#writing warmup

[smoft-demons]

Tsundere nonsense

(This takes place between getting Beel’s pact and leaving for the retreat)

Mild angst, hurt/comfort, fluff. The human is very sensitive and cannot tell when Mammon’s spouting bullshit.

_______

Auva sits on the couch in the living room next to Beel. There’s a show playing on the TV. Beel is snacking as they watch it idly. Levi sits in a corner playing a game on a handheld console, hunched over and grumbling about being out of his room. Asmo sits on the floor, painting Satan’s nails. Everything is peaceful.

Mammon walks in, and Auva perks up, hands grabbing at the air in his direction. Beckoning him to sit at her other side.

Mammon acquiesces with an unsubtly fond eyeroll. Smiling openly.

Asmo snickers at him

“Honestly, Mammon, you still can’t admit that you’re wrapped around that human’s little finger? You’ve all but adopted her at this point! Can’t you say how much you love her?” Asmo teases.

Mammon sputters, hands flapping frantically as his face burns bright red. “Wh—! I—! NO! I don’t love the human, I didn’t even want the human, I don’t care about the stupid thing, what the fuck are ya talkin’ about Asmo—Shut the fuck up before I make you—!” Mammon deflects desperately, defending himself as Asmo cackles.

Under the sound of Mammon’s shouting, there’s a muffled little sound. A quick, squeaky puff of air, as if from being punched in the gut... Auva.

She inhales slowly, blinking hard. Trying not to cry. Trying not to draw attention.

It’s not working. She turns to bury her face in Beel’s shirt.

Because… Auva knew Mammon didn’t like her at first, he had said as much all the time! But… but she really thought he had changed his mind by now! He hadn’t said anything like that in weeks!

All the time he spent in her room, all the hangouts and talks and whispering stupid comments to each other in class, all the silly memes they’d sent to each other, his ever present charger and toothbrush and random items left in her room because he’s always in there with her… how is that not friendship? How can he still not care about her after all that? How could he not want her? Why…

“…why would he say that?” Auva asks Beel, her voice cracking with barely suppressed tears.

Beel places an arm around her shoulders. “He doesn’t mean it.” He assures her.

She sniffles quietly.

“—the worst, Asmo, see if I don’t sell YOU next, you piece of—oh, human…” Mammon finally notices his human, curled up in a little shivering ball of heartbreak. Hiding under Beel’s arm. Tucked away from him.

“Wha—no, no, hey… ya know I never mean any of that… right? Human..? Auva…” Mammon’s voice is suddenly softer. Soothing, like he’s trying to coax a scared animal out of hiding.

Silence.

(In the background, Levi glares at Asmo. He throws a nearby cushion at him.)

“I didn’t mean it, Auva, I promise..! C’mon… look at me?” Mammon frantically says.

Auva sniffles again. “Y-you said… you don’t care about me. Stupid thing, you said… you said—”

“No, no, human… I’m sorry. I didn’t… you’re not a stupid thing. I promise ya, I didn’t mean it! I was just…” he sighs heavily, as he mentally kicks his own ass.

“I—look. I get defensive, I’m… how’d you put it? I’m real fuckin bad at feelings, okay? I just—I get called out, then I get defensive, an’ I just yell lies to get everyone to lay off, an’—aww, baby, no don’t cry, don’t… fuck, I’m a jackass… c’mere, c’mere…”

Beel glares at Mammon as he pulls Auva out of her hiding spot, so he can hug her.

Auva thinks what he just said demonstrates some rather impressive emotional intelligence and self-awareness, especially for someone who just claimed to be bad at feelings. This… is encouraging, she thinks. Maybe, maybe it really will be okay..? Maybe he really does love her?

Hesitantly, desperately, Auva hugs back. Tangling her fingers into his shirt, hands bunched up in the loose fabric at his sides. Clinging, but not daring to actually hold him. Not yet.

“I’ll work on it, I promise. I’ll do better. I promise, I promise, human… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean a word of it, I’ve never meant any of that, please tell me ya knew that…” Mammon pleads as he squeezes his human tightly. Secure, safe… how he knows by now she responds best to.

“You said… you said you don’t want me..?” Auva sobs.

“I do, baby, I do. You’re MY human. ‘Course I want ya! I’m never gonna get rid of ya… shhh, shhshshh… I’m here, baby. I gotcha. I’m not lettin’ go. Promise.”

Mammon has dropped his tsundere nonsense entirely. It falls away to reveal the soft, gentle, protector that Mammon is when no one else is there to witness it.

“…Auva?” Mammon murmurs in the long, quiet moment after she’s calmed down. “You did know that I never meant any of that crap I say when I get like that… right?”

Auva shakes her head slightly. “How would I know?? I can’t do subtext, Mam. Unless it’s in fiction, I guess. I never pick up on any of that in real life. I just… I trust you, so I believe you. S-so… if you say that you don’t care about me… how would I know that’s not what you meant?”

“…oh. Well… fuck. I… y’know what? I need you to know I’m tellin’ ya the truth now. I want you to use the pact. Command me to tell you the truth. Lemme tell you what I really meant.”

Auva’s taken aback. That’s a big gesture! “Um—are you sure?”

He looks away, red-faced and clenching his jaw as he nods. He gestures at her to hurry it up, get it over with.

“Okay… Mammon, tell me the truth. What do you really think of me?”

“Auva… you’re MY human. My precious lil buddy. You’re my lil gremlin human. There’s really not much I wouldn’t do for you. I love you, I’d NEVER get rid of you! I can’t imagine ever not wanting you here with me. You’re not some… stupid annoying obligation. Not at all. I can’t believe you really didn’t realize how much I cared about you, even from the very first few days of knowin’ you! Auva, I’m supposed to protect you, and I WANT to! You’re my baby, Auva. My lil baby. I love you, and I’m staying with you. As long as possible. ‘Kay?”

Auva stares wide eyed at Mammon. That’s… wow. Some shit she’s sure he’d NEVER say if it weren’t forced out of him. Safe to say she knows what to believe now.

She lifts the command.

“…wow. Okay. Yeah. Thank you…”

Overwhelmed, Auva buries herself in Mammon’s arms again. That was… a lot.

“Don’t let go?” She requests softly. Mammon squeezes her reassuringly in answer.

It’s peaceful again for a moment.

“Mammon.” Beel rumbles threateningly. “If you make the baby cry again I will throw you through another wall.”

Auva makes an embarrassed sound, curling into Mammon to hide again.

Mammon laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I won’t. I got the baby. She’s fiiine.”

Auva squeaks, overwhelmed and unsure how she’s supposed to react. She decides on clinging to Mammon and ignoring everything else. Her usual strat. It’s normally effective enough.

[strangersteddierthings]

Dialogue prompts. Platonic Stobin + “We met at a funeral.“

The thing with having your best friend in the whole wide world, the platonic love of your life, your soulmate, be Steve 'Heart-Throb' Harrington is that you can't really go anywhere without people thinking you're a couple.

Robin had hoped that once they left Hawkins that would stop. Chicago is big and Steve doesn't have any sort of reputation for being a lady's man here! But still, when they go out and about the city, someone has to comment on how 'cute you two look together' or 'you two look so in love' which makes both of them visibly gag, because, ew, gross, no.

And Steve makes friends so easily. Not always lifelong friends, but friends in that they get invited out to a lot of things, all the time, always. Parties, out to bars and clubs, weddings. Robin isn't nearly as social as Steve, but she always comes with, which isn't really helping the unfortunate boyfriend/girlfriend situation everyone thinks they're in.

Inevitably, Steve gets pulled into talking with whomever invited him out and Robin is left to linger near wherever drinks are being served, flocked by woman cooing at her about wishing their boyfriends looked at them 'the way Steve looks at her' (to which Robin's always thinking they need to ditch their boyfriends then, because Steve's looks are completely platonic and that makes her think these girls are dating boys who don't even like them as people) or to ask after their relationship.

