologize for the uninspired jab from hours ago, but there’s something more important he has to do. Even if it kills him. He tries to keep his smile intact when he opens his mouth next, whispering the words as close to Steve’s ear as he can so he can’t deny hearing them.

“I’m not asking you to stay. You have to make that choice on your own, Steve. Start living your life for you.”

Steve’s smile falters, lips twitching, threatening to turn into a pout, but they don’t. Instead, he nods, and Eddie feels the weight of his confession and the fear-strikes anticipation of Steve’s reaction evaporate from his own body.

Steve nods, turning to press a chaste kiss to the same demon that’s been etched there since before Steve became his all those years ago. “I know.”

Eddie hums noncommittally and drags his fingers through Steve’s damp hair, nails lightly stretching at his scalp in the way he knows Steve loves. “So then, what do you want?”

There’s a moment of silence and Eddie watches the seven stages of grief wash over Steve’s face before he opens his mouth again. “I can promise you the weekend to start.”

It’s not the answer Eddie wanted, but it’s the one he was bracing for. He knows better than to expect Steve to make a life-changing decision in their post-coital haze. Wouldn’t want him to even if he gave him the answer he wanted. All he really needs is the truth.

“Boyfriends for the weekend?” Eddie says. The word feels foreign on his tongue and yet just right. “Does that mean I get a front-row seat to watch you ruin your dad’s life when you tell him about the fire academy?”

Steve snorts, hot air tickling Eddie’s love-bite-ridden neck. “I mean, if you want. Might make things worse, though.”

Eddie hums in agreement. The last thing he wants is to make Steve’s day even harder than it’s going to be, no matter how much he’d love to get some face-to-face time with good ol’ Dick Harrington.

“How about this,” Eddie says, turning so they’re nose to nose in bed now. “I’ll be your getaway driver. Drive you over, and when you’re ready to leave, I’ll be waiting around the bend like old times sake. And then…” He trails off, nose bumping against Steve as he peppers his freckled face with kisses and nips. “I’ll bring you back here and we can make good use of this whole boyfriends for the weekend thing.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, breathy and more of a sigh than anything else but the sentiment is there. “That sounds perfect.”

Eddie hums and pulls Steve’s lips between his in a long, lingering kiss before separating. “The only condition is I get to be the one who leaves this time when you have to come back.”

“Not forever, though, right?”

“Well, that’s up to you, babe.”

Steve nods, swooping in to give Eddie his own version of a passionate kiss. “Okay, but then we’re even.”

“Yeah, we’ll be even.”

Eddie watches the smile slowly spread across Steve’s face before he hides in the crook of his neck. Eddie presses his own grin into the mop of sweaty hair on Steve’s head as they lay there, completely intertwined from their head to their toes.

“Boyfriends for the weekend,” Steve mumbles through a yawn before finally letting his eyes flutter shut.

“And then for life,” Eddie whispers, lips pressing into Steve’s forehead before his own eyes give in to the exhaustion coursing through his body.

[sjyzip]

ᯓ ✈︎ paradise found .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

⤷ 9. busted📍

wc: 913

warnings: swearing

“you can do it, you can do it” was all jake could hear at the moment, he was trying to hype himself up to actually go and talk to you and say the truth before things got out of control and also before riki ended up bankrupt.

jake took a deep breath and left his hotel room. walking down the hallway to get to the elevator, while he waited for the elevator to arrive he was repeating your room number in his head as if somehow he stopped doing it he would immediately forget. “406, 406, 406…” once the elevator arrived he pressed the fourth floor button and waited for the doors to close. the elevator ride seemed a bit longer this time, even if it was a pretty short ride of just three floors, it felt incredibly long this time but jake ignored it, thinking his nerves were acting up.

the elevator doors opened, signaling the arrival at the fourth floor, he left the elevator and looked around the hallways before turning left to get to your hotel room. once he finally got to your hotel room he started to doubt this whole thing “what if she gets mad at me? what if she thinks me and riki are some kind of weirdos?” But he left all his doubts behind and knocked on your door. he anxiously waited for a response until the door, eventually, creaked open, except it wasn’t the response he expected.

“hey! you’re that guy!” a red haired girl pointed at him. “uh i don’t know, i guess so?” jake replied a bit confused. “yeah you are! the dog-“ yunjin said before being cut off from inside the room “never mind, so what do you need?” yunjin asked jake. “oh actually can i talk to y/n? I need to clear something up” jake said while rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. “oh yeah sure! let me get her” yunjin said before backing out a little bit and then shouting your name. you appeared a few seconds later, fixing your clothes after sitting down for a long time. when you appeared, jake smiled softly unconsciously, well at least that’s what yunjin thought.

“oh hi! didn’t expect to see you here” you said while glaring yunjin to get the message that she should give you two some privacy. “so what did you want to talk about? is it about that day..?” you asked, remembering the awkward encounter you both had. “oh no it’s not about that, it’s actually about your.. secret admirer” he said, lowering his voice after every word till the last words were just some whispers. “OH! Are you my secret admirer? well woah, I’m flattered actually-“ you started rambling like you always did before jake cut you off. “not really, I mean yes?? I picked the gift, riki bought it so-“ jake rambled too before you cut him off, totally shocked.

“YOU PICKED THE GIFT?? AND RIKI BOUGHT IT??” you shouted in confusion, looking at him bewildered. “yes and yes but let me explain first pleaseee?” he asked with a small smile before proceeding anyways. “the thing is.. when riki asked for your room number it was actually for.. me! FOR NOTHING WEIRD BY THE WAY! I just liked talking to you that day on the beach and wanted to be your friend” he clarified, slightly embarrassed about revealing the true reason for riki getting your room number.

“Oh! yeah that makes sense, but what about the secret admirer?” you asked him again “okay so riki is a terrible liar! And he made a terrible lie with the secret admirer thing instead of just telling the truth, which I apologize for, he’s a little weird sometimes” he giggled before continuing. “And the gift.. I can’t really explain the gift, I just looked the bag and said it was cute but when I saw the bag up close and i noticed the price, I literally gasped and riki just went with it and bought a thousand dollar bag” he said, jokingly disappointed in him. “well, thanks for clarifying the whole thing and also thanks for the bag, it’s pretty cute, you got a pretty good taste” you said with a smile.

