#this ran away with me a bit

[red-dead-sakharine]

Tickles

gn!tav, RaphaelPOV, humor, sfw until Haarlep shows up, ace, body worship Cover art by the wonderful @octarinecat!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 & 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

"And what did-ihihihihi!" he paused, confused. He looked down at Korrilla, who was just reporting to him. She stared at him with a bewildered expression, "Boss?"

"Yes? I don't-teeheeheeheehee!" he clutched his side, confused, irritated. What was this? What was- "Hhhhahahaha!" the laughter escaped him, despite his best efforts. It felt like something was poking his side. It was irritating. It was... it was.... "Heeheehihihihihi!" he giggled. This was embarrassing - he hated it!

Korrilla stared at him wide-eyed, then looked around. Searching for someone who might be casting a spell - but there was nobody nearby. They were alone in the devil's den. "Eeheeheeheehihihihi!" his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, snickering and giggling. He couldn't help himself. This was ridiculous! What in the hells was going on!? He flinched involuntarily as he felt his side poked particularly hard, and another laugh escaped him.

He looked at the dwarf and she looked at him - it hit them both at the same time: "Haarlep", they said in unison. Followed by another particularly strong giggle from Raphael.

"Go and stop, whatever he'sheeheeheeheeheehee!" He screamed in rage at the involuntarily giggles.

"I got it, boss." Korrilla assured him and vanished.

The minutes following dragged on like an eternity, interspersed with soft giggles and violent laughter, so debilitating that it left him prone on the floor.

"I'm going to kihihihihihihill him!" he screamed in rage, not even able to utter a threat without being interrupted by laughter.

What was taking Korrilla so long!? His sides hurt. After some time Korrilla appeared again,... smirking?

"What are you-hoohoohihihihihihihi! AHHRR! What have you been doing!? You didn't fix it!" He would've lashed out, if he'd been able to get up for long enough.

"I am very, very sorry, boss." Korrilla exclaimed, walking over to him, "I fear you'll have to see for yourself." she offered herself to help him up, and he looked at her with murder in his eyes. Then he giggled like a little school girl and dismayed.

"GRAH fine! Bring me to him!" he demanded, and used her shoulder to push himself up, then he doubled over in another fit of laughter.

One enlarge spell later, the dwarf was just tall enough to be a serviceable crutch, as they teleported back to the House of Hope. Never before had the walk from the entrance, to his boudoir felt so long. They had to stop multiple times, because his knees gave in, as another strong attack of giggles befell him.

"I'm going to kill Haarlep and whoever he's with!" he growled ...and snickered.

After an excruciatingly long walk, they finally reached the boudoir. Rounding the pool counter-clockwise, he noticed a few figures standing to the left near the bed. And they noticed him.

"Well, here he is. It was nice, knowing you!" he heard the vampire spawn's voice from across the pool. "Chk! I hope this was worth it." the githyanki's voice added. Then he saw the gathered companions hurry towards the exit, keeping the pool between him and them.

That's right, he thought, the moment I have control over my body again, I'll shred you all to pieces! Run as fast as you can! His inner thoughts were disrupted by another silly giggle, and he growled in rage.

"There you are. Finally!" Tav was straddling Haarlep on top of the large bed. An impish smile on their face, Haarlep below them with tears of laughter in their eyes and a big smile on their face. They were still clothed, and the incubus was still wearing their leathers.

Raphael's face was the opposite of Haarlep's. Red from anger - and laughter - contorted in rage to a furious grimace. He let go of Korrilla and stood up tall to stare Tav down. They smiled at him mischievously and poked into Haarlep's side. Haarlep snickered, Raphael flinched with a grin. No! This was not what he wanted to be doing! He hated not having control over his body. These involuntary happy noises coming from his own mouth made him sick!

"Cut this out at once!" he demanded.

He could see Haarlep's tail swish across the bed in excitement. Just you wait, he thought, you're in just as much trouble as they are!

"Or what?" Tav replied, grinning from ear to ear and poked Haarlep's side again several times. Both, the incubus and Raphael started snickering.

"STOP!" Raphael commanded in between giggles, but Tav didn't listen. His knees were buckling again and he ended up on the ground, clutching his side. Korrilla shuffled away from him and the bed, towards the exit. Not leaving entirely, but she got out of the danger zone for now.

Eventually Tav stopped, looking back to him as he sat on the ground. Clutching his side in a hopeless attempt of stopping the tickles. But it wasn't his body that was being tickled. He's never felt so embarrassed, so powerless, so... helpless. He tried to catch his breath and glared at Tav with all the fury of the nine hells. He's going to flay that grin off their face for this humiliation!

"Alright. You don't like being tickled, I get it." they eventually said, as if it hadn't been obvious before, "What about this?" He inhaled to tell them to stop whatever they were planning to do, but before he could say something, Tav bent down over Haarlep and gently sucked on one of his nipples. Raphael took a shuddered breath. No! He would not be manipulated like that! He got ready to push himself up but froze when he saw - felt - Tav's hands run gently across Haarlep's - his - chest. Lovingly. Adoringly. Kisses followed - from one nipple, across the chest to the other. Now this one was being loved, gently sucked. Caressed by Tav's tongue. Raphael couldn't get himself to stand up. Haarlep wriggled slightly underneath the mortal intruder, clearly enjoying themself.

This wasn't right. He shouldn't be enjoying this! He hated this! He hated being manipulated. His body being misused like this. Never mind, that he had thought of Tav in this manner before. But he should be the one initiating. Not Tav. Not that filthy creature Haarlep. He felt Tav's hands caressing his sides - no more tickles, only love. And kisses trail down his chest towards his bellybutton. His brows pulled together and he leaned back involuntarily, enjoying the sensation. And then it stopped. He blinked to refocus, and looked to Tav and Haarlep on the bed. That stupid mortal was looking at him, smiling. They'd seen that he enjoyed this. He felt exposed.

"You know," Tav began, "the tickles were just meant to get you to come here. Because," they got off Haarlep and sat beside them on the bed, facing Raphael, "I'd much rather be doing this with the real thing." Raphael shuddered slightly. He wanted them for a long while now, though he's been hiding it behind flirtations that were too obvious, too over the top, to be taken as genuine. He never expected that his favorite misadventurer would actually think of him like this. Think of him the way he thought of them.

He pushed himself up and began moving towards the bed. Haarlep crawled up into a sitting position, grinning with mischief. He shot the incubus a death glare. It got the point across and Haarlep slid off the bed and moved towards the exit. "Have fun," they whispered as they passed Raphael, who just growled in response.

Both the incubus and Korrilla made themselves scarce now, to leave the other two to their devices. They knew Raphael wanted, nay, needed this. He had been talking about Tav nonstop, after all.

"I should flay you alive for your insolence," Raphael growled as he came to a stop before the bed. "Then I wouldn't be able to worship you, though." Tav replied matter-of-factly, then added "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I just wanted you to come here." Raphael wrinkled his nose in anger. He wanted to scoff and be angry, but he couldn't quite manage. Not with Tav sitting on his bed in front of him. "Worship me?" he echoed, raising a brow in question. Tav simply pat the bed next to them in response.

[mood music]

He hesitated. He didn't want to relinquish control - ignoring the fact that he never had it in this situation. After a moment, he relented and climbed on the bed where Haarlep had been before. Tav smiled at him and his insides melted. Damn this stupid mortal! His frustrated thoughts dispersed into the void when Tav's hands appeared on his shoulders. They had crawled up behind him and their arms were snaking their way from his shoulders to his chest. Wrapping him in their embrace as they found the buttons of his doublet and started opening them. Slowly, one by one. It was exciting and agonizing at the same time. He wished they'd hurry up, but he didn't voice it. He just closed his eyes, feeling Tav's chest press against his back, and their arms around him, and their hands working their way through the buttons down his chest.

The doublet came off, then the shirt. Kisses on the back of his neck. He got goosebumps and cursed that his body was betraying him like this. He could feel Tav's smile as they kissed him again, and he knew they noticed. They trailed kisses along his shoulders and down his shoulder blades; their hands gently roaming across his chest, his belly, his sides. This was nothing like what Haarlep did to him. Haarlep would do foreplay if commanded to, but it was never with love nor care. This... this felt different. He felt... appreciated.