She's given up trying to explain they aren't dating. Instead, she's decided to have fun with it.

She invents new, ridiculous, ways they've met every time she's asked.

"Oh, we met at a funeral," Robin lies, looking past the group that has gathered around her to Steve, trying to telepathically tell him to come rescue her right this second. Steve does make eye contact and given the smarmy grin that spreads across his face, he received the message loud and clear. He's just enjoying her torment. "My great aunt's. We weren't close but I went to pay my respects. Steve was just there because he'd read the obituary in the paper and showed up for the free food. It's his favorite pastime."

The silence that follows is awkward, to say the least, and Robin relishes in it.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Robin says and slides away from the crowd to go let Steve know how they met this time.

Steve always plays along.

[velocitytimes2]

Have an angsty Metalsandwich blurb for your Sunday night.

Rating: T for drug mention Pairing: Steve x Billy x Eddie

Wrote this as a love letter to the anniversary of Eddie sacrificing himself for his friends because I'm feeling some kind of way about it.

tw: angst, major character death, canon character death

Steve only ever returns to Hawkins now twice a year, now. His mother comes to him for holidays, doting that he shouldn’t have to pack the entire family up from Pennsylvania to come see her when one-person traveling is easier than five. Robin lives in Spokane now, all the Byers had settled down in California again – both natural born and married-in Wheelers alike, Dustin in Silicon Valley, only because of his wife, Lucas traveling for broadcasting… No one really was left in Hawkins for Steve. But no matter what, he always came back, drove over the still two-toned pavement at Town Hall to turn left and head home. Six days a year. The morning before in to spend the day with mom. The day of. The day after to pick himself up and dust himself off and pack the Volvo for the drive home.  The dates are always the same. March, for a dried out red roses and a joint. July, for sunflowers, and a Marlboro (even though he quit at twenty-seven). Both with a six pack.  July is always a fight, always explaining that he just needs time alone on the holiday to his kids, how grandma sometimes needs him home – a lie but one that helps, watching his partner understand but still hurt that his choice had always been to go back. March sometimes fought back with attempts at late-season blizzards, and isn’t that the most hilarious thing. To know that even now, even forty-fucking years later he’s being bumped into by Eddie. Even when the weather sucks, even when the snow is falling or the fourth of July is the hottest in ten years, Steve goes, sits with his back to a headstone, and talks to the two boys he’d once loved with so much in his heart that he was delirious with it.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy, god he had fought and clawed and torn his way to it but he was happy. Was so in love again with someone who saw him for the bat in his trunk (still), and nights where he walked the halls to press a palm to each of his children’s chests, and the days he had to go and spend with the people who weren’t able to come see him anymore. Who hadn’t left Hawkins and survived.  He knows Nancy goes to see Barb. Sometimes, on the day he leaves Hawkins Steve does too. He tells her what he can about her friends. He apologizes for not being the person he should have been, for playing the role in her death.  He walks across the same cemetery and sits with Chrissy. Knows Eddie would want him to. He sometimes lays on his back and cries on her grave, making up stories of what he and Eddie and her could have been doing now in their thirties, forties, fifties. Sometimes he just tells her about how much he had loved Eddie, loved him quietly from the side, loved him loudly behind closed doors.  No one who Billy loved is in Hawkins. So Steve tells him about what he knows about Max’s life now. He keeps him up to date with what musicians are doing. The new and the old and the in between. He tells Billy about Eddie, how much he would have loved Eddie once he got past the whole nerd thing. How much they would have loved one another.  He always ends up crying to them both. Because how do you move past horrific deaths? How do you move on with the guilt that both times you were the one to live and they weren’t?  You don’t. But you can be happy.  He is happy. But he can miss them. Thinks it’s okay he misses them. Knows they’re happy he’s happy.  “I love you. I know you're out there somewhere, watching. I’ll see you next year, baby.”

[royal-songbird]

I, Carrion (Icarian)

wrote a silly little thing with gay people bcus i cannot stop listening to hoziers new album and needed to do something about it <3 uhh this is also vaguely inspired by those like... medusa x blind woman stories Word Count : 603

“We can’t keep doing this.” She murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper and her gaze downcast.

“Doing what?” “This.” 

I follow her gaze, down to our hands, intertwined. Her thumb brushes over my calloused palm, a frown tugging at her lips. The touch sends sparks through my veins, and I feel giddy with it, even with the melancholy hanging heavy in the air like a suffocating fog.

“Why? Why can’t we?” I ask, curling my fingers around her’s. Her frown deepens, and her golden brown eyes shine in the candlelight, glimmering with unshed tears.

“You’ve heard the stories. You’ve heard what I am.” “I have.” “Then you know I cannot be loved. I do not deserve it.” She breathes, her voice trembling. My heart aches, and I place my other hand against her cheek, pressing my palm against the chill of her too-cold skin. Her gaze lifts, and I meet it with a quiet smile, even as her eyes glow a bit too bright against the dark. 

“If you are unlovable, then I would not be here, darling.” I swipe my thumb over her cheek, rubbing away the few stray tears staining her face. 

“But… I’m not like you.” I will outlive you, she doesn’t say, but I hear regardless. She turns her face into my hand, her voice going quieter.  “There are others. Ones who arent… Ones that can make you happy.”

“I’m happy here.” I lean forward, tilting her head so she meets my gaze. “I am happy with you, and only you.” “But what of the town? What will you do if they find out? If they outcast you?” “I’d rather spend a lifetime as an outcast if it meant I could be by your side.” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Her face scrunches up, tears rolling steadily down her cheeks. Her shoulders shake with barely constrained sobs, and she doesn’t resist as I pull her close, resting her head against my chest.

Her hands grab my clothes, too-sharp nails digging into the fabric. I hold her tightly, pressing my nose against her curly hair.

“I love you.” I mutter, rocking both of us side to side as she breaks, broken, wailing sobs tumbling from her chest as she clings to me. “I love you, and that will never change.”

“What- What if I’m not enough? What if I can’t return that love?” “Then I will love you, regardless. You could cast me aside, you could take a knife to my throat, and my devotion to you would never waver.” 

“Do you promise?” She whispers, her voice shaking with a frail sort of hope. I tighten my grip around her, love and adoration surging through me with the intensity of a tidal wave. I think, not for the first nor last time, how I possibly could’ve been so lucky to find her, and be given the chance to keep her.

“Yes. Always. I swear to the very stars.” I reply, every ounce of love I hold for her spilling past my lips and into the air around us. “I promise, I will always love you.” She cries, soaking my shirt through with snot and tears, but I don’t mind, merely cradling her close to my chest, whispering quiet words of reassurance. I make up my mind then, sitting with my love in my arms in a quiet, candlelight room. This is where I want to stay, until the end of eternity. The town has nothing to offer to me anymore, not while all I could ever want was right here. 

I refuse to leave again. 

[the-mindless]

#2

You are a Hero, and before you, is the mutilated corpse of the Demon King.

Years have passed ever since you began your adventure. Back then, you went out with a party made of your closest friends, and now, you are alone.

There was nothing you could do to bring them back.

There was nothing you could do to stop them from dying.

When your last teammate died, the pain, the anguish, the… rage, was unbearable.

You can still remember their last words.

“Strike… him… down… for us… okay?”

And you did. You charged head first into the demon army. Everything felt like a blur, an acid trip of bloodshed, a vague haze of screaming, slashing, shouting, killing.

And when it ended, you were on the floor, and so was the Demon King.

You didn’t get back up immediately. You simply laid there, for what felt like hours, weeks, years, an eternity. You can’t tell.

Only when the rays of sunlight washed over you through the broken ceiling of the throne room, did you finally get back up. It wasn’t easy, clearly. Everything felt numb, and you’re pretty sure you lost a couple of teeth here and there. But it was over.

You pulled out your sword from within the Demon King’s chest, and turned around, to finally make your way home.