“yeah? well.. you’re welcome” he nodded with a small, shy smile as he spoke. “hey, you said you wanted to be my friend right?” you asked him. “uh yeah I did” he nodded again. “well can you give me your phone? I’ll give you my number” you said as you looked at his phone in his hand. “my phone? oh sure, take it” he agreed, a bit bewildered before unlocking it so you could give him your number. you wrote your number carefully before handing him his phone back. “there you go! I think we’ll be good friends” you giggled. “yeah I also think that, see you around?” he said as he put his phone in his pocket. “see you around” you repeated with a nod as you closed your room door.

jake stared for a while at the closed door in front of him before snapping off his thoughts and turning around to head back to the elevator. he knew that if he told his friends about this he would get teased for it but he didn’t really care now cause he was surprisingly in a good mood after clarifying the whole situation like if a weight got lifted from his shoulders.

previous masterlist next

taglist: @domfikeluva, @keylimejake , @starry-eyed-bimbo, @rairaiblog , @tkooooop , @right-person-wrong-time

[rosewood-multifandom-writer]

Whoa, hold on, my theory is theorying (idc if it’s not a word, I love this, and I’m coping right now).

Remember in the trailer that immortality is mentioned? I’m convinced Sylus is immortal. He’s met MC in a different life, she died, he did not die because he CAN’T die, hence why she does not remember their ACTUAL first meeting but Sylus does but chooses to be vague.

He does not show it, but it pains him a lot to talk to MC and thinking about the possibility of losing her again. That is why he risked his life and got badly injured in Searing Touch.

He also remembers MC in her past life coming to him with the intent to kill him at first, only for the two to fall for each other, with him falling hard, hence why he willingly gave MC a gun and made her shoot him. It was a reminder of his past with her. And because he most definitely feels like maybe if she tries to him and give him that same adrenaline he felt when she (from what I saw in the trailers) was trying to sneak kill him and even strangle him. Then again, I think the strangling part is just MC getting her freaky on like usual, lol.

His eyes in the second gif when MC encounters Sylus for the “first time” (because it’s from her perspective) say a lot. You can tell the actual feelings of a person just by paying attention to their eyes. I studied psychology and I learned the saying, “The Eyes Don’t Lie.” Sylus’s eyes are not lying when he says that he and MC met before. His eyes do not lie when he sees MC.

Despite the lack of light in his eyes, I can tell that he’s experiencing a mix of different feelings. He’s feeling melancholic, because here is the love of his life in front of him, but she does not remember a single thing, but at the same time, he feels somewhat happy he sees her again. He’s also feeling guilt because in a way, he feels responsible for what happened to MC in her past life, so if she wants to kill him, he’ll happily let her do so. And the hand gesture, as pointed out by OP, is also the same gesture he does physically expressing his love.

Sylus is also the most touchy out of the four love interests currently in the game because he is touch starved and has not experienced love in a very long time. That’s why in so many of his 5 star cards, he’s very touchy feely with MC. He has moments where he feels like if he lets go for even a split second, he’d lose her again.

As for how he went from dragon to human, he probably has the ability to shapeshift.

THE HAND GESTURE 😭❤️

[honey-bell-aint-well]

How would Fresh react if a host he possessed, who knew what he was, wasn't resisting that much because they understood his situation and couldn't blame him, I mean he has to do that to live, and instead asked him to at least not drain them whole and leave them before they become unrecoverable, like that would be fair cause both of them deserve to live, and also just being very miserable and hurting and sad and silently begging for comfort and the same understanding they gave to him while they give him the saddest kicked puppy look in the mindscape/their imagination, ideally wanting to share control or at least for Fresh to occasionally humor them and listen to music or consume fiction they like, but doubting that would ever happen, and generally just hoping for Fresh to not be unnecessarily cruel?

First of all: Thank you for asking me a question about Fresh! Now I get to ramble >:3

Second: Interesting question. For the host it would be terrible, and I question why they would be so ready to hand their life over to someone else. Do they not have family or friends, are they not invested in their own life? Why? Are they a host by force or were they manipulated into it? Or did they give themselves up willingly? If it's the latter, then why?

Fresh probably wouldn't give them acknowledgement. He doesn't have the capacity to care about them, and he thinks of hosts as just tools. He wouldn't be cruel to them, because why unnecessarily hurt a body he's using? He doesn't want to feel pain.

But he canonically does enjoy it when the person he's possessing feels pain from him feeding on their soul. A quote from CQ: "In honesty, he’s just being sadistic and enjoys gaining control over others, especially if he tricked them beforehand. Possessing a crowd of people and making them do what he wants, just makes HIM happy. And by ‘happy’ I do mean his extremely numb, limited view on it."

But if he possesses them AFTER the Loveball? If he becomes capable of guilt, I think he'd still ignore their pleas, but this time out of a sense of self-preservation rather than indifference. I think he'd start to hate himself for it, but would be unable to even comprehend giving up the safety of having a host. His drive for survival is extremely strong. I think he can survive outside of a host, but his parasite form is very weak. I think he'd consider having a host to be necessary.

I also think he'd still be sadistic and enjoy their pain, but the enjoyment would be pretty soured by all of his new negative emotions.

I think, out of guilt, he'd let the host listen to songs and read fiction [as long as it isn't inappropriate. If it is then he'd censor it]. He'd probably do it very rarely though, and he'd be mad at himself for doing so. He's not used to guilt, and he doesn't understand why he's doing these things even though it doesn't benefit him. [Clarification: He'd be confused, but he'd default to anger because he's really bad at dealing with his emotions].

Over time as he feels more, he might begin to consider them more than just a tool. At that point, I think the guilt would be so strong that he'd feel physically sick. I don't know what he would do in that case.

And then there's the whole Loveball existential crisis. That definitely factors into this, but I'm not exactly sure how. He'd definitely keep trying to appear as his usual radical self, no matter how he feels. He might not succeed sometimes though, because having your entire worldview flipped.. that has the tendency of affecting people and how they interact with the world around them.

Thank you for asking! :D

[yummysake-saucegay]

Jayvik ramblings

There was once a livejournal where you could compile shipping manifestos, and I wrote one about Zoro/Sanji that had 6000+ words lol. Ngl, Jayvik makes me want to do the same these days, but for now I just need to compile a few thoughts, feel free to gush with me or add to that or correct me.

In every timeline & possibility Viktor chose to save Jayce ("only you can show me this"), even when it meant that they would create hextech and doom the world. And only Jayce can ultimately save Viktor from himself. In the timeline Ekko was sent to where hextech doesn't exist Jayce and Viktor are very possibly dead (suicide / disease), since Jayce was already on the verge of killing himself in the base timeline when his dream was shattered, even without a teenager that died in his lab, and Viktor (who wouldn't have sought out Jayce without his speech about creating magic) would later be dying and wouldn't have shimmer/the hexcore.