The bed shifted and he opened his eyes to see Tav crawl in front of him now. Hands on his chest, on his side. Kisses in the nape of his neck, on his chest. They ran their nose through the fluff of hair on his chest. He sighed. Damnit, he didn't mean to! More kisses on his chest. His nipples - o they were being spoiled. Sucked and caressed with a tongue. Not like Haarlep. Not rough and bitey and angry. This was unlike anything he knew. This was soft and caring and wonderful. His brows drew together again and he lifted his head involuntarily. This was nice. He felt appreciated. Kisses on his sides - where the annoying tickles had been before - yes good. An apology to his sensitive flanks. He accepted it. Kisses snaking towards his bellybutton again. He couldn't help but lift a hand to run it through Tav's hair. Soft. So soft. More kisses. He felt good.

Kisses up his chest again, paying taxes to his nipples in passing, going further up. Kisses on his neck again. He moaned. Gods be damned, he didn't mean to! A nibble on his ear, his breath hitched.

"Do you trust me?"

He nodded. Should he? His mind was fuzzy. He wanted more. More worship. That's what they called it, right?

He felt the buckle of his belt open, felt his fly unbutton. He opened one eye, looked at Tav. They gently pushed him to the side and onto his belly, sprawled across the bed. He was confused, but complied.

His pants went down. Why was he letting himself be exposed like this? He should be the one in control! He should be the one- hands on his bum. He paused. A kiss on his right butt cheek. He let his head drop onto the bed. A kiss on the left. Hands caressing his rear lovingly. He was dead and this was heaven.

More kisses up and down his butt. Then up his spine. He shuddered. Loving hands caressing his back. Kisses on his shoulders again. He could feel Tav's body brush against his rear, their legs against his, as they loomed over him. Worshiped him. Kisses up the back of his neck. A hand in his hair. He hummed in pleasure. A kiss on his cheek. He felt hot. He was sure he was blushing. Damn his body. Damn this mortal! He never felt like this with Haarlep.

Hands gently running over his torso. Another gentle kiss on his temple. He stifled a sigh. Hands trailing down his back again. Stroking his butt. Stroking his thighs. Kisses following them. A gentle lick on his right butt cheek. He shivered. What was this mortal doing to him. His little mouse. His little-- Another lick. His mind flew away to someplace else. More kisses on his rear. Loving. Caring. Not rough. Not savage with lust. Just affection. Not like Haarlep. Not possessive. Not with a single goal in mind. He grabbed the sheets, balled his fists and shuddered. This was all too much. Too much gentleness. Violence he knew. Rough he could handle. Bites and scratches and hungry humping, he knew. That's all he knew. Not this. Not these hands that stroked his body like it was a holy icon to be praised. Another kiss between his shoulder blades. Another moan escaped him. He pushed his face into the bedding, embarrassed, exposed. He should kill Tav for seeing him like this. Causing him to be like this. A hand in his hair again. A kiss on his temple. "Shhh," they whispered in his ear, and stroked his hair. Another kiss. So loving. So caring. He didn't know what to do with this affection. This gentleness. "I can't touch your wings, when you're in human form." a barely audible whisper in his other ear. He whined into the bedding in exasperation. Most mortals shied away from his true form. Were scared of it - found it monstrous. But his little mouse wanted to see it. Love it. He acquiesced and relinquished his human guise. He felt Tav dodge the wings as they appeared.

"Magnificent," he heard them breathe in awe. That's right, he thought, I am. Hands on his back. His thoughts flew away again. The hands felt smaller, now that he was bigger. But they felt just as good. As kind. They roamed up his back and towards his wings. Kisses following them up his spine again. At the base of his wings.

He felt the bed shift with Tav's weight as they climbed off him and to one side. Caring hands slowly ran along his wing. From the base up to where the joints connected, then down on the outermost spine. He shuddered at the gentle touch. It was wonderful. Too wonderful. It made him feel fuzzy. He stretched his other wing out to compensate. Kisses on his wings. He moaned. More kisses followed. Up and down the spines. Gentle hands stroking the membrane in between. This was bliss. This was rapture.

The weight in the bed shifted again, and he felt hands on his other wing. He was being tortured. Tortured with love. He didn't know what to do with it. With the affection. It was maddening and wonderful.

The hands and kisses repeated their ministrations on this wing, then moved towards his torso again. Gently wandering down his back. Like they couldn't just move to another place without touching and loving every bit of his body between here and there. A kiss on the base of his tail. He gasped, clutching the sheets more tightly. The reaction was not lost on his worshiper. Another kiss. Lips gliding down his tail, hands stroking it, kisses following it. A gentle lick. His body shook with pleasure. He couldn't think anymore. His brain had left his body. More gentle kisses. Another lick further down the tail. Hands gently kneading his tail muscles. He moaned again. He didn't care. A kiss at the very tip of his tail. A gentle suck. He was sure this wasn't reality anymore. Lips and hands working their way back up to the base of his tail, then down next to it. Another kiss on his right butt cheek. Then on his left. Hands roaming over his body. He was shivering uncontrollably now. He didn't know what to do with all these wonderful feelings. He wished someone would punch him. He knew what to do with pain. He didn't know what to do with love. Tav sank onto the bed next to him. A hand still caressing his back. He looked up - looked at them. His little mouse. They were lying next to him, head propped up with one hand, while the other was still stroking his back. He looked at them and he was powerless. They smiled at him and leaned in. A kiss on his forehead. On his nose. On his cheek. On his lips.

He could cry from bliss.

He's never been loved like this.

👉 Part 2

[semperama]

Omg ok like maxiel sensory deprivation (???) blindfold situation or however u wanna take that

cw for a very brief mention of off-screen watersports and fisting

"How will I know if I'm hurting you? Or if you want to stop?" Daniel asks, sliding the slippery satin back and forth across his palm. He'll tie the blindfold himself. The idea of Max doing it for him...Nah. Nope.

"I will pinch you," Max says. He's grinning, like none of this is a big deal. "Really hard. Right here." He taps Daniel's side, just above his hipbone. "But you will not hurt me."

Daniel wrinkles his nose, shakes his head. "You don't know that.

"Yes, I do," Max says, and pulls him in for a slow, sweet kiss that melts some of the tension between his shoulder blades.

He's not sure how he let Max talk him into this, but then again, he's felt that way about pretty much everything Max has ever asked him for in bed. Between the two of them, Max is definitely the freak. Still, Daniel rarely has complaints after the fact. Okay, he never has complaints, except for sometimes a sick-sweet shame he feels--at the sight of a red handprint on Max's ass; at the feeling of Max's hand wrapped around his dick, directing a stream of piss onto his own chest; at the sound of Max whimpering his name while he clenches around Daniel's whole fucking fist.

"Please," Max says when he pulls away, and--yeah, that's why Daniel always agrees. Always says yes.

He kisses Max one more time, then closes his eyes--nonsensically, considering what he's about to do--and lifts the scarf to tie it around the top half of his face. When he opens his eyes again, he can still see a little bit--just light and shapes--but he can't make out Max's expression, and he supposes that's the point.

"We can skip the headphones," Daniel says. "This is probably enough."

"No," Max says. Then, again, "Please, Daniel."

He can't pretend he fully grocks Max's logic in this one. Max was a little stammery when he explained it, the ends of half of his sentences bitten off. Something about wanting Daniel to worry about him less. I do not think you think so much when you are driving. I want you to be with me like that. It sounded fucking terrifying to Daniel at the time, and even now that he's had time to sit with it, his heart is pounding. What if Max doesn't end up liking whatever version of Daniel comes out when he's not trying to please Max? If Daniel worries, or if he thinks too much, it's because that's what makes it good, right?

But this is what Max wants and--and Max has never steered him wrong, so--

Daniel already queued up his pre-race playlist, so when Max slips the headphones on him and the music fills his ears, he immediately goes to that place, his anxiety morphing into that familiar adrenaline-pumping, ready-for-attack feeling he gets when he's on the starting grid, the car hot and vibrating underneath him.

It's strange, though, to have his senses so cut off. When he's in the car, his vision feels hyper-sharp, and his hearing is tuned to the radio and the sound of the engine. Now, the music fills up all the spaces inside him, every facet of his attention. It's disorienting--but only for a moment. Only until Max takes his hand, squeezes it, and then brings it up to cup his own cheek.

Daniel kisses him carefully at first, like he needs to relearn his mouth. And maybe he does, because he's never experienced it quite like this. The music recedes a little into the background, edged out by the feeling of the stubble against Daniel's lips, and of Max's tongue sliding against his, and of Max's fingers digging into his shoulders. It's tempting to focus on those fingers, to try to gain some clue from them, but as if Max is reading his mind, his grip relaxes suddenly, his fingers petting the hair at the back of Daniel's neck instead.

They got Max ready ahead of time, so when Daniel lets his hand drift down between Max's legs, he can dip two fingers inside him easily. He immediately feels a pang of regret at the lack of feedback. He knows Max will have let out a little moan just then, but he couldn't hear it.