At least, that was the plan, until you saw… Yourself. Someone who looks… exactly like you. Wearing, and holding, the same things as you.

Notably, they were not alone. Surrounding them were…

Your old friends.

You took a step back. Your breath was heavy. And before you could formulate another coherent thought, you heard that someone say, in a tone that matches precisely with yours:

“STRIKE HIM DOWN!”

“OKAY!”

[breezespren]

Writing Prompt: The ocean becomes the sky.

The mermaid laid on the sand. The scales of her tail were drying out. Millions of dead fish and other fellow sea creatures littered the ground around her. The ocean, a blue and purple ocean, that had been her constant companion, her shelter and home, the one thing that she could rely on to always be with her, was gone, forsaking the sea floor for the forbidden heavens, a sky she had never seen, nor wanted to see for fear of the fish killers she’d find, and abandoning its home to fly and flow above, killing its offspring. The mermaid had helped cultivate and care for the creatures of the deep. Now, they spasm and choke on the air not fit for their lungs. The water had blocked out the sun. They had never seen the sun, so the darkness was not new. But a world free from the crushing, comforting pressure of millions of tons of water pressing down, up, and around her was more off putting than the dying, decaying bodies of fish on the sand. The only thing disconcerting about the corpses around her was the quantity. Corpses often sank to the ocean floor, left to decompose into more grains of sand that would spread across the globe to be made into pearls and glass that would be adorned on the necks and wrists of wealthy women too absorbed in their own world’s to think of another that they exploit for their trinkets made of the ocean’s detritus. The mermaid heaved a final sigh, knowing she would soon join her children. The raw air could only sustain her for so long. She watched the waves above her flow back and forth and back and forth, an image she never saw in the deep of the sea, a sight that rocked her, rocked her slowly into death’s embrace.

[ephemeralfuture]

There’s a beat of silence. The Hero’s expression is swimming with guilt. His eyes then flick up, brow furrowing.

“769.” He says, “only 769 were worthy of being etched on your throne?”

Andras raises his eyebrow at the Hero, at his question.

“How many did you—.”

“889.” The hero grunts, his lips pinned closed to keep his expression neutral, if not guilty, “889 and I wish that each of them were unnecessary. But only 769 were worthy for you?”

Now the Hero’s eyes are blazing, as if lost in thought. He steps forward, and Andras rears himself up, waits for the Hero’s attack, but the Hero stops just at the base of his throne to stare at the etched names.

“Some of these are Lamarkian.” The Hero remarks quietly.

Andras’ eyes widen. Then he rolls them. Oh. That’s what the Hero thinks this is about.

“Yes, yes, your point?”

“Who’s Hathar Bétchrakian?”

Andras purses his lips, groans in annoyance. He pinches his brow.

“A worthy sacrifice. Worthy enough for his name to be etched on my throne.” Andras says.

The Hero clicks his throat, shakes his head.

“Yes, Hero, even Lamarkians can be bestowed with Honor in death.” Andras drawls boredly.

“But only in death.” The Hero says tightly, “and only when they’re high ranking officials, hoping to appeal to the High Kingdom, garner some sympathy, so their people can finally be allowed to feed their children.”

“You dramatize.” Andras says flatly.

“Do I?” The Hero snarls, he runs his hands over more of the names on the thrones, “Some of these High Kingdom names are familiar. Leaders of outreach programs.” He stops at a name.

“Did you know Kaeleri Lechant?”

“The name is… familiar.”

Andras thinks to the names on his list on the road to successful domination. A list that the Prime Minister of the High Kingdom granted to him. It worked, for sure.

“She made sure that Lamarkian children had access to education.” The Hero says, “she wasn’t a warlord. Or an upstart. Is that why she was granted the honor to be on your throne?”

Andras stares at the Hero, stares at his blazing scarlet eyes and pained expression. The Hero sighs.

“I’m tired of watching my people try to appeal to the likes of you.”

“Be assured, Hero. What I did is nothing personal against your people. I don’t even hail from the High Kingdom.”

“But the High Kingdom had a hand in helping you, gave you the names so you can pave your path to power.” The Hero says with a grimaced smile, “Am I wrong?”

Andras stays quiet, sits back, watches the Hero, who stares back, expectant. The Hero forcefully smiles again, barely concealing his rage.

“Of course I’m not wrong.” He says lowly, “you can’t even bring it in yourself to lie.”

“Consider adding 1,400 to your number.” The Hero says, “seeing as that’s how many were lost in the siege of my town, in your name.”

The Hero lunges, and Andras’ blade sparks up against the Hero’s.

“Have you nothing to say?!”

Andras opens his mouth, then closes it. He huffs. “It was not reported to me.”

The Hero pushes his blade harder against Andras’, pushing himself closer.

“You think that High Kingdom lieutenants would report the deaths of Lamarkians to you?” The Hero lets up, laughs hysterically, “what kind of childish retort is this?”

The Hero’s expression turns dark with unpredictable anger again. Andras raises his blade, ready to defend himself. Uncertain in the wake of the Hero’s words.

“I didn’t know.” Andras says, “I didn’t know about this…”

The Hero rolls his eyes, swings at Andras.

“You’re the ruler of the High Kingdom now.” The Hero growls when their blades collide again.

“I was supposed to be the ruler of this realm!” Andras refutes in protest, “It wasn’t supposed to be based in prejudice!”

“But it was!” The Hero roars, “Every snake in your ear has been from the High Kingdom! You just presumed based on what they said who was the superior society!”

“And you think yourself the superior society?” Andras says, “if it weren’t the High Kingdom, but instead the Lemarkians, it would have been better? Because let me tell you— it wouldn’t.”

“Don’t pull that nonsense.” The Hero hisses, “Stay in reality. High Kingdomers shaped this world. Shaped the world of Lemarkians. Every aspect of Lemarkians were either shaped by or shaped in spite of the High Kingdom. From the language we speak to the way we dress to the way we carry ourselves. It’s been dictated by High Kingdomers.”

Andras stares, notices how the Hero’s previously scarlet eyes have turned syrupy black in his rage. The Hero stares down at Andras, tip of his sword resting against the tile of the throne room.

The Hero’s expression changes at the sight of Andras’ reaction, from justified rage to exhausted pity.

Andras hates the Hero’s pity. Hates how it bores into him. Despite every reason the Hero had to look down on him. The hero held no hatred in his expression.

“Of course you wouldn’t know.” The Hero huffs, sheathing his sword, “if you’re anything like a High Kingdomer. They *never* know. That’s the comfort you’re granted. Never having to know.”

Andras inhales, a little pit of annoyance and anger blossoming at being told of his ignorance.

“Not only are you granted the boon of not knowing, it’s not a slight against you if you admit you never knew.” The Hero says. He sits on the steps to the throne, back to Andras, “That’s not a luxury I can be granted.”

The Hero is currently being a fool, with his back turned like that. Andras can strike him and be done with it. Yet, it wouldn’t be honorable to do so, especially since the Hero sheathed his weapon.

Andras sheathes his own sword, stands at the step the Hero sits at. The Hero glances up at him, looking even more exhausted than ever.

“You said that you etched the names of the people you killed in order to never forget the cost of your victory.” The Hero says, “and yet you don’t know the real cost of your victory? Your domination?”

“You could just strike me down.” Andras suggests, “In my alternate realm, ignorance is seen as a great insult.”

“But it’s influenced everything you do as a ruler.” The Hero says, “so its clearly not great enough an insult to you.”

“And that was my mistake.” Andras admits, “so you could still strike me down.”

“And what will it do?” The Hero says bitterly, “I strike you down singularly? When the ideas have seeped into the very stone of this realm? There would be no victory on my end. My brothers and sisters would starve anyway. The average High Kingdomer would be disgusted at the sight of me anyway. The High Court of the High Kingdom would see me as subservient either way.”

“You could strike them down too.” Andras suggests again.

“I could. That is the main known language of the High Kingdomer. Yet, they hope I do violence, expect violence from me.”