There are multiple scenes where Viktor gives Jayce the rune, like when he stops him from killing himself he picks up his bracelet, and he also hands him the crystal when they're trying to stabilize hextech for the first time (just found the imagery symbolic). In their final scene, Jayce gives it back to him (and it looks so gentle for once how he can just remove the rune and carefully hand it to him)

Jayce was always adamant about seeing Viktor as an equal partner from the very beginning ("your hextech dream" "OUR hextech dream" Mel: "you're the dean's assistant" "no, he is my new partner")

In the "this isn't my bedroom" scene Viktor looks displeased when Jayce looks taken by Mel (only noticed that recently!)

Viktor either never noticed or ignored Sky's affections and even after he got to know them after her death, he did not reciprocate and still calls her Ms Young in the astral plane. She can even tell it's not true when he says he will miss their talks. I just saw a clip where Christian Linke even claims that that wasn't actually Sky, but the hexcore pretending to be Sky (which is so dark and twisted IMO). Apparently, Amanda Overton also stated that Sky on the astral plane was a stand-in for Jayce to Viktor. Although I haven't seen the clip myself where she says it.

The constant juxtaposition between Viktor and Mel, starting by their design (Viktor getting progressively more sick and pale, Mel always glowing and golden) and just base characters (Viktor the poor, disabled Zaun rat who has nothing to his name, lives for science and hates being in the lamplight; Mel the influential and cunning politician who makes them her investments). Jayce even hallucinating first Mel and then Viktor in the flames. The Jayce Mel sex scene while Viktor is almost dying and Jayce returning to Viktor after. Also, him deciding to give up on his council seat and his whole career to return to the lab with Viktor where he feels he belongs after Viktor almost died in the beginning of S2.

Jayce ousting his former mentor to save Viktor's life

Viktor convinced that Jayce would understand after Singed tells him everyone will hate and despise him (and Jayce did!)

The scene on the bridge when Jayce has to pick Viktor up in S1 (after he went to Singed) and the POV changes! Where the angles are first neutral, representing them being equal, but then the camera looks down on Viktor as soon as Jayce talks badly about the Undercity.

Jayce's pure terror when he thinks Viktor is dying after the explosion, just being by Viktor's side, sleeping in the lab etc and them handing him that blanket that Viktor keeps forever. Also, Jayce not even hesitating or judging for a second when he sees Viktor's augmented leg etc. He even recorded everything when he continued and used his notes lol.

allll their quotes "it was affection that kept us together" "I thought you were done with Hextech. And with me", being partners again yadda yadda

Even in the midst of everything and his all out war with Viktor, Jayce speaks for himself and Viktor when he quarrels with Mel ("because you used me, and Viktor, for hextech!") and his anger at her not saving Viktor and the others

And I don't think I even have to elaborate on their ending haha, the beauty in Viktor's imperfections, the promise, the wanting his partner back and finishing it together...

And they were celestial roommates <3

[ghouljams]

Hi, Ghoul. Apologies for kinda venting (?) on your asks, and please ignore this if you'd like, but how does one cope with the idea (and, quite possibly, reality) of being alone for the rest of their life?

I've never been the most confident individual in my years of being alive. I'm not conventionally attractive, and I've been battling with my perception of self for like, basically my entire life. Never really had romantic relationships, other than unrequited and secret crushes. At first, I thought to myself that I could deal with being alone and unloved in that way, but I figured as I grew older that maybe I'm just trying to be tough about it. I want to have the kind of love that other people have, envious as I may sound. I want to be able to look at myself and think, "wow, despite my flaws, someone still took the risk to get to know me and chose to stay."

Of course, this is not to say that the love my tight-knit circle of friends and family aren't adequate. I'm just curious. And hopeful that someday I get to have that other kind of love.

That said, I really love your works and I am privileged to be able to read them :)) it's always such a delight to see your rambles and reblogs in my dash. <3 Hope everything is going well for you.

Hello my love. You already know I'm going to suggest therapy so I'm going to get that out of the way early.

Here's the meat of it. There are thousands upon millions of people who feel exactly the same way you do and I truly believe this is because of the way western society has structured its media/propaganda. So much of the media we consume is loaded with this idea that romantic love is this totally different thing that will complete your life and show you how worthy you are if only you can find it.

This is a load of horse shit.

One of the unhappiest times of my life was spent in my first relationship. I actually had a harder time loving myself because I was scrambling to prove I was worth being loved by a person who liked me in theory but in practice frequently flaked on dates and didn't care about my emotional wellbeing.

I say all of that because I had your same attitude of "despite my flaws they're choosing to stay with me" and ultimately she left me. Over text. It was a whole thing.

So many of you talk about being "old" and "destined to be alone" and you're like 25. Hell even if you're 50, people find love at any age, but the only way to find anyone good is to be comfortable with the fact that romantic love isn't the end all be all of love. You can fall in love with anyone, that doesn't make it a good relationship. It just means you're in love.

Also what do you mean "someone took the risk?" Are you a serial killer? Do you set fire to police cars? You sell meth? What risk do you pose to anyone? You're sad and have low self esteem. So what? That makes you a risky prospect? Your flaws of *checks notes* talking down about yourself is such a huge hurdle that it's a grave danger to anyone that wants to date you?

And I'm sorry I feel like I'm getting sort of mean but you got me in older sibling mode with this and so you're getting big sister shit.

I just- like if you truly believe that you are such a burden to date then you aren't going to get what you want out of a relationship. You'll become obsessed with the first person that reciprocates your affections and it will spiral into something that hurts you. I am speaking from experience.

My dear, i am a stranger on the internet, and I love you. This world is cruel towards tender hearts and disappointment hides in every corner, but we keep loving the world and the people in it anyway. Love finds us when we least expect it, and if you truly want that sort of love it will come to you.

But I need you to be kinder to yourself. I know you said you struggle with self image. Stop measuring yourself against other people. Stop setting up goal posts for your life. Stop thinking your flaws make you some undateable ghoul. They make you, you, and whoever you date will love you for them not in spite of them.

[loveafterdeath-if]

Hi

I have a random question lol honestly loving the POVs so far still makes me tear up reading them but I was wondering if you're considering writing more El extra content later on (even tho we havent even got to El's POV yet I know my hearts gonna break) god knows I can't get my mind off of a what if scenario with ghost El lol (I may or may not have a thing for ghost romance😳) not to pressure you or anything I'm mostly just curious if you were to make more extra content down the line if with can expect El content as well or if you were to do this would it mostly be focused on ROs. You honestly did such an amazing job making soooo many people fall for a character in so little time ❤️ (again if this ask makes you feel pressured or stressed feel free to ignore it just a little something playing on my mind sorry for the ramble)

Don't worry anon, I don't feel pressured at all! El will still have their POVs even if they're not... well, here anymore. They'll have their extra content just like the ROs!