Max wants him to follow his instincts though, so he takes a deep breath and tries to get out of his head, focusing instead on the throb of the bass in his ears and on the way Max feels around him, how hot he is inside, how he clenches when Daniel tugs a little on his rim. After a minute, he withdraws and lets his hands smooth up the inside of Max's thighs, enjoying the breadth of them, the soft hair against his palms. On impulse, he leans down a bites down gently on the meatiest part, his hips rolling against the bed. It wouldn't even take him long to come like this, he thinks. Just worshipping Max's thighs and humping the sheets.

But that isn't what Max wants. And if Daniel's being honest, it's not what he wants now either. His heart is still pounding, his hands sweaty. All this adrenaline needs somewhere to go, and if Max wants it to go into him, then Daniel's going to give him exactly that.

He can't ask Max if he's ready, and he knows--yes, he reminds himself, he knows--that Max is ready, so he lines himself up and lets himself sink into him in one smooth, unbroken motion a groan he can't even hear rumbling its way through his chest and out of his mouth.

Daniel rarely fucks with music on. He's too susceptible to getting lost in the music and forgetting to set the right pace. But this time, he doesn't have to worry about that. All he has is the music--and the flex of Max's thighs and abs under his palms, and the narrowing spiral of pleasure deep in his gut. There's something almost disturbingly primal about it, about pushing his way into Max again and again and having nothing else to set his attention on but chasing his own high. He fucking sucks at meditation, no matter how he tries, but this is the closest he's come to quieting his mind in as long as he can remember.

It's not just about him, though. It's Max. Max all around him. Knees hooked around his waist. Fingers fluttering up and down his back as they try--obviously--not to clutch too hard at him. Daniel fucking loves him so much. He loves that Max wanted this and trusted him with this. He loves that Max makes this kind of thing happen for them. Max mind works in ways Daniel will never understand, but honestly, thank fucking God for that.

He can feel it when Max comes--not just the way Max clenches around him, but the sudden wetness that first hits Daniel's chest and then his stomach. Without thinking, he swipes his fingers through the mess and then gropes for Max's mouth, getting his cheek first before pushing inside. Max sucks hard, licks him clean, and Daniel has to pull away and fall to his elbows, tucking his face into Max's neck like he can hide from the wave of pleasure that breaks over him, pulling him under.

As soon as he can breathe again, he rips the headphones off, then the blindfold, and pushes himself up to look at Max's face. What he sees there is much the same as always: Max's cheeks are red, his eyes slightly wet, his mouth slack and his lips shiny-plump. He looks happy, thank fuck, and--

"Hey," Daniel says, frowning, "are you laughing?"

A snort escapes from Max, his chest visibly vibrating with it now. Daniel supposes there are worse reactions he could have, but this isn't exactly the evaluation of his performance he was hoping for.

"You started humming, toward the end," Max says, his voice pitched high with mirth. "It must have been a good song."

Daniel groans, burying his face in Max's neck again as the blood rushes to his face. "You're a good song," he says, pure nonsense, but also maybe not. "I hate you."

"I love you too," Max says, and turns his head to press a kiss to Daniel's temple. Daniel sighs and closes his eyes and lets himself feel only Max for a little while longer.

[bibxrbie]

"Luke Skywalker isn’t like the old Jedi. He saves Vader with his attachments!”

Wrong!

Luke Skywalker, at the end of Return of the Jedi, after his confrontation with the Emperor drags Darth Vader through the destructing Death Star. He’s desperate, knuckles white under the heavy weight of his father’s body, a little boy dragging his dad to safety. He sets Vader down for a moment, to catch his breath or maybe to get a better grip. He goes to grab Vader again, but Vader, uncomfortable and in pain, asks Luke to take off the mask. He wants to see Luke through his eyes instead of the eyes Palpatine built for him. Luke refuses, says that removing the mask is a sure way for Vader to die. Luke doesn’t want Vader dead, he wants Vader alive. Not to hold him accountable for his many evil acts, but for the same reason why Luke Skywalker can’t kill Darth Vader; Vader is his father and Luke loves him.

And yet, after a moment, Luke removes Vader’s mask. He doesn’t want to, he hesitates, but he removes the mask with enough slowness to allow Vader to take it back. In that moment, Luke sets aside his desire for Vader in his life, sets aside his desire to see him live, and sets aside his entire mission, the reason he was even on the Death Star in the place. In his compassion for his father, Luke stays with Vader until he dies. It is this moment where we see him be the best damn Jedi he can be. I’d even argue that this moment is the greatest example of non-attached love we see. Because Luke lets Vader go! He lets his father die, and in some ways, by removing the mask, he too kills Vader, he stays with him until his last moment, gives him the kindness of granting his last wish and finally chooses Vader.

And Luke doesn’t have to do this. If Luke Skywalker’s love for his father was an attachment, he would ignore Vader and continue dragging him to the escape pod, put his desire for a father as his central focus and ignore Vader’s wants and discomfort. Maybe he would even save him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches as Vader dies.

He builds a Jedi burial for his father and watches it burn the remnants of Vader and Anakin Skywalker away. He mourns Vader, he mourns what they could’ve had as father and son, considers what ifs and maybe-if-I-did-this. Vader/ Anakin is released from his mortal body, from his ‘crude matter’ and Luke lets him go. He says one final goodbye to Anakin. Then, he joins Leia, Han, Chewie, Lando, and the rest of the Rebels and celebrates their victory. He lives in the present and celebrates what he has instead of what he lost.

Luke Skywalker is THE Jedi. Everything about Luke Skywalker serves as the foundational cornerstone of the Jedi, everything about the Jedi as a culture and philosophy is reflected in his character. Luke’s desire for the New Jedi Order isn’t to throw away the values of the old Order, but to vitalise them, breathe life back into dying lungs, and rebuild a path that people set out on their way to destroy. (Yes, his Order is different from the Old, but that’s because it has to be. He doesn’t have the resources or the safety of the Old Order.) The philosophies of the Jedi are difficult and they aren’t for everyone, and like the perfect Jedi that Luke is, he struggles and stumbles and sometimes he even rejects it. But, no matter how far he falls, it is a way of life he chooses again and again and again. It is a way of life that welcomes him back each time

[papanowo]

honestly getting to see spock go crazy go stupid saves this whole movie for me

[crimeronan]

this is exactly what i sound like talking about Every fictional relationship i'm obsessed with.

[medicalunprofessional]

never change, man !

[expelliarmus]

[peppermintquartz]

stuck in an elevator

Someone with a sick sense of humor must be writing my life, because a benevolent God sure as hell would never plan this, Tommy thinks in his bitchiest mental tone. Then he snorts. As if anyone would be interested enough to write a single paragraph about him.

The other occupant of the elevator pointedly does not look at him. Evan Buck keeps his tone so neutral, it's almost robotic. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I mean, of all the places in Los Angeles to visit on a day off, we end up at LACMA together. And now we're stuck in the same elevator. What are the odds?" The ludicrously serendipitous nature of this encounter is keeping Tommy from other, less-pleasant thoughts, namely being trapped in a space without a view of the outside world. His pulse is starting to race.

They tried calling 911, but the signal in the elevator was poor. Thankfully the emergency intercom did connect to the museum's operations office, who has contacted emergency services.

"I should've taken the stairs," Tommy grumbles. His skin itches with the need to feel fresh air.

"With that boot on your ankle? Then you're dumber than I thought you were." Evan Buck finally glances over, his blue eyes scanning him from head to toe. "How did you injure yourself anyway?"

"Tripped when I was getting out of the bird," Tommy replies honestly.

Evan Buck scoffs and shakes his head, but his expression softens. "You doing okay otherwise?"

There are so many ways Tommy can answer. He can pretend he is perfectly okay. Somewhat okay. He can claim that he misses Evan Buck, but he wants to be friends, just friends. He can be flippant. Make it funny, keep things superficial.

But this is Evan asking him.

"I miss you like a heartbeat" is what comes out instead. And it's true - Tommy feels like an automaton, moving through time, his routines carrying him along from dawn till dusk.

Entire days going by without a single text from Evan Buck feel empty and pointless. The bedsheets need to be laundered but Tommy doesn't want to lose the final traces of the last time they slept in the same bed. There are books Evan Buck brought over to read when Tommy wants to watch a movie.

And now they are stuck together, in an enclosed metal box, and Tommy is trying not to think about that while also trying not to think about how much he wants to kiss Evan. So he vacillates between a bone-deep phobia and a bone-deep yearning.