Andras then sits at the step with the Hero. Staring out at the unusually calm view to the rest if the kingdom.

“It is easier for the people of my realm to adopt the dominant culture when it’s time to conquer.” Andras says, “I suppose it’s not too different to that of the High Kingdom.”

“No, no.” The Hero says, “the High Kingdom either rejects or forces assimilation when they direct their colonial forces. They never assimilate.”

“Well… since my goal is to conquer the High Kingdom… maybe it’s time to start the conquering part.” Andras says, “in earnest, this time.”

The Hero looks at him uneasily.

“Consider, Hero, becoming my new advisor?”

“What?”

“How many people have died to achieve this world domination of yours?” “769.” “…What?” “769 people died to achieve my plans. I counted them, and had each of their names etched on my throne so I never forget what my victory cost the world. Now tell me, how many have you killed to see me dead?”

[bitletsanddrabbles]

When the ridiculous writing warm up you did while battling a head ache is the first piece for the fandom in question...

[whoknoo]

Perhaps it was a dream, she thought. Perhaps if she pinched herself, she would wake up. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay, here, where the people — humans or not — actually noticed her. Back home, she never realized how her search for isolation had made her so hungry for a simple human gaze. More specifically, one that wasn’t immediately quantifying her potential net worth, breedability, “market value,” was the current euphemism.

Yes, to be looked upon as a living, breathing, intelligent thing, to be regarded with simple curiosity, an innocent desire to know her and experience her way of life, with all its strengths and weaknesses. She wished to stay here, where she would be looked upon with genial, respectful love, where she could be accepted, no submission required, no promise of exchange. Back home, she knew, this would be impossible. That place, at its core, was so commercial that there was no practicable notion of human respect; that was unprofitable, impossible, basically the same thing.

And she was no different. Until now, even in the isolation of her fantasies, the forefront concerns of her mind had been ownership, of herself, of her land, of poor Polo. Even in chasing freedom from it, possession was all she had sought, to expand her being, and to fight against the intrusion of others, to prevent the endless inward recession that her empty life had been. Back home, that was taking care of yourself. It was a shitty home.

“What if I choose to stay?” she asked. Polo’s eyes held her, in a language she wasn’t yet speaking. “I mean, I don’t have to go back, do I? That place is awful, and backwards. No one cares about each other, just gives their dead hearts to heartless things. We calculate costs and benefits, discern the opportunities, conduct case studies, and we look for the numbers to tell us what to do. And when we do it, we don’t love what we get. We simply own it, and move on, caring for it according to the profit margin it gave us. But here, I love. Truly.”

She held Polo’s face, but Polo just sighed. They unclasped the chain around their neck, and extended it back to her. She wasn’t getting it. “Then take this back. It has no place here.”

[stevviefox]

This is a lovely story.

The devil walks into your work on a Thursday.

“Hi,” you say, “welcome to McDonalds.”

The devil clops up to the register, red eyes sliding from the cartoonish picture of Grimace, to the Coca Cola drying in the grout, to the ketchup stain on your pale blue button down.

“What can I get started for you today,” you prod when he continues to stare.

“Uh,” he says. “I came for your soul?”

Your smile slips for a moment before you can pin it back in place. Thank goodness your manager is on their lunch. “We don’t sell that, I’m sorry. Have you tried a Big Mac?”

“I know McDonald’s doesn’t sell souls,” the devil says. “Your parents sold your soul. Before you were born.”

“Oh,” you say. That would explain…a lot, actually. “Well. I’m at work, so…can you collect later?”

“I’m owed your soul on your 18th birthday,” he says.

“It’s my birthday today?” You glance at the register. “Wow. I forgot.”

“That is so fucking sad,” the devil says. He punched the bridge if his nose. “When is your shift over?”

“3am.”

“Jesus,” the devil says. He turns on his hoof. “I’m going to go buy you a cake or something.”

“Wow,” you say. You press a hand over your heart. “That—that actually would make my week.”

“And that’s sad,” the devil calls over his shoulder. “See you at 3!”

Now you have a reason to look forward to getting off work.

[persicipen]

[iasconsumesmedia]

Writing warmup, ten minutes or just a paragraph.

Describe a thing. Anything. Rely on nouns and verbs, and stay away from adjectives as much as possible. Still, convey an attitude or feeling toward the thing.

[kamurocho-lullaby]

Tue 5th September 2023, 09:52

3-4 paragraphs using only sense descriptors but no sight.

The tap tap tap of the rain on the window is infuriating in its simplicity, a backdrop tattoo of calm washing over the heated room. The smell of leather permeates everything, soft and musky with age. The unique squeak of wet skin on lacquered wood as he heaves himself to his feet. It had been a long night, the sounds of Kamurocho outside the window softening briefly as dawn crept ever closer. 

The refrigerator door creaks in protest, ice cubes crackle as they warm and fall into the lowball glass with a tink. The smell of whiskey hits his nose and his mouth waters, the acerbic alcoholic smell covered with warm caramel notes that promise a syrupy relaxation. 

He falls into the old sofa with a sigh, cushions letting out a soft pfft of dust that only intensified the leather and lacquered wood musk of the office. The glass was cold in his hand, condensation dripping down his fingers to land on his shirt. The cold soaking through the thin fabric doesn’t bother him in the cloying warmth of the office.

The air is muggy and stale, humid from the summer rains outside. If he were to open the window, he would be assaulted with the smell of hot garbage and standing puddles, rotting meat and rat carcasses, and the press of hot bodies. Instead, Yagami sips at his whiskey, oblivious to the world around him.

[searenbound]

Woke up really late and hungry, gonna find food now and maybe do a little writing warmup. If you have any thoughts for me to use for that feel free to share

[ekkothroughtime]

staring problem | ekko x reader

Word Count: 2,000 Notes: Not particularly sexual, but MDNI, AFAB!Reader. Body (boob?) worship, tight-fitting clothing (no sizes mentioned), fluff, couch cuddling, the briefest food mention of all time. Ekko might have an oral fixation. The prompt for this warmup was literally just Ekko loving on your boobs, do with that what you will. No description of breast size.

Looking back on it, you absolutely knew what would happen when you squeezed into this tiny little black top.

In your defense, though, you had only been curious if it would even fit, pleasantly surprised to find that the soft material was designed to stretch and hug your frame like a second skin.

And it was just so warm that you couldn't bring yourself to peel it back off, not when the first wisps of winter are already twisting through the air. Niping at your nose, frosting the ground, and squeezing through the cracks in your front door, desperate to terrorize you and your already cold feet.

If anything, it's Ekko's fault for bringing it to you.

Some little thing he found while sorting through the new batch of clothes collected for the Firelights. But for someone so intelligent, he sure looks shocked the moment he looks up and sees you standing in the middle of the base.

You're pretending that you notice the way his eyes go wide, feigning ignorance, as you hang these new decorative lights. Using a hoverboard would have made this easier, wouldn't have had to reach so far overhead, but there's an ulterior motive here. Shamelessly twisting your body. Blissfully unaware of the familiar gaze that drinks in your frame, like a man who has just found a glass of water in the desert.

"Please be careful," Ekko's gloved hand presses into your lower back, and you don't need to look to know that the other is in front of you. Ready to catch you the moment you slip.

But try as he might, he can't keep his attention focused on what you're doing. Distracted by something that isn't your diligent hands, securing the string of lights to the wall.

Even after you've finished with them, and Scar calls Ekko over to come look at the engine they're repairing, you can't help but feel as if you're being stared at.

It's one thing to feel the other Firelights looking you over. With so many newcomers these days, all with varying estimations of how long it's socially acceptable to stare at someone, it's bound to happen, but this is different. The script has flipped.

For once, it's Ekko staring at you.

He thinks he's being subtle about it. Looking over his shoulder every time you walk past, going out of his way to ask you questions that he definitely knows the answer to. He's up on the balcony, head swiveling to keep up with you as you walk around the tree. Just so happens to think there's an issue with his hoverboard, one that requires him to fly past you half a dozen times.