[tayraedoll]

The Devil at Play

You are a new sinner at the hotel; you are shy but you finally open up after a couple drinks at the bar. Angel Dust steers the conversation to his favorite spicy topic, little do you know there is someone else who is intently listening in.

My first attempt at a Lucifer fic! Let me know what you think <3

Word count: 3,824

18+ MDNI

TW: Alcohol, swearing, drunken shenanigans, sharing a bed, use of s3x toys, rose suction stimulator, fingering, fluff

"Say, is that a mirror in y'er pocket? Cuz I can see myself getting in y'er pants", Angel seductively wagged his eyebrows at Husk, making the feline roll his eyes and take another swig from his bottle.

You smiled into your second cosmopolitan, trying to suppress the giggle that wanted to bubble up. It had been two weeks since you joined the Hazbin Hotel crew and you finally felt comfortable enough to join the others for a drink at the bar. You were never the most social person in life, and that trait followed you into the afterlife. You had spent most of your nights by yourself either in your room or in a quiet part of the hotel like the library. You didn't have anything against the other residents, you were just super self-conscious in social situations. But you were determined to befriend the others and took the leap to finally put yourself out there a bit.

Charlie was definitely the easiest to be around, her bubbly personality made you feel at ease. You also did not have to talk much in her presence, the girl spoke a million words a minute which allowed you to largely just sit there and listen to her rambling. Vaggie was also alright, she wasn't nearly as talkative as her girlfriend but she had a calmness about her. Niffty and Husk mostly just ignored you, they'd briefly acknowledge your presence before getting caught up in their own worlds again. It took a few days for you to warm up to Angel Dust, his crude humor initially made you uncomfortable. But he saw how truly uneasy you were so he never directed those remarks at you which helped tremendously. Now, you were just as content in his presence as you were Charlie's. You honestly stayed clear of Alastor when you could, alarm bells would blare in your head when he was around and your stomach would flip nauseatingly. He was definitely outwardly sweet, but your gut told you not to trust him so you vowed to keep the deer demon at arms distance.

The only resident that you just could not get a read on at all was the King of Hell himself. Lucifer was always so distant, you couldn't recall a single actual conversation shared between the two of you in your entire time at the hotel. Although he didn't necessarily make you feel unwelcome, you did not think he was particularly fond of you either. Part of you wanted to confront him, ask him what his problem with you was; but the other part of you figured the only thing worse than the Devil's cold shoulder would be his wrath. Unwilling to risk angering the fallen angel, you resigned yourself to the act of pretending the other person didn't exist.

'God he was pathetic, two weeks have gone by and he still hadn't mustered the courage to talk to you!', Lucifer thought to himself. Every time he took the initial step to finally strike up a conversation he would inevitably psych himself out of it; he was afraid of coming off weird or worse- desperate. The Devil used to be a smooth talker, but Lilith walking out on him wreaked havoc on his self-esteem. Now, it seemed all he could do is watch you from afar, perpetually tongue-tied and timorous.

He swirled his whiskey around in the glass, watching the amber liquid intently as he tried to come up with yet another reason to talk to you. He sighed heavily, maybe he should just go to bed instead and save himself any more embarrassment.

"So Whispers," Lucifer perked up at hearing Angel's nickname for you, he thought it was positively adorable, "what does it take to make you scream?" Lucifer nearly choked on his whiskey, struggling to stifle his cough in his jacket.

You felt your face heat up, you swished your cosmo before downing the whole thing in one gulp. The alcohol in your system was making you more brazen, with a determined hum to yourself you set the glass back down with a little more force than necessary before turning to face the pornstar.

"You know what? I don't think I ever have. I think that is just some ploy pornos use to make sex seem better than it actually is", you smirk at the stunned look in the spider's eyes, his jaw practically unhinged with how low it dropped.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa timeout here Whispers! Are you tellin me you ain't ever orgasmed before?!", Angel narrowed his eyes at you, trying to detect any hint of deception.

"No- I mean I have! It's just...it's never been like what porn makes it look like! You know- like the 'can't walk straight, seeing stars, and brain won't function anymore' kind. In reality, it's a lot more subtle than that. That's all I'm saying", you shrug and look around the bar to escape Angel's look of complete horror. Your eyes find Lucifer's across the bar- he is staring right at you with such intensity you felt his eyes bore right into your very soul. You swallow dryly and turn back to Angel, his aghast expression was much preferable to Lucifer's fierce staring contest.

"Sweet Satan Babycakes, I don't think you've EVER had GOOD sex before! Don't worry, we will fix this! I will get you set up with an online dating profile and we will get you laid by the end of the week", Angel reached for your phone- which you were thankfully able to grab first you shuddered to think about what the pornstar would write for a dating profile.

"Thanks Angel but I am not really wanting to meet anyone right now. Besides, I promise you I am more than capable of taking care of myself", you shoot him a wink. "I'm off to bed, goodnight everyone!" After the resounding chorus of 'goodnights' from the other guests you make your way to the stairs, completely unaware of the yellow eyes that followed your every step until you were out of sight.

An hour later you were freshly showered and changed into your comfiest PJ's; you were about to get into bed when there was a knock at your door. You sighed heavily, you swear if Angel was at your door with a picture of a dude on a dating app you were going to to shave all of fluff right off. Half-stomping to the door you open it roughly, "Angel really, I'm ser-". Your eyes became wide as saucers, it was not Angel at your door as you expected but Lucifer himself. "Uhhh...what can I do for you Luc- I mean your majesty?!" Heat spread throughout your face and neck, no doubt you were tomato red right now.

"Luc-ifers f-fine sweet-art", he slurred back. You raise a brow and appraise the Devil before you; he was utterly disheveled- his shirt untucked, vest and tie pulled open, hair a wild mess like his hands kept running through it, and his eyes were completely glazed over. The angel was completely shit-faced and standing at your door in the middle of the night- great. But WHY was he here? And did he really need to get absolutely hammered in order to talk to you? Your smile faltered, that thought stung more than you cared to admit.

"Sooo uhh Lucifer, is there something I can help you with?" you cock your head to the side questioningly.

The blonde beamed at you with the brightest smile, your heart becoming a puddle in your chest at the sight, "Yes! Y/N, would you do me the date of going on an honor with me? Wait-what?"