"I'm sorry. That was too heavy to lay on you like that." His fingers are clammy where his palms are on the mirrored wall. Licking his lips, he says, "But I don't want to lie to you. Not about anything. But I'm good otherwise, Evan."

"I'm not." Evan inhales deeply and blows out his breath. "I'm... I'm baking every time I think about texting you or calling you. The loft smells like a goddamn bakery. And still, still I can't forget the way you smell, the way you sound, the way you fucking taste. I want - I want so badly - to turn back time, figure out what I said wrong that made you run from me. Maybe I wanna be mad at you. I don't know. But I'm not good, Tommy. I'm not gonna be good for a long time."

"I'm sorry," Tommy begins, but Evan cuts him off.

"I don't want you to be sorry," he snaps, and to Tommy's shame, his eyes well up with tears. "I want you to be mine. I want to be yours. I want... I want us, together. That's what I want. I don't wanna be good, I don't want you to be sorry, I want us to be happy together, that's all I fucking want!"

The silence that falls between them is thick as concrete.

His hands and feet are cold now, and he thinks he is a little dizzy. Gulping down a breath, Tommy says, "I shouldn't have run. It was... I was afraid. That... that you'd see me and everything I'm not."

This is when Evan sighs and turns to face him. "I should've chased after you. I was afraid too. I moved too fast, I know now. But you running away and ghosting me after was a dick move."

"I guess we both have a lot to work through." Tommy manages a tight smile. He is starting to feel lightheaded, and his breathing is picking up pace despite his best efforts to stay calm and distract himself with Evan's presence. His hands are clammy and he tries to wipe them dry on his jeans. "Evan?"

"Tommy?"

"How long before 911 arrives?" Tommy's mouth is dry. His vision sparks and he is valiantly trying to hold on to his composure, but he feels like he's boiling in his dark blue henley; he needs air, he needs the sky, he needs space to flee-

"Tommy!" Evan is right next to him, keeping him from collapsing and hurting himself. His touch grounds Tommy in the present moment, and his face this close blocks out the sight of the metal coffin they are stuck in. "They'll be here soon, okay? It's all good, they'll be here soon. Breathe for me, come on, inhale , two, three, four; hold, two. three, four..."

Evan talks him through the breathing exercises, holding him up and against himself, all the way even after the elevator lurches back to life and delivers them to the next floor safely.

After he's helped out of the elevator, Tommy wretches and vomits all over the floor, some of the sick getting on Evan's nice shoes.

"Sorry," says Tommy, eyes tearing from the force of the nausea, his big frame trembling.

"They're just shoes," says Evan, soothing a hand along his spine. To the attending paramedic, he says, "He has mild claustrophobia. Not usually a problem, but we were in there a while."

Tommy follows the paramedic - Jefferson - to a bench, accepting a quick look-over. To his surprise, Evan stays with him. Jefferson doesn't see anything wrong other than shock and leaves them with a blanket when another call comes in, about some old man and a broken hip.

Tommy finally recovers after about twenty minutes. He smiles wryly at Evan. "Sorry. You don't have to stick around, there's a lot to see in LACMA."

"Tough luck chasing me off," says Evan. There's a determined set to his jaw.

"Evan, I mean, Buck, surely you have other places to go."

"First of all, I hate hearing you call me Buck. Second of all, I'm not going anywhere. I know exactly what I want, and I'm pretty sure I know what you want."

"Yeah? What do I want?"

"To be my forever," says Evan. He looks Tommy in the eye. "And I know enough about myself and relationships, a-and love, to say that I want you to be my forever too. So. Hah. I'm sticking around. Sucks to be you."

Tommy huffs out an amused and exasperated breath. "Still a brat."

"Yeah? Well, you can either put up with me, or you can do something about it." But there's no hiding the curl of his lips.

[warlenys]

people involved in house md who shipped hilson: hugh laurie (actor), doris egan (writer), liz friedman and sara hess (lesbian writers), whoever was in charge of choosing the songs that play over their scenes (we might kiss when we’re alone, love will make you do right/wrong, that one porny john mayer one during “i was worried your wings might melt” that starts playing when house leans back against the door of wilson’s office and makes the whole scene feel violently sensual and like they’re actually genuinely gonna fuck), hugh laurie (director), hugh laurie (executive producer), lin manuel miranda

[niccolites]

thinking about gaz in a period setting

i think he's the best suited for a regency era. where it doesn't matter so much what you do so much as the behaviour and standing that you have around what you are doing

gaz as the nephew of a duke, which gives him half a foot up that he slowly strong-arms until he's up on that step, suddenly towering over everyone. he's given allowances that others are not, so beautiful and charming that people let him get away what what he wants for the most part. anything for a favour with him

mothers pair their daughters up with him, men invite him for a drink, for gambling. everyone wants to rub shoulders with him. it feels like more when he graces you with a smile, like you've won his favour. it feels sweeter than it does from the duke

it's a typical story. you are the eldest daughter of a family that certainly used to be rich and only the memory of those times is what keeps you on the edge of polite society rather than blocked at the ornate doors

your mother and father spend most of their time trying to get you wed, trying to save face as you get older and less 'desirable'. it angers you, being treated like a calf to be sold to the most virile bull, or at times, whichever bull happens to be in the area

but you are also aware of the way of things, and your place in that way. you put a face on it, as you were taught. the anger at your situation is outweighed by the shame of letting your family down

maybe kyle has heard of you a few times. one of the men at a poker table complaining about how he to take a walk with you around the park as your father supervised. described you as cold and unfeeling.

maybe there was a few girls tittering at the side of a dance as he eavesdropped, gossiping about how it was getting embarrassing how empty your dance card was most of the time, how time was ticking on and you were slowly becoming an old maid in front of everyone

it's not an unusual story, and not one that puts gaz immediately on your trail. you're not the first young lady who's struggled to find a match, and you likely won't be the last

it isn't until you are out being escorted by another prospect and gaz happens upon you both. your escort is bored of you, and making that as clear as polite society can do. your docile, sweet face, red with embarrassment at being treated like a burden so obviously

gaz politely talks to your escort and chaperone but his gaze is intent on you

he's enraptured. greedy as he takes in the furrow of your brow, the shy look in your eye as you're introduced to him. courteous, but shy. such a sweet thing being mistreated in a way that has his back straightening immediately

now gaz has his attention fixed on you. nose in the wind like a stalking cougar, keeps bumping into you to take you in. you fluster under his sudden attention, uncertain. he elevates this to outright asking you to dance himself once

he watches the expression across your face, the shock, the wariness, melting into gratefulness. he swallows it all up, seeming to get broader as you finally look him in the eye. he can see his reflection in your pupil for a moment, dizzy with the idea that he's taking up space in you as much as you are for him

he starts officially courting you, the perfect gentleman who never fails to bring a chaperone with him. you barely know what to do with yourself. you feel shy and warm in turns, like the sun has cast a spotlight on you specifically. always turning as if maybe he has you mixed up with someone else. sun-sick and feverish under his hot attention

he's taking you a turn around the gardens, sloping green paths and gaz is sharp, he knows when the chaperone's briefly out of view. brushes his bare finger along the exposed skin of your wrist. you give him a look out of the side of your eye, but you don't say anything

allowances. the flesh of your wrist, becomes your arm, becomes your shoulder, your hand. you let him take because it feels like he's giving. a second alone and it's spent with his nose almost touching yours. breath shared.

always prowling around the edge of proprietary. at a dance and he flexes his fingers around your waist, feeling the air you shudder in. escorts you to a play and slips your glove off to fit his fingers into the grooves of your knuckles. presses into the bare flesh. he can feel the bones of your hand, wants to press down further to get to the marrow. this is why it's frowned upon, no one should be able to casually touch skin to skin like this. how can he remain unchanged now he knows how your skin warms against his?

it's dizzying, how he plays fast and loose with your reputation, and yet you seem so grateful that he's paying you any attention at all. he's the gentleman, the hero that has rescued you from the shame of being unwanted. it swells up in him, how you thank him for the smallest things, how it lets him in a little further

he loves being your hero, being the kind man you want him to be. it fills him with pride, makes him feel like a good man as he brushes the back of his finger across your exposed collar bone. inches away from your heart, like he could get in if he wanted. you flush, big eyes so soft, like you would let him.

he proposes to you, and you blink up at him, stupefied. you stammer, uncertain. although this is the endgame of this dynamic, you had always figured it would eventually tail off the way it usually does for you, being unwanted an inevitability

you need a little convincing. that's alright, he's always had to take a little initiative out of the two of you, a little more assertive to convince you what you deserve

he'd asked your parents for privacy, making it clear what he had been about to ask. they had only been more than happy to oblige

your skirts are tucked up around your waist, biting down on your fingers to muffle yourself as he fucks into you. he coos down at you, replaces your fingers with his. always hurting yourself, see you need him. so much gentler with him than you are yourself, you suck on his digits, his sweet girl

no one else would make it good for you, no one would make sure it barely hurt if at all. it angers him suddenly, the idea of anyone else having you, and disregarding you once they have taken what they wanted

it's quick, it has to be. there are allowances but gaz knows exactly how much he can take before it is noticed how much he has. he apologises for this, and you melt, letting him tuck his face into the curve of your neck

he makes sure you come first, near on blacks out as he thinks about how he's shaping your cunt in the shape of his cock, all for him. snaps his hips one last time and drinks down your whimper before he rights you again

you're still a little dumbfounded as he tells everyone the great news, your mother crying and your father clapping kyle on the shoulder in congratulations

if your looking a bit peaky on your wedding day and the next morning you're sick in the washbasin, well. he's happy to take on the reputation of an eager husband, don't even worry about it, dove. he's always been allowed to take more than the average man, everyone knows that

[ryllen]

Look what came through the mail today! The letters & ( •̀ω•́ )σ 3 little gremlins from letterstoear.