You've got a fairly good idea of what could possibly have him so distracted, but it's only confirmed later in the afternoon when you're all huddled around for a meeting. It's another one of Scar's debates about capacity issues, and this time, it sounds like they're actually making progress on it, but...oh, what the hell. You're not listening.

You can't.

Not when Ekko is sitting eight feet across from you, hands clasped in front of his face, staring dead at your chest without the slightest hint of awareness of what he's doing. As if one quick glance won't reveal that he's more focused on the shape of your breasts than the overwhelming topic of where to put everyone. No bra to alter their shape into something modest, and with the way this shirt hugs every single inch...

You cross your arms, letting the motion squish your boobs into a new position.

Ekko's eyes dart up to your face. Caught red-handed.

"Ekko, you got any ideas?" Scar tilts his head, briefly looking toward you, then back to Ekko. Seems he caught on to what was happening a long time ago.

For once in his life, Ekko doesn't have a single clever suggestion to offer. A crucial mistake that keeps him at the meeting long after it ends; the capacity issue won't solve itself, and ideas don't grow on trees.

You're settled into the patchwork couch when Ekko finally pushes through the door. Face paint smeared across his forehead, some of it mysteriously staining his cheek, as if he's wiped his head with his hand and then rested his face in it. One of these days, he'll figure out how to get the consistency right with these new materials, but until then...

"Did the kids get you with a paintbrush again?" You giggle, aimlessly reaching out for him despite how far away he is.

Every muscle in his body seems to relax at the very sight of you, tension melting away like metal under one of his blowtorches. "I smeared it all over my face again, didn't I?" His voice has already lost its usual confidence, resigned to something much quieter.

Any other day, you would chide him for walking out of his shoes, leaving them scattered across the floor to be tripped over later, but you don't think he even has the energy to carry them over to their designated place by the door. All lazy smiles and half-lidded eyes, collapsing into you the moment he's deemed himself close enough.

"And here I thought I would have an easy day," Ekko grumbles right into your collar, groggy voice vibrating through your bones.

"An easy day for the leader of the Firelights?" You tease, running your hand up the back of his neck, nails tracing against his skin. "Never."

His whine cuts through the air, long and drawn out, as if being reminded of his status is the worst thing he could possibly hear right now.

"I'm sorry," laughing, you press a kiss to his forehead, where you're certain you'll get the least amount of paint on your lips.

All he has the strength to do is groan again, tilting his head until he's fully buried his face into your chest. Maybe if he snuggles close enough, nobody will be able to come ask for another favor that he'll inevitably say yes to.

"I should have never given you this shirt," Ekko still isn't lifting his head. Content to stay here with his face smashed into nondescript fabric for the rest of his life.

"What, you don't think it looks good on me?" Feigning hurt.

"It looks gorgeous on you," it comes out a little too fast. Seems he's been sitting on that thought for a while now. "That's the problem."

"I can tell," you have to momentarily pause with that thought, preoccupied with sorting his hair back into place. "You spent half of the afternoon and the entirety of the meeting staring at my chest. I'm shocked Scar didn't call you out on it."

"Oh, he's never gonna let me live it down," Ekko's tired chuckle is the prettiest thing you've heard all day. You can only imagine what went on the moment you left.

But one can only lie next to one's favorite temptation for so long. It's only a matter of minutes before he begins to wander, using the tip of his nose as a guide, wandering across your chest until he brushes over the soft swell of your breast.

A vague, warm pressure greets you. There and gone in a matter of milliseconds, leaving behind a coolness that wasn't there before.

And he does it again, a little bit slower this time. Easier for you to catch. The swift dart of his tongue, wetting the material of your shirt, and maybe he's misplaced his concepts of shame because there's no trace of it to be found today. Content to mouth over your breast, no real end goal to be found. Doing it just for the hell of it.

"What could you possibly be doing?"

No answer.

You're making no move to stop him. It's comparable to a feather-light massage, diligently working over you, leaving no space unattended to. He'd make this his full-time job if circumstances would allow it.

The left half of your shirt is almost entirely damp, your nipple gradually hardening from the cold, poking through the fabric, only to be greeted with his burning mouth. Tongue flicking over it, the faintest pressure of his teeth sending it off.

But the right side can only be neglected for so long, stealing his attention away from your left. Marking it in much of the same way while his hand rises to cover the wet mess he's made of you, warding off the chill before it can grow uncomfortable.

"How long." Kiss. "Will you." Kiss. "Let me do this for?"

You trace the outline of his jaw with the tips of your fingers, humming. "I haven't thought that far yet."

Forever, or until you can't stand it anymore. Whichever comes first.

Enabling him is the worst thing you can do in this situation. You've only got so much time before the dinner bell rings. Even less to change shirts and scurry across the hideout before everything grows cold, but you just can't bring yourself to deny him...whatever this is.

Even if you did want to, it's so hard to find your voice when he peeks up at you. Gentle brown eyes peering through thick lashes, drinking in your expression as he mouths at your breast, drool spilling off his tongue like you're the best thing he's ever tasted.

His hand appears at the hem of your shirt, pushing it upward. Past your belly and over the stunning swell of your chest, and fuck, those eyes sparkle at the sight that greets him.

That mouth of his wobbles. Opening and closing, visibly searching for words that he doesn't have the capacity to conjure up right now. Doesn't find them until after he's pressed a kiss into the underside of your boob. "Has anyone ever told you that you're breathtaking?"

"You," deadpanning. "Every day since the day I met you."

Ekko looks away from you, suddenly very, very interested in the stitching of the couch. As if he's ever cared about the odd green square that covers up the burn mark one of his inventions left behind.

It's remarkably easy to slip your hand beneath his chin, delicately turning him back to look at you. His eyes are a tad reluctant to meet with yours, still bracing for the impact of you expressing some kind of irritation with him that has never, ever been there.

"And I love every second of it." Whispering. A secret meant solely for the two of you to share.

Oh, he just lights up at the sound of that. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He's still just as slow as he was the first time. Diligently kissing at your soft skin, loving on every little inch. Hot, wet tongue tracing shapes and his fingers smearing the saliva left behind. The other hand works carefully at the side he's not playing with yet, massaging loose circles into it. His callouses are just the right amount of friction, enough to create a slight drag that you can't possibly ignore.

"And you don't mind me doin' this?" He shouldn't be talking with his lips half wrapped around your nipple, but ugh, the vibration of his voice...

You're not sure when your hand made its way to the back of his neck, but its there, stroking up and down in a manner that always makes him melt. "I would have told you if it bothered me."

If you had known that something as simple as a new, form-fitting shirt would have ended in this, you would have invested in one sooner. Scratch that, an entire clothing business. Maybe you can find a shirt that'll fit him, too. Give yourself an excuse to kiss and suck on those lovely, bulging biceps that you so often find yourself staring at.

A yawn takes over his handsome face. Contagious. Passing on to you like a bad cold. And just like that, it wanders back to him, running its course through him one, two, three more times until his eyes have watered to the point of tears streaming down his cheeks.

Your thumb swipes out, stroking them away and smearing even more of the paint across his face. Oops. "You still have time for a nap if that's what you need."

"Here?" There's that glint in his eye again. Hopeful.

The bed would be so much more comfortable, but... "I don't see why not."

And as he helps to pull your shirt back down and snuggles down into his favorite spot on your chest, you can't help but get the feeling that you've unintentionally created his new favorite thing to do with you.

...not that you're complaining.

[sp0o0kylights]

"Valentines Day is a capitalistic scam made to sell chocolate and flowers!" Eddie Munson bellowed, leaping to the top of a cafeteria table not even ten minutes into lunch. 

"Do you think he was born like this, or just dropped on his head as a baby?" Heather asked, rolling her eyes as the super senior began waving his arms around, getting way too into  his annual “anti-valentines day” rant. 

