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strangersteddierthings · 9 months

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Steve, Gareth and Chrissy are cousins AU (sad edition) [prologue] [part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Final Part]

Steve climbs into the back of Nancy's car with Dustin, trying his best to play off his mood as having slept poorly in the Wheeler's basement, instead of the guilt and sorrow churning inside him. He had been hoping to be able to make excuses to go home for a bit today, away from the group, so he could go to Chrissy's funeral.

Doesn't seem like that will be happening. Not unless he tells them the truth. They're going to the Creel house and Steve can't let them ago without him. Can't let them walk into potential danger if he's not there.

Because Chrissy's already dead. He can't change that. But he can try his damnedest to make sure there's no one else. So, it's more important to him to be there with the living, than at a funeral. Chrissy would agree.

Chrissy would understand.

Right?

Gareth sits through Chrissy's funeral and notes that Steve's not there. No one from the Harrington household is. He doesn't know what to feel about that. All his sorrow has been spent on Chrissy, so all he feels for Steve is anger. What the fuck is more important to Steve right now than being here? For his family. For Chrissy. For him.

He sits next to Jason even though his mom left a spot next to her available for him. He's not suddenly Jason's best friend, but he was told they plan to continue their search immediately after the funeral, and if he sat next to his mom, she wouldn't let him go.

This is how he finds himself at Reefer Ricks, long past the mandated curfew with just Jason, Andy, and Patrick. The others having slowly dropped off the search the closer to night it got.

"Hey," Gareth calls out to Jason before entering the house, "I'm going to go check if Eddie's van is hidden where he usually parks it when he comes out here."

Jason pauses on his way through the door. He looks over his shoulder and gives a nod, "yeah, smart thinking. There should be a flashlight in the back of the car."

Gareth nods back and heads back to the car. It doesn't take long to find the flashlight and soon he's walking down the road. It's not a long walk, about fifteen minutes away is a cluster of trees that Eddie parks at when he comes to get more goods from Rick. Gareth (and their other friends) spent plenty of afternoons waiting in the van for Eddie to return from his 'job', as it were. It does keep the van out of sight of any road, though.

The van is there, and Gareth doesn't like what he sees. The driver side door is open, so he approaches slowly. "Eddie? You in there, Eddie?" he gets no response. He shines the flashlight through the back door's window, smooshing his face against the glass to look in. Once he's sure it's empty of anything, he approaches the open door and examines the front.

The keys are still in the ignition. Door left open and keys still in the ignition paints a story Gareth isn't sure he wants to read. That makes worry curl inside his body. He can't think of a single thing that would make Eddie abandon the van this quickly, too... scared? Worried? to bother to even close the drive door. He climbs in to try and start it but it won't. With the door left open for over 72 hours, the battery is dead.

He pockets the keys and locks up the van. If worse comes to worst, he can return the keys to Wayne.

He's almost back to the house when he hears shouting. He starts running, following the noise, and quickly finds Jason and Patrick on the shore, pulling their shoes off. His gaze flicks out to the lake and catches the sight of what can only be Eddie trying to get the motor of a motorboat started.

Well. Shit.

He doesn't think much more beyond that. He's just acting. He steps on the heels of his shoes to get out of them as quickly as possible and dives into the water. He's only seconds behind Patrick and Jason into the water, slowing to keep pace with them at first.

Gareth grew up in the Harrington swimming pool just like Steve had. Chrissy had. He's never been so glad for that as he is now, as he quits trying to pace himself and takes off, leaving Jason and Patrick behind.

Eddie's swinging the oar around wildly, as if they would stop any of them. He falters in his swinging when his eyes land on Gareth and he breathes out his name, "Gareth?"

One final stroke and Gareth can reach out of the water and grab the side of the boat. He doesn't haul himself aboard, but does haul himself high enough to look up at Eddie. "The police say you did it. Did you?"

Hurt flashes across Eddie's face but he answers, "No."

Gareth nods once, a decision made. Before he can respond though, Jason's caught up and Eddie is turning in the boat to wave the oar uselessly at him.

Clinging to the side of the boat gives Gareth a clear view of Patrick, who has stopped swimming. Jason and Eddie shout at each other as Gareth watches Patrick being to rise out of the water. "What the fucking shit!?"

Gareth doesn't know if Jason turns to look, he's too busy staring, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Don't look," Eddie says and the boat jostles as Eddie moves suddenly, dropping to his knees in the boat and throwing his hands up to block Gareth's view.

"What the fuck-" Gareth cuts himself off when he hears the snapping of bones. Jason is yelling and Gareth panics, pushes back from the boat, which makes Eddie lean more to block his eyesight, causing Eddie to fall out of the boat. On instinct, Gareth dives for him, the month and month spent in Steve's pool, hearing about pool safety kicking in.

Eddie doesn't really need rescuing, but he doesn't fight Gareth during the rescue. Patrick is no longer in the air when they breach the surface, and Jason is swimming back the way they came. Eddie flops himself back into the boat, then helps Gareth in as well.

They don't speak again until they've reached the other shore, in which case they just sit in the boat, soaked through, panting at each other as the adrenaline fades.

"What the fuck was that!?" Gareth doesn't shriek. He doesn't.