You couldn't help the giggle that escaped you, he was too stinkin cute, "Maaayyybe we should revisit this conversation tomorrow when you have sobered up."

"NO!", he suddenly wrapped his fingers around your shoulders, you let out a gasp of surprise as you stared into his wild eyes. "I-I'm so sorry. You're right, I just...don't know if I'll have the courage to." Your heart broke, he looked close to tears and was having a hard time looking you in the eyes. "I've been trying to talk to your for weeks...I'm such a coward", he sniffed and moved to pull away from you, however, you were quick to grab hold of him and wrap him in a tight hug.

"It's okay, I have a hard time talking to others as well. That doesn't make you a coward", you feel him wrap his arms around you in return, you vow to hold him for as long as he needed.

After several minutes he shifted more of his weight onto you, making you stumble and readjust so neither of you fell. "Hey Lucifer?", you were met with silence. "Lucifer!", this time you got a small snore. Fantastic, now he was asleep practically on top of you. Now what were you supposed to do about this? You looked around, no one was in the hallway, likely everyone had gone to bed already. You sighed, you were not strong enough to carry him up three flights of stairs to his room, nor could you just leave him on the hallway floor. Your only liable option was to bring him into your room and share the bed, it was at least big enough that you could share it without needing to touch each other.

You half-dragged/half-carried the King of Hell to your bed and set him on the edge. You took the time to remove his shoes before tucking his legs under the covers and bringing the comforter up to his chin. He had a soft smile on his face, it was the first time you had ever seen him look peaceful. You smiled at him for a moment, "Goodnight Lucifer", you whispered. Your feet padded softly on the floor as you tiptoed to the other side of the bed, carefully slinking in so you wouldn't disturb his majesty. With a final glance at the angel beside you, you let your consciousness drift into dreams of yellow eyes and warm hugs.

Lucifer grumbled unhappily, pushing his face further into his pillow in an attempt to block out some of the light seeping in through the window. He just became aware of the pounding headache behind his eyes, Satan why did he drink so much?! Okay yea, perhaps the 4 whiskey sours he chugged before running to your room were a bit much...WAIT. He froze, memories suddenly crashing back into his mind. HE. HAD. COME. TO. YOUR. ROOM. Yellow eyes flew wide open- the baby blue comforter, the Verosika poster on the wall, and the side table full of make-up, perfume, and lotion were DEFINITELY not his. He slowly picked his head up and his breath caught in his throat- he was on top of you, hugging you koala-bear style, and what he thought was the comfiest pillow in existence was actually your left breast. HE WAS NUZZLING HIS FACE INTO YOUR BOSOM NOT EVEN 60 SECONDS AGO!

Thankfully, what was left of his lucky stars came together and you were not yet awake to find him in such a compromising position. However, with how he was wrapped around you there was a high chance that he would wake you by moving. Slowly, he extracted his arms from underneath you one at a time; he breathed a sigh of relief when he was safely moved over to "his" side of the bed. Now what? Did he just continue to lay here until you woke up? Would it be weirder if he watched you sleep or if he just left and made you wake up alone? Luckily (the the second time already this morning), his thoughts did not have to spiral for long before you stirred beside him. You groggily blinked the sleep from your beautiful eyes before gifting him with your radiant smile, "Good morning! Sleep well?"

The angel chuckled nervously, golden blush painting his cheeks as he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, "Yea, better than I have for a while honestly. Thank you." You both fall into an uncomfortable silence, neither of you knowing where to go from here.

"So uhh.."

"About last night-"

You both stop, giving the other room to speak first which only led to more unpleasant silence.

"Ladies first."

"No, I insist, you first"

Lucifer coughed nervously, "I'm sorry for last night. I shouldn't have come to your room, especially in such an inebriated state. But thank you for not kicking me out or otherwise shunning me."

You gave him a small smile "Well, I couldn't just leave our king alone in the hallway. What kind of hostess would that have made me?" The king chuckled before you continued in a barely audible whisper, "Do you remember what you said last night?"

Lucifer's eyebrows scrunched together as he carded through his memories, trying to figure out what you could be referring to. His eyes went wide before he turned back to you,"Yes!"

You each just stared at each other for a bit, both equally flushed. Finally, you broke the silence, "Yes...you remember?"

"Oh! Golly, I am so sorry! Yes, I remember and YES I would still like to take you out on a date! I-if you would like to go that is...on a date...with me."

Your happy giggle sounded like music to his ears, you gently reached for is hand and intertwined your fingers together, "I'd love to. I mean, technically, we have already slept together", you shot him a wink.

Lucifer gave you a sultry smile, "Ah yes, I will make sure that I am sober next time so I can fully enjoy the experience." You laughed, getting up to collect your things to get ready for the day. Lucifer followed suit, patting around the bed for his phone; when he couldn't find it he reached for the bedside table. Upon opening a drawer he found a peculiar device- it was in the shape of rose with an opening in the middle. Intrigued, the demon king pushed the "on" button and suction took place at the opening.

Lucifer's face turned a brilliant gold when he realized what he was holding. And it was just his luck that you happened to walk back over at that moment.

"So, what's on the ag-", you cut off when you saw your sex toy in the angel's hand; all you two could do was stare at each other- seemed you were doing that a lot lately. To break the tension, Lucifer said the first thing that came to mind.

"Does this make you scream?"

Your mind was blank, all trains of thought came to an abrupt halt when you found THE KING OF HELL with your rose clitoral stimulator in hand. You couldn't comprehend the question he asked, "Er...what?"

"Well I-uh...I remember Angel asking what made you scream at the bar last night and you said nothing. I must admit that I agree with Angel on thinking you have never, ever had good sex if you've never lost composure."

"Oh really? And do you think that YOU could make me lose my composure?", you crossed your arms in front of you and smirked.

The king stared back at you with wide eyes, the beautiful caramel color taking over his face again. You slowly approached him until you were standing just an inch apart, "Show me."

It was like a switch was flipped at your words, Lucifer's hands were on your hips and he began walking you backwards towards the bed. When your legs hit the bed, he raised one hand to gently cup your cheek as he leaned in to leave a tender kiss on your lips. His lips were as smooth as satin and tasted like candied apples; you moaned sensually, which he took advantage of by delving his tongue into your mouth.

Suddenly, his hand still on your hip turned you around so your back was to him. He sat back on the bed, pulling you with him until you were sat between his legs with your back pressed to his chest; you could feel his heart beating erratically, his body hard- hinting at the chiseled musculature that lay underneath his clothing. The king's panting breaths gently rocked you forward; he nuzzled his face into your neck, planting soft kisses on your sensitive skin.