Steve, who'd tuned out the dramatics in favor of trying to figure out how he could ditch school, only heard her because she’d begun running her foot up his leg.

Directly in front of Patrick.

As if half the school didn’t know he planned on asking her out after school. 

Long over being a part of these kinds of games, Steve kicked out, forcing Heather’s leg off his. 

He did it harder than he intended and immediately winced, as  if he hadn’t meant to do it at all. Aimed a sad little look at her, softening his eyes in the way he knew ladies loved while murmuring a quiet "sorry.” 

A pudding cup was offered as an additional apology--which Heather, thankfully, accepted. 

Crisis averted, Steve used the movement of handing the cup over to get his legs well out of Heather's range. He had other things to think about today, and getting drawn into whatever drama Heather was trying to brew wasn’t on the list. 

Particularly given the basketball team as a unit had started snubbing him out. 

"Newsflash ladies! Your man isn't taking you to some shitty restaurant because he loves you, he's doing it because he hopes you'll give it to him in your car!" Munson continued, voice growing impossibly louder. 

A crude gesture followed, involving hip thrusts and hand jabs.

 Several of the cheerleaders shot him disgusted looks as he did it. 

"Definitely dropped on his head." Carol said, glaring at Munson as his little group of freaks and geeks cheered him. "More than once." 

Steve hummed an agreement, more on automatic than from actually listening. He knew how to look like he was paying attention, even if his head was deep in possible escape plans. 

If he dipped at the last minute to the bathroom on the way to fifth period, Tommy wouldn't have time to stop him and he could make a break for his car…

That just left making up a plausible enough excuse as to why thee Steve Harrington, whose single status was the current hot topic of the school, left school early on Valentines Day. 

("Candy, sex, the overwhelming affection of all the ladies." Tommy drawled out that morning, practically preening. "Valentine's Day is the best holiday man. Just look at all this!"  

He waved a hand at his locker, which was absolutely covered in paper hearts. 

"The rally squad put hearts on the lockers of everyone on the basketball team, Tommy." Carol argued, rolling her eyes. "Steve’s is practically buried in them.”

Tommy opened his mouth to respond, no doubt with something else teasing and rude, but Carol’s elbow caught him in the gut first. 

“If you keep acting like this you're not getting any sex." She warned. 

"Aww baby, don't be like that. You know you're the only one for me." Tommy teased, with a wink that prompted Carol to smack him on the shoulder.

Laughing, he added: "Besides we can't fight or we'll miss our favorite game. Which poor gal thinks this year is the year Steve will take her out on a date!"

Carol allowed Tommy to put an arm over her shoulder, the two of them turning knowing grins on their friend as a singular unit. 

Even if Steve hadn’t felt like their friend in a hot minute. 

Not in the way he used to. 

"I do love watching them stutter through their little confessions.” Carol admitted, like this wasn’t something they’d loved doing since middle school. “I wonder if anyone will ever top Cindy Komer." 

Steve almost wasn't fast enough to cover his wince--that particular incident had been painful for him and Cindy. 

Steve still had no idea what he'd said to make the then-freshman cry. 

He thought he'd been nice about turning her down, but judging by Carol constantly quoting what he'd said, Steve had a feeling he'd accidentally been an asshole again.

Not that anyone ever thought it was accidental. 

“Steve? Hel~lo? Are you listening?” Carol said, snapping to get his attention and God did Steve hate that.

Never realized just how much until Nancy but after she’d pointed out that Carol treated him and Tommy both like her dogs, well. 

It was hard not to notice--and be a bit resentful. 

“God you keep doing this, you’re turning into such a space case.” Carol continued, the edge back in her voice. The same one she’d been using for a while, like Steve was on her last nerve. “Please tell me you’re not still mooning over Nancy fucking Wheeler.” 

“No.” He snapped, only to know instantly that was the wrong move, and try to fix it before Carol blew up. “No--I’ve just already had to fend someone off today. Like first thing--I was barely out of my car.”

There, that should keep Carol and Tommy both off his back for being “angry” and it wasn’t even a lie. He really had been asked out earlier, though the girl had been gracious about his rejection.  

Of course, this kind of instant redirection came with a price--and in this case, it was being absolutely hounded for more information. 

“Oh shit who!? Was it that Buckley girl?” Carol perked up immediately, like a hunting dog scenting prey. “I swear she stares holes in your head, she’s so weird…” )  

"This isn't about romance! It's about showing who has the most cash, gets the most sex! It's a pathetic social ritual you're all falling for!” Munson yelled, jolting Steve back into the present.  “I bet none of you even enjoy it!” 

"Tell that to all the girls Steve’s dated!” One of the younger basketball guys hollered, prompting a wave of laughter from the rest of the cafeteria. “They seem to enjoy it plenty!”

Steve couldn’t see who had said it, and should have felt the normal wave of smug warmth that the team had his back.  

Except his team had already proven they didn’t. 

Were in fact, siding more and more with Hargrove, just as Tommy was. 

They were rapidly approaching a watershed moment. Steve could feel it, the same way he’d always been able to tell when a crowd was about to turn.

He was losing, but was still on top of Hawkins social spaces enough, had caught it early enough, that he could turn everyone’s favor--if he wanted. 

Emphasis on ‘if.’ 

Munson spun to face his table, hair whipping to smack him in the face. The guy had clearly been trying to grow it out, but right now he looked like one of those poodles Carol's mom loved so much. 

So said Carol, anyway. 

"You sure about that?" Munson challenged, a crazed grin breaking across his face. "Rumor has it King Steve lost his groove ever since Wheeler dumped him!" 

Steve grimaced, though he was secretly thankful Munson went with "dumped" instead of "cheated on" (or any of the other vile words Billy had flung around, spreading across the school in the sick, crawling way rumors moved. 

Hargrove had been positively brutal about the whole Jonathan and Nancy thing, and the only reason he wasn't here now to spin this whole situation against Steve was because the guy always vanished at lunch.)

Tommy's face morphed into an affronted snarl, hands slapping down on the table. He turned expectantly to Steve, waiting for "The King" to get up and "handle" Munson.

Like Steve even cared about this dumb high school shit anymore. 

It took him a moment to realize Steve wasn’t planning on doing anything. Was in fact, going to remain perfectly quiet, other than an eyeroll and half-assed middle finger in Munson’s direction. 

Tommy let out a disgusted scoff in his direction and then decided to handle things himself. 

(Like that had ever been a good idea.)

“Shut up, Freak. The only game you have is in the prison showers.” He snapped, half rising from the table. “Isn’t that why you keep your hair long? So all the boys will actually fuck you?!” 

Whistles and yells lit the air, though Steve didn’t miss how the girls at the table looked taken aback at the sheer vitriol in Tommy’s voice. 

Even Carol looked startled, eyes sliding to meet Steve’s as if to confirm she hadn’t just imagined it. 

The three of them had always been good at this kind of mindless high school banter, but this over the top, crude shit? 

It wasn’t Tommy’s style.

It was Hargrove’s.

(That was its own growing issue. 

The way Tommy was gravitating towards Billy. 

How Carol kept expecting Steve to act like he used to. 

That she blamed his “outbursts” on Nancy, snidely mentioning that Steve had better have learned his lesson about “changing his personality for pussy.” 

Even now Steve knew they were only defending him because Munson was the one saying it.) 

“I didn’t realize Harrington still had his attack dog!” 

Munson put a hand against his heart as though injured, staggering dramatically backwards. 

“I thought you were too busy putting your tongue up Hargrove’s ass to bark at people!” 

Tommy immediately fired back, letting loose an uninspired string of curse words and something about Eddie being queer again. Steve didn’t hear the specifics--didn’t care to hear it, even as things started to spiral out of control. 

All he wanted to do was go home. 

Ideally before Billy got back from lunch and decided to make a spectacle himself, because Steve could feel that coming just as he could everything else. 