Just wanna say i adore the flower stickers on the letters too much, they are that much worth mentioning.

[formosusiniquis]

a smile for the in-laws at the holidays

written for @thefreakandthehair's spicy six-ber challenge - It’s just dinner. It can’t be that bad

WC: 5414 | T | No Archive Warnings Apply | platonic Stobin & pre-steddie | AO3

It starts with the red light on the Harrington answering machine. Blinky and out of place, he's shouting, “Who would leave you a message?” Before he even stops to wonder if anyone can hear him. Steve had followed Robin straight to the bathroom when they'd gotten back to his place, he's given up on trying to figure out just what had them joined at the brain, hip, and bladder preferring instead to just wait and see which of the hundred and fifty bathrooms in the McMansion they would re-emerge from.

“I talk to more than just you.” Steve’s voice echoes off the walls of the hall bathroom barely audible over the sound of running water and Robin’s half of the conversation the two of them were still actively having. 

Echolocated, he moves to the door they're hidden behind to continue to conversation at a volume that hurts his fucked up throat less.

“Jury's still out on that. But it's not like Wheeler is gonna leave a message.”

He can feel Robin’s spiritual hum of agreement, his conversation with Steve now interesting enough that she's paused hers.

“I keep telling you that Nancy and me are friends.”

His personal jury is playing a game of 12 Angry Men on that subject. Seven months post apocalypse and what started as one especially delusional voice insisting that there was “lip looking” and “chemistry between himself and the prettiest boy Hawkins has ever seen” has now become a beautifully hung 6 versus 6; with the part of him that was hoping he would get to learn if Steve Harrington was as beautifully hung as the rumors said gaining traction.

“If Nancy Wheeler needed you, she isn't leaving a message,” Robin picks up the track Eddie's wishful thinking abandoned, “she’s going to get your machine, hang up, and call me and then Eddie and then the Hendersons and then Family Video, the arcade, the-”

“Assuming it's life or death.”

“It's always life or death.”

Through the bathroom door, Steve's eyeroll is practically audible. “It is not.”

“I don't think Nancy Wheeler has ever once shot the shit, the breeze, or anything that wasn't an active threat on her life, so again not leaving a message.” Eddie calls out.

He's rewarded for his status as shit-head as the door swings open and he gets to see Steve's fondly annoyed face. Bitchy eyebrows raised and lip curled into something pretending it isn't a smile. He wipes his hands down Eddie's shirt in a failed attempt at returning the annoyance. First the backs then the front running down his chest from collarbone to chest.

Maybe it's his imagination but he could swear it lingers. The tips of his fingers taking their time on their pass down his chest to his sides. The jury will be accepting it as evidence.

“Dustin then,” Steve says.

“This is the Professor to the Hair, come in Hair.” Robin comes out of the bathroom mimicking the familiar sound of the walkie.

“Claudia then.”

“If it's Claudia, that means dinner.”

And that's the best thing about Robin, he thinks, her attention to the important details. Then there's her follow through, as she leads the charge back to the end table where the answering machine sits, all before Steve's hands have fully left his sides.

Her rewinding is unmatched, she takes the tape back to the final seconds of the outgoing message.

When it plays his first thought is honestly that Steve should probably replace the tape soon. The “Sorry I missed you,” has the warped and wobbling sound of an overplayed ribbon. But the woman speaking is not any more familiar as the tape levels out. “The lawyer recommended some time separated, I would have preferred actual separation. What's the point of this no-fault thing after all, but I suppose threatening to castrate a man at a public dinner doesn't make for a very good case for favorable asset division.

“Listen to me blabber on. I've got some things to see to here, but then I'll be on the first thing that gets me home. I’ll see you for Thanksgiving! I love you, Shadow, see you soon.”

There's enough detail there to pick out the obvious: he's now heard what Steve's mom sounds like. Which rattles his world the same kind of way learning that Freak lived with his grandma and her ‘best friend’ did.

And well maybe he has spent the last seven months, and a good five years before that, convinced that Steve doesn’t actually have parents. That he sprung into a fully formed, perfectly manicured existence like the Athena of Midwestern gay bait. Which is to say he’s too busy realigning his entire world view to notice how Steve is reacting to the sudden introduction of his mother until the door is already slamming shut behind him.

“Shit.”

The first time he sees Steve after that he’s alone.

It’s unnerving enough that he touches his back pocket to make sure his walkman is there. Steve might be smiling but it doesn’t meet his eyes, his hair flops at the awkward angle it does when he’s been tugging at it. It’s the Right Side Up Family Video, so he tries his best to approach the object of his possibly reciprocated affections like he’s a normal person and not like he's afraid that a secret pod person is behind the desk.

“Stevie, hey,” the probably Pod-Steve finches at the practically inside voice level way that Eddie has greeted him. He assumes that all further communication should be done in the same style he uses to talk to Tom Bombadil, the tray tabby he is going to coax into the trailer.

With both hands raised in a subtle non-threatening gesture, he tries for levity when he says “ I know it's Thanksgiving, but it’s just dinner. It can’t be that bad.”

“This is the first time she'll meet Robin.”

He says it in the easy way Eddie has learned is habitual for Steve. He tosses out facts like putting them out in the world like they aren’t a big deal will make it so. But unlike admitting he knows a teenager with psychic powers or that he helps reset Hawkins expiration date on a yearly basis, this time he can’t hide the quiet desperation in his eyes.

“Oh.” His rings tap on the clamshell box in his hands, the dull sounds of each contact annoying even him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s Robin.”

Normally he likes when Steve’s eyes linger on him. It makes his stomach flutter and his heart race, and it's the closest thing anyone will let him get to high now that he's technically died, twice. The vacant way Steve's eyes hold on his doesn't feel like that.

The thing is Eddie isn't sure if the jokes Dustin keeps making about Steve and Robin having their own little hive mind are actually jokes. It's sort of a reverse Clark Kent situation, he's never not seen the two of them in the same place at the same time, and now that he has Superman is looking pretty vincible.

“Exactly,” Steve says, after pausing for too long. “It's Robin.”

His improvisation fails him. It feels like his brain is moving a thousand miles an hour and not coming up with anything. His foot is on the gas but the road is wet, and his tires are spinning without catching on anything. He thinks maybe, maybe, he could bullshit something about good parents and families you make being just as important as the blood ones. When the bell above the door chimes saving him from fucking it up.

Steve straightens up like someone in the sky just yanked on his strings, smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world; and like Mrs. Johnson isn't glaring at Eddie like she has the Ronald Reagan given power to kill him with her eyes.

Eddie escapes before she can move to trying to bludgeon him with a copy of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly that she's returning.

He's safely in the van.When he realizes he's still holding the movie Wayne asked him to return.

He'll try again later.

Robin is behind the counter when he comes back. Alone. She looks adrift. Staring out over the counter at the wide expanse of shelves and tapes, she doesn't seem to be taking any of them in. Just staring, empty.

There's a movie playing, Back to the Future, but it's noise. Just noise. Because Robin is in Family Video right now the same way that Steve is.

Video in hand once again, Eddie approaches the wide-eyed thing at the counter cautiously. Robin's shirt collar is popped on one side and he doesn't think it's a fashion choice. Her face is bare and it doesn't move when he reaches the counter. Not when he sets the tape down. Not even when he says, hey.