Your hands gripped onto his knees as his hands slowly moved up your sides and fondled your breasts through your clothes, another wanton moan escaping you.

"Oh my sweet Angel, losing control already? I haven't even begun to touch you yet", Lucifer's voice had dropped an octave, deep and rich like barrel-aged bourbon. You pushed your breasts into his hands as her expertly kneaded them. He lightly gripped your shoulders and pushed you forward just enough for him to get your shirt over your head, he took your bra off as well before pulling you back to rest against him once more.

"Now, let's see what other pretty sounds you can make", he turned the suction on at the lowest setting again, the sound of the buzzing toy filling the room. The devil began by moving the toy down your neck and across your collarbone, the slight suction making your skin tingle. As he made his way down your décolleté, your grip on his knees tightened and whimper passed through your lips. The moment the suction caught onto your hardened nipple your back arched almost painfully and your mouth popped open into a perfect "O".

"That's it gorgeous, just relax, let me take care of you."

He increased the suction on your nipple by one setting, his other hand masterfully pinching and tweaking your other nipple. Your thighs clamped together, hips gyrating desperately to get friction between your legs as the heat in your lower belly blossomed. Lucifer returned his lips to your neck, nipping your skin and leaving dark bruises in his wake. You cried out in a half-moan/half-sob, the coil tightening alarmingly fast. You bit down on your lip as you struggled to ground yourself in the overwhelming pleasure.

"Oh no, no, no Sweetheart. No holding back your tempting cries, I want to hear them all", he removed his fingers from your breast to dip a claw into your mouth to free your lip from your teeth. Returning his fingers to your aching nipple, he swirled the same claw that was just in your mouth around the sensitive bud. All the sensations were too much, with a scream, you came undone under his fingers. Your head hit the demon's shoulder as you caught your breath. Did he really just make you cum by only touching your nipples?!

Before you knew what was happening, the rose was moving down your navel towards your waist. You were not sure how or when it happened but you now found yourself completely bare. Instinctively, you attempted to close your knees to hide yourself only to be stopped by two strong legs wrapping around your thighs and forcing them apart.

"That was a fabulous first act Angel, but it's time for the grand finale", Lucifer had not dropped that sultry tone. Your core clenched upon hearing the promise of pleasure in his voice, slick leaking from your needy hole and ruining the bedsheets underneath you. His fingers trailed down your side, tickling your belly, before slipping between your folds. A loud gasp erupted from you as the king lazily circled your sensitive nub, "So wet for me, such a good girl. Are you ready for more?"

His fingers parted your folds, holding your outer labia apart to expose your clit while his other hand held the rose to hover just above your most sensitive spot. You knew it was coming, but a jolt of electricity still rocked your every nerve ending the moment the suction hit your pearl. Your thighs immediately tensed almost painfully, Lucifer's own legs keeping you spread-eagled; a high-pitched trill resounded throughout the room.

"Just like that Doll, keep those gorgeous sounds coming", Lucifer's fingers slid down your lower lips and two digits pushed into you, rubbing along your gummy walls until he found that perfect spot that had your head falling back on his chest again. His fingers set a long, smooth rhythm, brushing that sweet spot over and over again. The squelching sound of his fingers disappearing into your pussy accompanying your cries.

You had lost control of your voice, your lewd moans escaping you completely unbidden as your whole body coiled impossibly tight. Knowing how close you were, The Devil pressed the button to increase the suction just a bit more and the damn finally broke. You came with such a deafening scream there was no way it was not heard throughout the entire hotel. Your head was spinning from the lack of oxygen to your brain, sweat covering you in a thin sheen as you panted. You could officially say you were fucked until you couldn't think straight.

Lucifer set the rose to the side and wrapped his arms around you, rubbing soothing circles up and down your arms as you came down from your high. He planted adoring kisses on the hickies left on your neck and licking up the trails of sweat.

"So, do you still believe that screaming is just some ploy used in porn to fake pleasure?", the angel asked when your breathing finally returned to normal.

You giggled, "I'll admit, that was the best sex I have ever had."

"Oh Darling, you know I am the sin of pride right? There is no reason to inflate my ego like that", you could feel his smile against your skin. You twisted around to face him, pressing your lips to his.

"If I had known you were capable of that, I would have spoken to you a long time ago", you winked.

"Well, now I'm worried that no conversation will live up to your expectations", he chuckled.

"Hmm, somehow I highly doubt that."

At that moment, your stomach embarrassingly decided to join the conversation. Lucifer smiled wider "Do you like pancakes?"

"I could definitely go for some pancakes right now", you nodded.

Lucifer kissed your temple, "I'll meet you downstairs then!" With that, The Devil disappeared into a portal and left you to get dressed. You couldn't help but smile as you replayed the unexpected turn of events. You were really happy you decided to go to the bar last night.

[a-muffin-full-of-poetry]

(Ignore the fact it's been a year)

I have several problems with OM and Nightbringer, and holy shit am I so upset right now. Now, I never played Nightbringer past lesson 20. Quite frankly, I was sick of grinding for little reward (as I am in many gacha games, *sigh*) but I have, and always will, truly believe that the potential OM had (and has) is so immense. I'm so disappointed that a game that got me through some of the worst years of my life has been carelessly pushed aside, and I'm upset that this silly boys will probably never end up with fulfilling stories, character arcs or much of anything.

Nightbringer was supposed to be... I don't know, edgier, something that truly explored the lore set up in OM. I knew deep down it wouldn't last long, I could tell OM was on it's way out when that announcement was made but holy fuck I thought I had more time with these characters before I was blocked out entirely. I highly doubt that OM will come close to doing events anywhere near where I live or even the country I'm from, and it's kind of upsetting to think that I'm probably, unintentionally, going to be iced out.

That being said, I love OM for all it's flaws. You can take the game, but you can't take these characters from my heart. Anyways, this is rambly but holy fuck I'm just upset and angry, do if this is messy and high school mean girl esq, it was unintentional.