He was running out of time to come up with an excuse to get out of here without making a production out of it, and Munson wasn’t someone he wanted to piss off today, given he’d half hoped to buy weed off the guy before he ditched.

…Which was looking more and more unlikely given Tommy had just screeched some insult that had put Munson’s sights back on Steve. 

“You sure? Cause Harrington looks like he’s just gonna sit there and take it, just like he takes everything Hargrove and Wheeler and anyone else throws at him.”

He leered, leaning forward as if to see into Steve’s very soul. 

“I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but our beloved King here hasn’t exactly been defending his crown. If anything, he’s abandoned it.” 

The world stopped. 

This was the first time someone actually called him out on the fact that he often let whatever crap Billy spewed go. That Nancy and him had a few awkward encounters publicly, with at least one of them starting a rumor that she’d told Steve to fuck off. 

(She hadn’t of course, but Carol had stopped running damage control, and Steve was feeling the effects of her ire.) 

Silence echoed, and Steve realized with a dawning sort of horror, that Munson was waiting for a response from him. 

Just as the entire cafeteria was. 

The catalyst was here, brought on early by one Edward Munson. 

With a startling amount of clarity, Steve realized he was done. 

With his so called friends, with  the girls who’d tried corning him all morning, with Hargrove and just--everything. 

He was over it. 

If Billy wanted the crown so bad he could fucking have it. 

(If Tommy wanted to pretend he was tougher than he was by mimicking the dick, then he could have that too.) 

“This is stupid.” Steve announced, dropping the masks he so carefully wore. The ones he kept having to fix, because the Upside Down and its related demons (human and non) kept taking chunks out of it. 

He stood, feeling the weight of the room press down on him as he faced them all down. 

“Yeah--!” Tommy started to pile on, seeming to think Steve was about to unleash hell, and got the surprise of a lifetime when Steve turned and jammed a finger in his face.

“Shut up.” He snapped. 

Knew instantly he only got away with it by the fact that he’d caught everyone off guard.  

King Steve did a lot of things, but he rarely blew up. 

“This is stupid.” He reiterated, voice booming across the lunch room, “ You wanna fight? Fine, but leave me out of it.”  

“The King doesn’t want to play? Why I never thought we’d see the day!” Munson clucked his tongue, and without missing a beat Steve turned to him. 

 “For someone who is always screaming about nonconformity, you sure are happy to attack anyone who doesn’t do what you want.”

Steve’s voice was loud, but he wasn’t screaming. Wasn’t yelling or throwing his arms around.

He didn’t need to. Had never needed to. 

“I heard you going off on that guy whose lunch you're standing on yesterday, because he wanted to watch the Colts play.” Steve continued, voice cold. “Half of your friends are terrified of you, because you’ll scream at them just like you accuse us of doing--and let’s be real here, Munson, you do it more.”

In a dramatic move that absolutely, 100% came from Dustin and his theatrics, Steve shrugged his letterman jacket off and bunched it into a ball. 

“You might as well crown yourself King, because you’re the exact same as the rest of us. Here--you can start with this.”  

Cocking back an arm, Steve let the jacket fly. Watched with everyone else as it  landed neatly right at Eddie’s feet. 

Shell shocked, Munson’s eyes drifted from Steve down to the letterman jacket and back. They were massive, those stupid eyes of his, but at least it meant Steve could see the realization wash over the guy in real time. 

Steve should have felt smug about it. His past self would have.

Presently? 

He just felt tired. 

“You’re welcome to jam it up your ass.” He finished, before giving his own sarcastic half bow to the room.  

The cafeteria was dead silent. Not a fork was scraped, or a loud piece of chip chewed. All eyes were on Steve, some waiting to see if Eddie would let him have the last word, others just  shocked to see Steve lose his shit in front of them. 

Idiot he was, he tried to rally anyway. 

Even Tommy, who’d partly stood up, hands pressed against the lunch table looked shocked.

“What the fuck Steve!?” He sputtered, and it wasn’t long before half the basketball team was muttering similar remarks. 

They were ignored. 

Whispers ripped across the room when Steve turned on his heel, striding towards the exit and making it clear things were over, but Tommy didn’t give up. 

“Fuck you Harrington!” He hurled at his back, Carol now standing and placing a restraining hand on his arm.  “You’re not fucking better than any of us!” 

Steve didn’t even look back. 

"That's my point Tommy." Steve said, loud enough to be heard. "No one is better than anyone else. You lot are all just buying into your own bullshit.” 

Then he was slamming through the doors, and out into the sunlight. 

xXx

He didn’t want to go home.

Not anymore, which was ironic in a way that made Steve’s face screw up in a grimace.  

Here he’d been dying to go to his stupid house all day, and now, after losing his shit and undoubtedly, the last of his social standing, he just didn’t feel like being by himself.

All alone, in a house too big for him, full of nothing but dark corners and a phone that never rang. 

So instead, he wandered, reminiscing on how Valentine's Day used to be his favorite day of the year. 

Steve loved the gesture of it all--the romance, the wooing. The butterflies floating in one's stomach, mixing with fear of rejection and a burning kind of hope towards starting something new. 

Of course, Steve also had always had a girl in mind, when he celebrated. Now, after Nancy…

He did not.

It felt weird to go to Skull Rock--the place he himself had made into Hawkins hottest makeout spots. Likewise all the local restaurants were off limits--too many adults knew how much he loved the holiday. 

Steve didn’t want to face that. The expectations, the knowing winks that would slide into uncomfortable frowns. Any possible advice given wouldn’t be appreciated, and the last thing Steve wanted was to get the “everyone has an off season, son” speech. 

So he’d stayed away from his usual haunts. Explored some storefronts instead, the Beamer parked in front of Family Video as he wandered. 

Had an entirely too peaceful two hours, which of course, meant he had to bump into someone.

At least, Steve thought dully, whole body tensing in preparation, it was Munson. 

Not Hargrove, or Tommy, or hell--the children, demanding he help them fight some other fucked up creature the government had accidentally summoned. 

“Hey Harrington.” Munson said, and it took a moment for Steve to realize the guy was embarrassed. “I uh, I need to talk to you.” 

Steve just stared at him.

“If you couldn’t tell from earlier,” He warned, “I’m a little done talking for today.” 

Or any day, for the foreseeable future. 

“Yeah no--I, I got that.  I--okay.” Eddie stopped rocking on his heels, before giving his entire body a shake, like the guys sometimes did while prepping for a game. “Hear me out, and then you can deck me or leave or whatever makes you feel better.” 

“I’m not going to deck you.” Steve said, exasperated and frazzled and not wanting to do this whole song and dance a second time. 

Not that it mattered, because Munson had already launched right into whatever it was he needed to say. 

“There’s this book right? My Uncle got it for me. It’s a fantasy book all about this big battle and there’s these wizards in it, and--” He stopped himself, shaking out his hands.

Like he realized he was rambling and needed the movement to get himself back on track. 

“I always--I guess I saw myself as a Gandalf kinda guy? Like I was this shepherd herding these lost sheep. A person who intimately knew all the dark forces of the world and could be a shield for them. Do not pass and all that.” 

He chuckled, but it was weak, and he killed it almost immediately. 

“...Okay?” Steve said, knowing he was supposed to say something here, even if he had no idea what. 

Maybe something about how Gandalf the Grey wasn’t exactly a shepard given he’d led the hobbits straight into Mordor, but saying that meant admitting Steve knew what Lord of the Rings was, which wasn’t a conversation he felt like getting into. 

Particularly not because he’d only read the damn things after losing a bet to Dustin and Mike both. 

Munson nodded, as if acknowledgement was all he needed. 

 “I thought that’s what I was doing. I wasn’t and I didn’t realize I wasn’t until you pointed it out. You shouldn’t have had to point it out. You shouldn’t have had to say any of what you did.” He rushed to add, oddly sincere. 

"Is this…" Steve might be confused but catching on, an uptick at the corners of his mouth as the tiniest spark of amusement leaked through. "an apology? Are you trying to apologize right now?"