“Did you rewind that?” She asks. Her eyebrows don't furrow, her mouth only moves enough to get the words out.

“It's Wayne's.”

Robin grabs it from the counter, scans it, and adds it to a stack that only looks taller than it did this afternoon.

“Look, Robin,” he tries more gently than he spoke to Steve this morning, still smarting from the way he had responded. “It's just dinner. It can't be that bad.”

She blinks once. Twice. Three, four quick times before she finally seems to be looking at him. A lemon pucker frown twisted across her face. 

“She knows we're married.”

Robin turned 18 three days after the end of the world didn't happen. She spent the day in the hospital, in a chair that sat in the space between his bed and the bed they ended up putting Steve in. He hears one doctor call it, “Miraculous, really,” that he had been standing at all this long after his injuries and with the infection that had set in.

He collapsed in the middle of the Hawkins High gym with someone's donated sweater tossed over his shoulder.

And they won't let Robin in the ambulance. Tears streaking down her face, voice hoarse, and the EMT who survived doing his job in a place like Hawkins has the balls of steel to look her in her red faced, dripping nose glory, and tell her only family can travel in the back of the bus.

Wayne Munson, who was only in the gym to put up more posters of Eddie when he was caught by a limping Dustin Henderson, is the softest touch on this side of the Ohio River. Wayne Munson found himself playing taxi, making a quick stop at the Buckley house before taking all of the loved ones that the ambulance left behind to Hawkins General.

Inside the backpack she forced Wayne to let her grab, is a change of clothes for both of them. A strange amalgamation of pieces from both of their closets and, more importantly, a blank marriage certificate waiting to be signed.

You can, it turns out, get just about anything with the right forms mimeographed from the library or a bright enough smile when you ask for them.

And what Robin got with the correct forms was getting to request a marriage license without anyone at the county clerk's office looking at her twice. And with the smile she gets the hospital notary ready to officiate their marriage once Wayne and a sour faced nurse agreed to be witnesses. Eddie only gets to watch, too shaky still to sign his name on the license, he chose privately to think of himself as the flower girl with some extra special buds he could give the happy couple once he could get out of here.

It wasn’t storybook, but Robin and Steve were smiling so wide that it made the stitches on the side of his own face hurt. He could tell from the set of Wayne’s shoulders that he was trying not to cry and if they had him on a little less morphine he might be on the same boat. He called for the first cheers to the happy couple and it didn’t feel weird at all that neither the Harringtons nor Buckleys were there to watch their two children get hitched.

Eddie is the only witness left when later that night the cot comes out and Robin and Steve Harrington-Buckley bed down separately for their hospital honeymoon. It's not like he wants to overhear their marital pillowtalk, but even though he knows he's supposed to be asleep it won't come.

It’s Robin’s voice he notices first, a rough whisper that soothes something in him. The words wash over him for a second before his brain catches up. “In two years,” she pauses, but even Eddie who barely knows them can tell that Steve is and always is riveted to whatever she is saying. “When we get out of this shithole, I'm gonna have an affair with the most beautiful woman you've ever seen.”

"Is that the feminism Glory Steinway is teaching people, women doing men's jobs?” Steve’s little giggle makes his heart monitor jump, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and hopes they think he’s just dreaming. “That would explain why my dad doesn't like her.”

“A Steinway is a piano. It's Gloria Steinem.”

“And you can try, but I've seen your taste,” Steve continues his part of the conversation like she hasn’t even spoken.

But Robin continues hers too. “And anyway, I don't know if that second part even applies anymore anyway, asshole. Not after that stuff we've been talking about.”

He’s not a good person, he knows that, that’s the only explanation for the way he was straining to hear like he could make his ear stretch across the floor toward them to hear better.

Steve blows a raspberry, surprising enough that Eddie flinches back in his bed. “I can't think about that if I can't sleep on my back.”

“That's not how it works,” Robin says with the confidence of someone who isn’t sure what she’s saying and lets Eddie be sure that he’s not going to learn anything else about whatever stuff they had been talking about.

“It is how it works. I've got to have my arm all funny to get comfortable enough to sleep.”

“Make sure I'm in here when Nurse Ratched comes to check on you and learns you dislocate your shoulder to sleep on your side.”

“I don't think that's Becky's last name, I think it's Collins.”

“Who cares. Now scoot over, one of us should get some sleep tonight and this cot is worse than Eddie's floor.”

He understood the bone deep instinct for protection Steve had now. The same drive that had Steve, still high on painkillers and a lack of sleep, stumbling out of the bed beside Eddie’s in the hospital. “They always say it’s gone, and then it comes back,” he’d whispered while clutching Eddie’s hand tight. 

Underneath the warning, he’d heard the want. The desire to take Robin and Eddie and the kids and everyone he cared about, to shove them all in the back of a car and drive as far away from Hawkins as he could. To stop them all from doing something stupid that shouldn’t be their responsibility anyway, to drive until Hawkins was a stain on a map that couldn’t be seen in the rearview mirror.

That’s how he feels right now.

It’s been three days and he hasn’t seen Steve and Robin in the same place at the same time. It feels like a sign he should have been looking for that this thing is coming back.

So he tries to think of his next steps as self-preservation. He has a certain reputation to uphold and going to the mall isn’t very counterculture. But Sam Goody is Sam Goody and getting his nearest and dearest their favorite tracks on cassette feels like the same kind of practical as the thick wool socks Wayne gave him last year. If he brought Steve and Robin then their presents wouldn’t be a surprise, is his reasoning And maybe that’s self-preservation too, it’s a long drive to Bloomington and it’s hard to imagine mirror-Steve and Robin being very fun to road trip with.

He’s talked himself around on it by the time he’s window shopping the Gap. Nancy is trying to organize a Christmas party from Boston with the single minded determination he would expect of a general arranging a siege. She had them pick names for Secret Santa while she was home for fall break and he’d drawn the short straw and ended up with the general herself. Which puts him outside The Gap, all he really knows about Nancy is her penchant for guns and a good sweater and he’d hate to get her a 9mm she’s already got.

The pastel colors are probably some kind of danger signal, but he’s already stepped inside and has his hands on a sweater he hopes says ‘I’m a badass and there’s a gun in my handbag don’t fuck with me’ in prep when he spots the danger.

The danger being Steve, alone still, with a dark plaid skirt pinched between his fingers.

He drops the sweater and slips back out the store, hoping he hasn’t been caught. He’ll find Wheeler a fancy pen or a nice notebook somewhere in Indy.

It's two days before Thanksgiving and when Eddie walks into Steve's place the first thing he hears is shouting.

Hand on the door knob, he pauses, listening as Robin's voice carries throughout the house. “I'm not wearing it.”

“Robin-”

“No, listen to me! I am not wearing that. I’m not gonna meet your mom looking like some, some-”

“Nancy.”

“You said that, not me.”

“Robin. Robin!” Footsteps, Eddie hears footsteps. Robin’s angry heels slamming down hard on the floors beneath her enough that he can track her movement through Steve’s house even though she’s only wearing her socks. He takes a step back toward the door. Puts his hand back on the door handle, ready to pretend that he had just walked in. Ready to pretend that he hadn’t heard the two most in-sync people in his life arguing like the Wheelers.

“Let me storm out! Let me leave. I can’t just stay here and argue with you until we both say something-” The knob twists in his hand to the sound of the desperation in Robin’s voice. Eddie’s feet don’t move, frozen in place by courage or cowardice or the seven years of high school engrained need to hear every last bit of gossip possible.

Steve has always been good at making good gossip. “Robin!”

“I’m not wearing that fucking thing just because you want to and can’t!”

He knows the sound of an argument ending when he hears it. The holidays always leave him a little more tuned in for the sounds of smashing glasses and raised voices.

The silence that comes after a landing hit. 

The door knob gives in his hand, pulling it just wide enough that he can feel the chill of the late November air, Eddie is a little surprised at what side of the door he finds himself on when he slams it shut again.

Footsteps moving faster toward him, heavy heel first steps. He starts putting on the production of arriving: shaking his shoulders like he’s shaking off the frosty chill of the early winter hitting Hawkins like the latest plague. He’s got a toe at the heel of one boot, ready to kick it off when Robin comes barreling toward him. Barrelling into him, he stumbles over his tangled up feet to keep them both from falling to the floor.

She’s got a hand pressed into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, using it to drag him impossibly closer. He can smell the coffee on her breath when she hisses, “As one of the people responsible for saving your life, I need you to put me in that death trap you call a van and repay your debt.”

“I-?” Closer than he thinks he’s ever been to Robin, the fight he just overheard playing through his head once again, he tries to parse through the pissed off urgency in her voice that’s now being directed at him.