[angelgendered]

is it sad that i'm actually really excited to go to the silly christmas thing in london the day before my birthday now i don't have to rush around to go to the globe that day too?

i even booked an entry time slot so i can 1) go on the big wheel (WHICH IS WHEELCHAIR ACCESSIBLE APPARENTLY?!?!?) just after sunset and see all of london lit up pretty for christmas and 2) watch the santa parade because apparently i'm an oversized 5 year old

I just love Christmas/Yule so much. it makes me so damn happy. i have such fond memories of that time of year, with family, with friends. and i actually, for all my family's foibles, love spending yule with them. we go over the top and cook huge feasts and put up decorations all over the inside and outside of our houses. we have basically a week long party between christmas eve and new year's day, starting with my parents going to midnight mass or us watching carols at king's usually, and finishing with a beef roast dinner on new year's day :>

I'm a sucker for the sparkle and tacky stuff and joke presents and serious presents and christmas trees and traditions passed down through generations likethe fact we all have to stir our christmas cake and pudding mix and make a wish even though there's no children in the close family unit (i'm the youngest and only 'child' in my close family except for my 'adopted' friend who treats my family like her second family and my step cousin who often come over at xmas). we do a big xmas food shop together, where we all go shopping at the 'big' supermarkets and the fancy ones and buy all the christmas food for our feasts.

idk. i just love this upcoming time of year so much. i feel like people pin me as christian for it and whie i am culturally christian, i'm actually a heathen of sorts, (no organised worship or practice but i pay homage in my own little ways to the Old Gods) and prefer to say i celebrate yule, but i go to like. midnight mass some years cos my mum wants company and i'll sing carols and hymns and stuff because i'm not fucking scrooge lmao

[teaboot]

Sometimes at work it's not my place to tell people the things I want to say, and I find I often go home at the end of the rougher days to stand blankly in my shower and tell myself over and over what I wish I could pass on.

This accomplishes very little, and mostly just gives me a tension headache, but through it all I think I've narrowed myself down to a few solid things I'd like to tell people the most.

You can't change people. Not permanently, not for anythig. You can support them, encourage them, love them, give them tools and opportunities and resources, but you can't make them change. They can change themselves if they want to, but they have to want to, and they have to want it for themselves, because they're the only one that's certain to be with them forever.

For better or worse, you make your own choices, and blaming bad choices on others doesn't only work to absolve you of responsibility- it also robs you of control. Because if you say you only did something because I did something, then you arent only shifting blame- you're admitting that you cannot control yourself, that you cannot truly make choices for yourself, that other people can control you- and as long as you truly beleive that, you'll keep facing the same problems over and over. You'll keep letting others dictate your choices, because you'll beleive that they can, and you'll never be free.

White knights on horseback are from fairytales. Nobody can help you if ou're not willing to help yourself. To try, to put the dirty work in, to belive you're worth that effort- Act as though nobody is coming to save you. From a struggle, from pain, from bad relationships, from yourself. And when you do save yourself, because you will, because failure here isn't an option if you want to survive, you'll never find another dragon that can keep you prisoner.

Don't say anything to anyone that you wouldn't want them remembering forever.

Doing the right thing in bad circumstances is hard. It's the hardest thing. But if you make the choice to do that hard thing anyways, despite your fear, you'll go on the rest of your like knowing that you're the sort of person who did something.

The present only seems the hardest because the past I over and the future hasn't happened.

There's so much joy ahead of you, the kind you can't possibly understand until you see it yourself.

The responsibility of consequences is often disguised as the power of permission. "I won't do this if you help me", "I'll work on my anger if you do this for me", "I promised you I'd quit, but can I have just one?". The unspoken question is, "Can it be your fault if this goes badly?"

You cant make someone love you the way you need to be loved. Someone can love you very much and still be bad for you, even if you love them very much in return. Two people can love each other very, very much, and try their very best, and still be wrong for each other.

Sometimes being near to someone changes you, even in good ways, and the people you become don't fit together as well as the people you were.

Caring takes work. Even if it's real. Especially if it's real. And the most important gestures aren't the grand, poetic, songs-and-flowers-and-tears moments; they're getting out of bed even though you don't want to. Paying attention to things you don't enjoy. Scrubbing pans, or opening a window, saying "thank-you", or helping carry groceries into the house. The small things fill the big things- without the small, boring, mediocre things, big things feel hollow.

Thrre is honour and dignity in humble work.

If you are a cruel and spiteful person, then you will find every place you visit to be full of the same cruel, spiteful people. This is not because the world is as cruel as you, but because everywhere you are, you will be disliked. This is the curse that comes with being persistently cruel and spiteful.

If you are a kind and ppsitive person, you will repeatedly encounter kind and positive people, because as they grow familiar with you, they will be happier to have you near. This is the reward of being a kind and positive person.

When splitting paths with loved ones, briefly or forever, aim for your last words to always be "I love you".

[robiinurheart33]

I’m obsessed with ghost being obsessed with soap.

The way he knows tidbits and fun facts about soap is just unparalleled to everyone despite ghost seeming unbothered. They go on missions together more than anyone else in the task force or god forbid, any other military they’re working with. As much as military life would like you to believe, there’s just as much waiting and planning than there is executing.

Soap is notoriously not patient. Ghost is, but only when it comes to work. Anything else he doesn’t have the time nor patience to deal with it. Unless it comes to Johnny. But no one will ever know that except for Ghost himself. But back to the point, they’re mainly on missions together and they stakeout together, they hide in itchy bushes for hours together, they stay in each other’s space, no matter if they want the other to or not. Soap cannot keep his yapper shut for the life of him and he’ll go stir crazy if he has to stay still for 2 whole hours. So he talks. Whispers, really so as to not give their position away. Ghost is a professional after all, he can split his concentration between the mission and Johnny. It’s endurance training. (Or whatever he tells himself anyways.)

Soap doesn’t mind the mindless talking if it helps him concentrate, and if Ghost doesn’t seem to be bothered then it’s all good. He knows that he isn’t actually actively listening, which is okay. He’s not offended, per se, but he feels an uncomfortable tightness in his chest whenever he looks back at Ghost as if it were an actual conversation to be met with nothing. Soap is a professional and damn good at his job at that, so he doesn’t let that bother him. (He doesn’t.)

One hazy night, Soap and Ghost (Ghost and Soap) are staking out a warehouse across the street, a bone-deep exhaustion hangs in the air as they both slump in their seats near the open windows. Cicadas make themselves known and the humidity doesn’t let down even in the night. Soap’s eyes are hazy, blinking ever so slowly and almost slipping shut for good a few times before he jolts himself awake.

“Go to sleep, Sargent.” Sargent. Ghost’s rough but tired voice cuts through his mind as he slides open his eyes again, not knowing they were closed in the first place. He rolls his head over to Ghost, where he’s sitting rigidly upright. To anyone, it would seem like he’s the picture of alertness, eyes trained out the window, posture perfect. But to Johnny, he can see that his fists are clenched too tight, his gun is still strapped to his side, and he hasn’t even taken a shower yet, when Johnny already has.