Eddie groaned, flinging his head back. "No!” 

Then immediately; 

“Actually yes, but--”  

Which caught Steve off guard enough that he laughed, and had to hide it with a cough. 

“I am sorry, man. I shouldn’t have said that shit about you, especially not about you and Wheeler. It's more than that though.” Munson swallowed, before squaring his shoulders. “It’s that you were right." 

“I was right?” Steve repeated dumbly, because fuck, he couldn’t believe it either. 

Not that Munson heard him. Eddie always had been hard to stop once he started, and Steve had been in enough classes with the guy to know the train had left the station. 

"I did yell at Jeff because he wanted to watch that stupid football game.” He began, and Steve got a front row seat to watch as one Eddie Munson word vomited his way through a myriad of emotions. 

“I fuckin’ lost it on Grant because he missed band practice to drive his sister to some thing. Gareth looked like I was going to hit him when I asked if I had really been that bad--same exact look he gave Hagan and those other assholes that cornered him in the bathroom two weeks ago!” 

“Tommy did what?” 

Steve was promptly ignored. 

(Or more likely, Eddie simply didn’t hear him, too lost in his own voice to realize Steve had said something.) 

There were a lot of mentions of the Gandalf guy. Where Eddie thought he’d gone wrong, and even something about a glowing eye thing that had Steve a little concerned until he realized Munson was talking about Sauron (and also made Steve realize that he’d been pronouncing Sauron in his head wrong, oops.) 

“I called up this friend of mine who graduated. She’s always been no nonsense, so I asked her for her advice.” Munson said, finally seeming to slow down a little. “She told me I might as well eat my own doctrine because I sure wasn’t living by it, and that if I wanted to fix it then I should start by apologizing. To everyone but--to you, first.” 

Eddie took a step back, winging out his hands as if to present himself. 

“So here I am. Apologizing.” 

A pause wherein neither of them did a thing, which caused him to awkwardly add; “To uh, you. Harrington.” 

“Yeah I got that.” Steve said, because what else was he supposed to do here? “Good for you? I guess?”

“Most people either forgive a guy or tell him to fuck off.”  Munson pouted, and mimicked like he was kicking at a rock. 

It made Steve want to laugh again, though he shoved the urge down. 

“Someone once told me,” He said instead, speaking slowly to make damn sure he didn’t let slip this piece of advice came from a middle schooler. “that apologies without actions don’t really mean anything. They’re a start--they let people know you’re aware you screwed up, but no one’s going to trust you if you don’t follow through. So I can forgive you, but I think you’re better off doing this with one of your friends.” 

Someone who would hug it out, or at least tell Eddie how he could be better, at least. 

Rather than argue, Munson just titled his head back, eyes to the sky. Like he was really thinking on the words, before giving a sort of accepting sounding noise.  

“Trying too.” Steve admitted with a sigh. 

“That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?” He asked, head coming back down so he could stare at Steve.

“The thing in the cafeteria was a good start.” 

“Yeah?” 

Eddie grinned. 

“Yeah. Don’t think Hagan’s gonna see it the same way though.” 

“We were falling out anyway.” Steve admitted, and hated how easy it was to say.

That they really were just going through the motions of friendship. Had been, ever since Jonathan had punched Steve in the face. 

“Think you lost more than just him as a friend, to be honest.”  

“Pro tip about the actions thing, Munson?” Steve said with a snort, once again unsure of where this conversation was going, “Nice people don’t typically point out when someone’s turned into a social pariah.” 

“No, I get that. Say,” Eddie’s grin had grown, which Steve would have taken poorly except he invaded Steve’s space with a goofy little hop. “I think you might be in need of some new ones!” 

“New…friends?” Steve hesitated, very unsure of what was happening. 

Munson promptly stuck his hand out. “Yup! So--hello, my name is Eddie Munson, and I am here to apply for the position as your friend!” 

Steve snorted, but the harshness of it was taken away by the grin on his face. 

He took Eddie’s hand, noting how doing so made the older teen’s smile widen. 

“Nice to meet you Eddie, I’m Steve.” 

Excited, Eddie waived their arms up and down, with far more enthusiasm than the gesture required. 

“How about we cement our new friendship by renting a truly terrible horror movie and drowning our woes with my other good friend, Mary Jane?” 

Then he waggled his eyebrows, like that was something scandalous. 

“Tempting me along with weed, huh?” Steve mused back, sticking his hands in his pockets once Eddie let him go. “Guess you’re a little like Gandalf the Gray after all. Just don’t send me on any missions.” 

“Steve Harrington.” Eddie gaped, pure delight spreading across his face. “Have you read Lord of the Rings!?” 

He got a shrug and a sly; “Maybe.” in response. 

It was worth the barrage of questions, even if the rapid fire pace of them nearly gave Steve a headache.

(Just as it was worth it several months later, when Steve was comfortable enough to instigate wrestling matches with Eddie over the dumbest of things. 

One particularly semi-drunk tussle over the remote led to an interesting discovery when Eddie popped a boner, and then frantically tried to escape when it brushed against Steve’s leg. 

 Instead of panicking--or letting Eddie bolt in his panic, Steve just dropped his whole weight down, effectively pinning the slimmer man to the floor. 

“Steve.”

Eddie said it so quietly he almost didn’t hear it, the word filled with desperation.

The kind of tone someone whispered a prayer in, a sort of pleading that Eddie did better with his eyes than his voice. Or would have, given his own were firmly scrunched closed the second he realized he’d been caught out. 

Except--

“Not right now I’m thinking.”  Steve told him absently. 

Which he was. Speed thinking even, if that was a thing. 

Because if two plus two equaled four (which it did) then feeling the exact same, fluttering excitement about Eddie’s boner as Steve had Nancy’s breasts, equaled…

“The fuck? Steve--”

Steve shushed him. 

That pulled a frustrated, embarrassed groan from Eddie that went directly to Steve’s own dick, not that it needed much help waking up. 

“I think I’m having one of those crisis’s Robin is always accusing the basketball team of having.” Steve informed Eddie dutifully, the dots done connecting.

Eddie, still refusing to open his eyes, snorted. 

“Whatever man. Can you at least be decent and hurry up with the beating? This is embarrassing enough.” 

“I’m not going to beat you up.” Steve said, thankful that his brain managed not to add some shitty comment about the entire town being awash in rumors of Eddie’s sexuality. That he’d confirmed it here wasn’t exactly a surprise. 

“I’m going to try something. If you don’t like it, let me know.” Streve added, before screwing up his courage and leaning down.

That of course, got Eddie to open his eyes.

“Wha--” He managed, before Steve’s lips were on his. 

For one single, blissful moment, Eddie Munson’s mouth was too busy to talk. 

“Yeah?” Eddie said, voice wrecked, and oh, Steve liked that. 

“Huh.” Steve muttered, when they broke for air. “Well that’s new.”

Liked the way Eddie looked at him more, hesitant, but with heat in his gaze. 

Steve had always been good about knowing what to do with heat. 

He leaned back down, pecking lightly at Eddie’s lips, and was delighted to find Eddie not only let him, but kissed back. 

“Not bad, Munson, but I think I could give you a few pointers.” Steve muttered, nose ghosting alongside Eddie’s. “Let me show you…” 

One boyfriend, several weeks, and another interdimensional monster later, Steve found himself socked in the arm by none other than his coworker, Robin Buckley. 

In her defense, she’d confessed her love for Tammy Thompson, still somewhat drugged on the Starcourt bathroom floor, only for Steve to tease her that at least his boyfriend could actually sing. 

“God you and Eddie Munson.” She muttered after, smile on her face. “How did that happen?” 

Steve knocked his shoe into hers, returning the grin unabashedly. 

“So remember last Valentines Day?” Steve started, all too eager to finally tell someone who understood about the best thing to ever happen to him. 

Robin of course, would soon also be ranked in that same chart, but Eddie didn’t need to know that. )