Her eyes are wild and she only looks more insistent as Steve’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Is that Eddie? Eddie, come in here and taste this.”

“If you have never trusted me before, trust me now, if you value your life you'll leave.”

There’s a part of his brain that believes her. There really is.

But then Steve whines, “Seriously, Eddie, I need you.” It’s a tone of voice Eddie has only heard in his wildest fantasies, and sometimes not even then.

“Oh that's a cheap trick,” Robin snaps.

“Please?” He drags the word out into a moan. Something sultry that Eddie wouldn’t dare dream of, so it has to be real.

“Cheap trick,” he pats Robin on the shoulder as he walks toward the vision he can only just begin to imagine in the kitchen. “Yeah sure, put them on.”

“This is for your own good.” For a band geek, she’s strong. Maybe it’s the world saving. 

Eddie has only managed a step toward what has to be everything he’s ever dreamed of when her hand closes tight around his arm and pulls him back toward the door. The jury in his head has just reached the unanimous decision that he does actually have a shot with Steve Harrington as he’s being lifted kicking, but not yet screaming, by a scrawny band nerd and now they’re calling for her head.

“Eddie?”

“I’m taking him with me. Maybe between the two of us we can get the right onions.”

“Who would use a sweet onion for a green bean casserole?”

He’s stunned, still enough that Robin can finish pushing him back out the door he just walked through. Not because Steve was being a bitch, Steve’s always kind of an ass, but that Robin wouldn’t respond. The ‘god you never listen to me and I’m actually mad about something else but this is the thing that’s broken me’ tone is one he associates with the bitterly married Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary from the trailer two down, the frowning couples in the grocery, not Steve and Robin.

Steve and Robin had full conversations in their brains with nothing but facial expressions and laughter, they didn’t storm out of the house angry and resentful. 

It feels like something is broken, waiting to be fixed. Broken things have always preoccupied him, and they’re halfway down the road before he realizes they aren’t headed toward town.

And that he isn’t the one driving.

“Um, Buckley? Did you get your license when I wasn’t looking?”

“I have my permit. We have the beamer, it's not like we’re going that far.” He grabs the oh shit bar as she rounds a corner without breaking.

“All due respect to the royal carriage- Shit, brake. Brake! Arwen doesn’t exactly handle the same.” He recognizes where they’re headed now, if only because the edge of the quarry is quickly approaching. Maybe he hasn't given enough weight to the amount of stress she’s under.

“It’s ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous.”The edge of the quarry is looming and her foot is too light on the brake. Even as the dust flies out behind the van, he’s torn between listening to her and watching the windshield. The brakes squeal as her foot finally presses down hard enough to actually stop the van all the while chanting. “It’s a dinner. A dinner. All this for a dinner.”

They stop. The car rocks back, Eddie lunges for the column to make sure it’s in park while Robin launches herself out of the cab.

He can see her pacing beside the van in the side view mirror, her mouth moving in a rant he can’t hear over the sound of his own panting breath. “Okay, this is okay,” the words leave his mouth but they might as well be coming from some third tag along in the van. “Robin is freaking out, so you can’t freak out.”

He scrambles into the back, knees smarting as he crawls across the blankets that aren’t doing enough to cushion the floor. Robin almost gets hit, when he tosses open the doors to usher her in.

“Climb in, we’ll partake in the time honored tradition of escaping from family, getting high, and bitching.” 

She doesn’t look convinced, hands shaking when he grabs ahold to help her get into the back. Eddie makes it a point not to look at her as she settles. She fusses, fidgeting with pillows and smoothing out the afghan that Steve picked out from the thrift store, and he holds any comment about how Steve had done the same thing the last time they hit the drive in mostly because he knows she was there for it. His time is better spent carefully rolling up a fresh joint, lighting it, and taking a big hit.

He still doesn’t know everything that happened to them before he got involved with the Upside Down. But he knows that the Harrington-Buckleys don’t handle being high well these days. But with the doors open, the ambiance, and the faint second hand smoke it isn't long before Robin is speaking.

“It was funny when he was showing me the best way to climb into a girl's window or scale a trellis.” She isn't looking at him while she speaks. Her eyes are locked on the toes of the new Chuck Taylors that she and Steve had lucked into at a thrift store in Seymour of all places. One blue and one red, they'd split the pair after decorating them. The two of them so in sync they even share a shoe size.

Still the words keep tumbling out, slow but gaining speed like a snowball rolling down a hill. “It was fun learning the best way to shotgun a beer and the flirty hand thing. And I liked, like, having someone who will gossip with me and we can paint our nails.” 

She stops, breath shuddering and it's worse, now that he's got the smell of weed around him but none of the haze, when she looks at him with red, watery eyes. “But now I'm gonna be the girl who isn't girl enough who ruined her perfect son and made him not boy enough and ruins their relationship forever. He loves his mom.”

“And he loves you, Rob.” There's no right amount of emphasis to put on the words. It feels like he’s repeating facts to a conspiracy theorist. DnD isn't devil worship. The Earth is round. Steve Harrington loves Robin Buckley, no matter what.

And just like spouting facts, he isn't met with a good reaction.

“I know,” she croaks, voice breaking as she holds back a sob. “I know and he knows better than anyone that loving someone isn’t enough to keep you from resenting them.”

It's miserable. He feels miserable. Robin looks miserable. And if there’s anything he hates more than injustice it’s misery.

“What can I do?”

 She sits up further, grabs the wrist that’s holding the forgotten joint, a look on her face that makes him think of the urgency of a quest. “I can’t be someone he ends up resenting in a year, in five.”

“What can I do, Robin?”

“Say you’ll come Thursday?”

That sounds like the worst idea in the world, Eddie Munson, former murder suspect, joining in at the Rockwellian dinner table. But he isn’t good at denying his friends much of anything these days. “Will it help? Me being there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. But you’ll be there for me, for him, for us.”

“Then I’ll be there.”

Thanksgiving comes and Eddie’s hands are sweating around the wheel of the van as he sits in the Harrington driveway.

He hasn’t celebrated the holiday in earnest like this since he was little. When his own mom was still alive and they would load up in the pick up to drive to his Mammaw’s house where it would smell like roasted turkey and fresh baked bread. Now he and Wayne need the money too badly to skip out on the holiday pay. They would have turkey sandwiches for lunch before he would leave and Eddie would float around town selling to the teens who had slipped out their front doors for a “walk” before dinner so they could stand to be around their overbearing relatives.

Which leaves him in the position of trying to figure out his role here.

Is he the dirtbag that Steve has somehow managed to befriend, there to take the heat off of Robin and make her better by default? 

Is he the reformed killer that the two of them have fixed through the power of their goodness, there to make them both look like the power couple that they are? 

Is he there as their friend Eddie, there to be moral support in a stressful situation?

He isn’t sure and each different version of himself that he can imagine looks different. Each a different performance that requires different costuming.

It’s left him arriving late, wearing a hodgepodge of pieces that speak to each version. Stitched up jeans and a thrifted band shirt, overtop that one of Wayne’s cowboy shirts and he’ll kick off his trusty Reeboks at the door if he can get himself to go inside. He isn’t sure what anyone is going to think if he manages to make it in the door, but he can imagine what the neighbors are thinking right now.

Trudging up to the door, nerves prick at his fingertips but he doesn’t regret coming. Not even as he tries to anticipate the stuffy, frigid silence he’s about to walk into.

At least the food will be good, the stuff Steve made anyway.

Through the door he hears laughter.

When he knocks, it doesn’t stop.

And then he’s looking at Steve wearing that skirt from the Gap with his hair pinned back. “Eddie!” His eyes are wide, sparkling with a bright joy that Eddie hasn’t seen in days.

From down the hall voices, Robin’s he knows too well not to identify and the other’s can only be Mrs. Harrington, chorus, “Oh Eddie!” Before he hears the sounds of giggling laughter once again. Steve’s face flushes a beautiful, distracting pink.

“I should have brought something,” Eddie finds himself saying. Empty hands clenching even as his eyes are locked on those two moles on Steve’s cheek and how they stand out on that blush.

“You never have to bring anything, Ed.”

“Stevie! Quit hogging Eddie, we want to see him,” Robin’s voice has the slip sliding quality Eddie has come to associate with drinking.

“There’s still time to run, if you want to avoid everything,” Steve teases.

“You know I’m not a runner anymore, and anyway your missus invited me.”

“And nobody has ever accused Eddie Munson of being rude.”

“Got that right, baby.” Eddie can feel the smile on his face broaden as Steve rolls their eyes, a smile tugging at their lips, and that sweet pink kissing his face again. 