Guilt pangs softly in his chest, and he purses his lips in thought. Ghost wouldn’t take a shower now seeing that Soap was so tired. He would probably stay up the whole night staring out the window, sweat trickling uncomfortably down his back but still endure it for the opportunity for Soap to rest. He isn’t stupid, he knows there’s something between them that they can’t name, a connection that isn’t quite friends, but crosses the line of professionalism. Whether Ghost knows that or not is still up in the air for grabs. He pushes himself off the chair with a soft groan, sliding his bare feet over the wooden floors to the bathroom. He splashes cooling water on his face and rubs his eyes, blinking harshly. He stares at Soap in the mirror, and Johnny bristles a bit. He looks like pure shit. His eyes are bloodshot and tired, eye bags threatening to pull his eyelids closed, and he hasn’t shaved in quite a few days. Definitely not up to military regulation. He doesn’t bother to clock in the rest of himself now, wanting to focus more on Ghost than himself.

He walks back out to the shared living room, which is also their bedroom and kitchen, and behind Ghost’s chair. He bends down to swiftly unclip his vest off.

“Wha’ are you doing?” He doesn’t even sound annoyed, just tired.

“Gettin’ all this shite offa’ ya.” Soap doesn’t need to look to know that Ghost is probably even more tired than him. His Lieutenant with all the responsibilities under the sky, and no one to share that burden with.

The vest falls with a heavy thump on the ground and Johnny continues to clatter the remaining knives and guns onto the table, right beside their haphazardly placed maps for future ambushes. He pulls a knife from the sole of his boot, and Ghost huffs in amusement.

“Didn’t know you knew about that one, Johnny.” He’s Johnny now.

“I know everything about you.” It scares him a bit how it slips out that easily, but it scares him even more that he doesn’t take it back.

Ghost’s eyes bore into the side of his skull as he throws the rest of the equipment onto the table, keeping a gun in the pocket of his cotton pants. Johnny juts his chin towards the bathroom, arms akimbo.

“Go shower.” he doesn’t bother with a jab now, God knows they’re both off the table for that. It’s come to a point in the night where jokes lay to rest and honestly is the only thing left to say.

Ghost doesn’t look like he’s going to move and Johnny won’t blame him. He knows how hard it is to leave your post, how you scream at your body to move but nothing works. Nothing happens. Johnny’s eyes eventually hone in on Ghost’s eyes, trying to get a grip of what he’s feeling at the moment. Brown. It’s stupid, but Soap’s never been good with all the metaphorical side of describing things. Ghost’s eyes are brown. It’s brown. And it looks soft around the edges, calm and present, moving ever so slightly as he looks back at him. And they look at each other. And Johnny melts. He wants to melt and be safe in Ghost’s eyes and there’s nothing wrong now, there can never be anything wrong. How could it when the stars and the moon crafted them to orbit around each other so perfectly and intimately? And how could anything go wrong when this is the most right Johnny has ever felt in his life?

He feels his hand rise like silk, cupping Ghost’s cheek, like he’s done it so many times before. He hasn’t. Johnny’s not so sure what makes tonight different, or what changed, but he doesn’t want to question it. He’s not jinxing or screwing anything up this time. The cheekbone of the plastic skull digs into the palm of his hand and Ghost’s eyes droop. His thumb drags up and down, up and down right under his eye, not breaking the eye contact he has with Simon. He watches in real time as his eyes dilate and flutter, his head tipping forward, as if he could feel his touch over the plastic and the balaclava. Before Simon’s head could fall forward, eyes finally closing, Johnny grasps his face with both hands, murmuring.

“Hey, big guy. Not yet.” Simon’s eyes open again, looking up at him and Johnny wants to cry at how desperately he wants him to just relax right now, but he knows that if he isn’t completely safe and comfortable he’s be screaming awake 2 hours later.

“Shower.” He whispers. Ghost seems to snap back into reality slightly, standing up straight and towering over Johnny once more. Like this, his eyes seem black in the shadows, and things are jagged and sharp again. He grunts once, stepping out of their safe bubble and sliding into the bathroom, closing and locking the door with a click.

Johnny sighs softly as he sits down on Ghost’s seat, the wood still warm as he looks out the window. The gun burns where it’s pressed against his thigh, but maybe that’s just the absurd heat at the moment. His eyes are trained on the warehouse, leaning his elbows on his knees and letting his mind drift off for a bit. There’s no one in the warehouse at the moment, and any movement would be extremely obvious in the dead of night so he figured it would be okay.

Johnny thought of his family. He thought of the soft yearning he felt whenever he wanted to be small and tucked in his mother’s arms again. he thought of how accepted he felt if one of his older sisters threw an arm around his shoulder. He thought of his home back in Scotland, an empty living room with an aging woman who would spend the rest of her life waiting for children that were not guaranteed to come back. The sadness plagued his mind whenever he was alone, wishing he could come back as soon as possible to his home. To what? Put on the obnoxious military persona and acting as if he were immortal to not worry his family? He knows better than that. He knows he’s soft and pliable, that no matter how many muscles he builds, his body will always cave to a bullet. He knows his family will always worry and he can’t do anything about it.

Ghost steps out of the shower and Soap’s thoughts dissipate, head tilting in his direction. He’s swapped his hard skull mask for a clean balaclava, traditional hoodie and sweatpants. He looks…domestic, in a way. A too big man standing in a too small hallway, hunched over and fatigue evident. Love, Johnny realises, comes in many shapes and forms, but it all takes root in the same place.

Simon lumbers over to stand behind his chair, eyes boring down to meet his. Their positions have swapped now, Simon looking down while Johnny reaches up to meet his. Love is a gentle thing. Soap realises with a calmness that shouldn’t be there that he couldn’t pick between his family and Simon. His family meant the whole world to him, but Simon was his sunlight and his saviour. They floated in a nice limbo between everything, Simon and Johnny. Johnny and Simon. Love is a gentle thing.

“Go to sleep, Johnny. you’re tired.”

“You don’t kno’ that.” He’s slurring.

“I know everything about you.” The line is thrown back into his face, and Johnny’s eyes widen. He can feel the butterflies in his stomach, twisting in an exhilarating way. He swallows and watches Simon stare at his Adam’s apple bob up and down, eyes crinkling. Johnny’s a bit speechless, partly due to overwhelming fondness and partly due to his body screaming for a rest. Simon cares. He cares for Johnny. He thinks about him. He cares. He cares. He cares.

Love is a gentle thing.

“Aye.” John whispers.

All is right in the world, because Simon cares and his mother is at home waiting for him, and he is loved. Johnny is told to sleep, and so he will.