But when Steve’s hand runs down his wrist, a tentative touch reaching to tangle their fingers, the situation he’s in fully cements itself in his mind. Fingertips brush past one another as Steve keeps walking and Eddie stays put. He can hear Robin’s familiar cackle and a pleasant laugh that shares the same cadence as Steve’s coming from the kitchen. Warm brown eyes look him up and down, he tries to ignore that as he listens for whatever conversation is accompanying that laugh.

“She wants to meet you, y’know.” Steve says finally. “Hasn’t shut up about how my tastes have gotten better now that I’m back to my old self.”

“And she means me?”

“She means Robin,” he laughs, “but she’ll like you because I do. Because you haven’t said anything about this,” he flicks his hand down to his skirt. “Because you won’t say anything when you see she’s wearing the same outfit.’”

“Mama’s boy?”

“Something like that. C’mon, I need someone on my side in there.”

“Yeah, alright,” Eddie agrees, reaching out to grab Steve’s hand for real, “It’s just dinner. It can’t be that bad, right?”

[ima-ghost-art]

Does he want this cure to work?

inspired by this post <3

[tonydaddingham]

it goes something like this: this is a demon that isn't a very good demon and has survived this far by not allowing anyone to see other than himself that he's not a very good demon. after all, he's been in this position before, hasn't he? he's shown Someone who he truly is, what is in his mind and heart so to speak, and was ruined because of it. but he still can't shake off the feeling of doing the right thing, regardless of whether it goes against heaven or hell.

and then appears this angel that has already told him on that wall that it would be awful if he, the angel, were to do the wrong thing and he, the demon, to do the right thing. it's meant to be the other way around, simply by the will of someone they haven't heard a voice from in centuries, millennia, let alone be able to even understand. this angel who the demon knows is going to be set on doing the divine thing, wrong thing, so he can't trust him to know that he's doing the right thing. he has to keep his cover, make this angel fear him, so he doesn't get close enough to see beyond the facade. because to thwart him as a demon is the good thing, but he can't trust the angel to see that he's doing the right thing.

but this angel accosts him, tells him that he doesn't think this is right, that it can't be what god intended; well, close, but no cigar. the angel beseeches to the demon to do the right thing this time, that the goats were one thing, but please, please, don't harm the children. and it's a close call, but how could he trust this angel? trust the angel to have some sliver of faith in him? trust him to re-examine his prejudice and see him as more than a demon, and all its preconceptions? but the angel does work it out, does see, and it perhaps births the hope that this angel won't stop him from doing the right thing.

it goes something like this: this angel is now a smug but tentative temporary ally. he's seen through him, and he hasn't been thwarted yet, so maybe he has the room to continue with his plan, his agenda, to do the right thing. but he doesn't have the full measure of this angel yet; how mercurial is he? will he change his mind? he seemed hesitant at the flood, but he doesn't get consulted on policy decisions; will actually saving the children be a step too far for the angel? will the angel baulk, and run back to the comfort of just following orders?

he sets the house on fire, and the angel initially doesn't seem to realise that it's a mirage, a magic trick. the demon's just setting the stage. the angel is shocked, momentarily panicking that his faith in this demon was misplaced. but the angel doesn't understand that it's a test, that the demon is scrutinising where his allegiance lies, that he won't thwart this trick, believing it a genuine attempt to harm the children. he offers deniable plausibility; offers the version that he is naturally a bad person because he's a demon - but fear me, stay away, you can't beat me; if you have changed your mind, don't try to stop me because i won't let you win.

but the angel shows again where his moral compass lies, and resolves that he does know this demon, and knows that he won't do what he's threatening to do. that he will do the right thing, and push him to follow it through. so he picks up the gauntlet. he knows that the demon lied before, and he would stake his faith on the fact that he's lying now. that he's not reneging on the true him that was revealed to the angel, that that was the important bit that wasn't a lie.

it goes something like this: now it's the angel's turn. this demon, this good person who does the right thing, is staring him down. setting up the challenge, and silently pleading that he does the right thing too. but the demon knows the stakes are higher for this angel; the demon operates alone, has had the freedom to somewhat pave his own way, and do whatever he wants, and only truly cares about answering to himself. this angel is literally surrounded, backed into the corner. the demon wants to know what he'll choose; will he choose the good thing - telling the truth, and bring down the fledgling trust they've just set up between them? or will he choose the right thing - to lie and ensure that this family, that has done nothing to warrant any of these horrors, can continue to exist in peace?

not only does the angel lie, but he stakes it on everything that he is. he stakes it on being an angel. a direct wager that if the other angels see through the lie, that is the price the angel will need to pay. the demon is suitably impressed, he applauds the performance and the sacrifice, and possibly even feels some degree of sympathy. because whilst this demon's existence isn't easy, he doesn't have much else to lose. he's already lost it, and still feeling the waves crashing on the shore, but it doesn't knock anything down. for this angel, this is everything he embodies and believes himself to be. he still has everything to lose. the demon has been there before, facing the risk of, and survived, losing that, and knows that conflict and pain. but is the price worth it? is it worth doing the right thing?

it goes something like this: the demon goes to the angel. they're not friends, not even really allies, but they've shared the same experience. the demon is surprised that the angel thought he'd fall, but he understands that fear. he recognises and respects that vulnerability, to show the shards of yourself to someone else knowing that they could either help to put them back together, or further trample them into dust. so he comforts the angel with not an assurance that they are still good, because that would be a lie. instead he offers the truth - that he did the right thing, and whilst its a lonely and thankless path to walk, a dangerous moral ground to tread, he won't be alone in walking it.

he lets the angel in on a little secret: that he too is vulnerable. that he is lonely. he has a weakness that at any given moment this angel could exploit if he were so minded. that this angel could experience is a one-off, and he could revert to seeing the demon as someone incapable of doing the right thing by nature of what he is. but he trusts that he won't. the demon recognises and acknowledges what the angel risked for a greater purpose, for helping him achieve that purpose, and for seeing who this demon actually is. he is showing the angel behind the curtain screen, the murky and unknowable that lies ahead when stepping out of the light. showing that they can be, and are, more than the labels they are assigned, and that doing the right thing is the only thing that truly matters.

it goes something like this: the demon trusts the angel enough to admit, unequivocally, out loud, that he lied.

[g00seg1raffe]

So there was a post a while back about Ben Solo always being told "don't do (x), that's how uncle luke lost his hand" when he was a kid - and I raise you: Elrond and Elros being told "don't do (x), that's how Maedhros lost his hand"??

Like, at Amon Ereb when the twins were newly acquired and refusing to eat their vegetables and Maglor is Mag-mothering them until Erestor, feral half-sane clinically depressed anarchist Avari hostage/patient/infiltrator and Certified Little Shit, hits em with:

"I would listen to the Lord Maglor, winyamor, he well knows the dangers that come to young elflings who don't eat enough vegetables - after all, that's how his brother lost his hand."

Elrond looks conflicted. Elros squints suspiciously. "Truly?"

Erestor, practically comatose since the massacre but ultimately saved from Fading by the biological compulsion to fuck with you, lays a hand over his heart. "I would never lie about such a thing! Just what do you take me for? This is a true tale and a grave warning - the Lord Maedhros' hand was tragically lost in the days of his youth, whilst he was still growing as you are. He refused to eat his vegetables and so, cruelly deprived of the strength it needed to grow strong, his body started to fall apart! First his fingers, then his thumb, and then his palm and wrist - all turned blue and dropped off!"

"No!" Elrond gasps. Elros looks both terrified and impressed. Maglor's face is scrunched up into something that the twins probably interpret as pained - at reminder of the horrors of limbs falling off! - but is actually just him busting a rib trying not to laugh.

"Yes!" Erestor cries with relish. "And it never grew back. All because he didn't eat his vegetables. Isn't that right, Lord Maedhros?"

Maedhros, a looming terror at the head of the table, scarred and solemn and impenetrable as his fortresses, narrows his eyes consideringly at the unfolding shenanigans and the rascal behind it. His conclusion? Fuck it. He gives a slow, solemn nod. Completely deadpan and exaggeratedly formal, because it may have been centuries since he last had his brothers smothering laughter at political dinners but the Finwëan sense of humour, once caught, is not an ailment easily cured.

Maglor conceals his wheezes behind his goblet as Erestor nods sagely to the wide-eyed twins, who suddenly seem a sight more interested in their vegetables.

[sqtorux]

guys im having a moment reading all the backstory about gojo i think ... im way too attached to him omfg this is so bad *sits in judgmental silence*