Eddie suddenly looks very severe and grim when he says, "that's what killed Chrissy."

#steve‚ gareth‚ and chrissy are cousins au #my fic #also i know in the show they end up at reefer ricks while there is still daylight out #his house was NOT big enough for them to search it until dark #so they just spend all day at all the other places before getting out to ricks at night #ok? ok #also why isn't gareth weighed down by his nice funeral clothes you may be asking #itself because he wore his nicest dark jeans and a black tshirt #not even chrissy could get him to dress up #short steve part‚ mostly just wanted to establish why he doesn't go to the funeral

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pendragora · 5 months

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I fucking hate you and everything about this so I shall inflict this upon others

@aemonds-holy-milk @aemonddtargaryen @theoneeyedprince @barbieaemond @aegonx @hoosbandewan

#what a menace #mootooals 💖#claire the variant #asks??? in my establishment???

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steviewashere · 24 days

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27,28,32 Eddie finds out he’s pregnant and tells Steve

Oooo, okay, I had so much fun with this one! And, get this, it's not almost three thousand words!

27: "I'm pregnant.", 28: "Marry me?", 32: "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified."

Tags: Established Relationship, Post-Canon, Trans Eddie Munson, FTM Eddie Munson, Pregnant Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Marriage Proposal, Pregnancy Announcement

————— This is definitely not how Eddie thought he’d start his day.

He’s in the bathroom of his and Steve’s apartment, just sat with his head in his hands to accommodate the wave of nausea that overcame him. And that’s when he got the smart idea that…well, maybe he should figure out why he’s been so sick the last week or so. Steve’s still asleep in their bed. Came home late from work, wanted to sleep in on his day off, and already knew that Eddie was sick.

But didn’t know that it was because Eddie’s period was late. He had a sneaking suspicion that there was something wrong, when he didn’t have to put a pad in his underwear, but he thought it could be from PCOS or something unrelated. It’s not. Which is evident in the stupid plastic stick in his shaking hands, lightly glistening from his own urine, and definitely showing two prominent dark pink lines. He’s crying at eight in the morning, holding a stick in his hand, sick to his stomach, and shaking.

Whimpering, he knows that there’s no way he can avoid this. Steve is too observant for his own good. He’ll figure out something’s wrong or changed. And he’ll be too good, too sweet, and Eddie knows he’ll run. So he’s going to face this. Just like he did with the demobats. Facing this is half the battle. Finding out Steve’s reaction is the other half.

He exits the bathroom, stick in hand, but stops short in the open space of their room. At Steve on his belly, snoring smooth into his pillow, blanket pooled at his waist, nude skin golden with sunlight that peers through the window. God, he’s so beautiful; Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself if Steve rejects all of this. Carefully, he gets back in bed quietly, not even jostling Steve’s body. He sets the test on his bedside table, hovers a hand over Steve’s back, and swallows down the soft sob that wants to override him.

Gently, he runs a languid stripe down Steve’s spine. “Baby,” he whispers, “Stevie, sweetheart? I need you to get up.” He takes a stuttering breath as Steve stirs, rolling over on his right side, blinking his eyes sleepily. Steve yawns, stretches, rubs fists over his eyes. A pout present on his features. Eddie feels awful for having to wake him up so early, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he has to keep this a secret any longer. “Okay,” he exhales. His breath shutters. “Okay, Steve, I need you to listen to me.”

At that, Steve blinks completely awake. Sits himself up against his pillow. Hands already grasping for Eddie’s. Face blank of anything teasing. Eyes going soft and concerned and imploring.

“Um—I—I think I’m in love with you—“

Steve chuckles. “Baby, I already knew that,” he lightly teases. But the small quirk he had to his lips dissipates almost as soon as it appeared, falling into the space between them.

Eddie nods anyway. “—And I’m terrified,” he admits. “I’m really fucking scared right now, but I know that I love you. I know that you love me, but I…” He tears one of his hands out of Steve’s grip, runs it harshly over his face, and curses softly, “Fuck.”

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, “You’re okay. Take your time, babe.”

“I’m pregnant,” he rushes out. “Steve, I’m…I’m pregnant. I don’t know how it happened. Must’ve missed my birth control a few times? Maybe I—I’m probably just fucking stupid and miscalculated when my period was supposed to happen. I’m sorry if this is—“

“Really?” Steve asks, breathless.

That’s when Eddie notices he wasn’t looking at Steve. Drags his eyes from their hands, the blanket that swamps him, and up to Steve’s…excited eyes? Shining and happy. He’s smiling, the small crinkles by his eyes are all too noticeable. Smile lines deep. All his teeth are showing. He releases a sigh of relief, nodding.

“Oh my God!” Steve exclaims, bouncing the bed with it. “Holy shit! That’s awesome, Eds. That’s so…Wait.” He pauses. Movement stilling. He’s half off the bed, angling for his bedside drawer, and reaching to Eddie, too. “Unless…Do you want this? I’m really excited for this, but I only want this if you want to.”

“I…” Eddie looks off to the side momentarily. He’s a bit afraid, honestly. Of what may happen with his body. What he may have to go through. The absolute uncomfortableness that he’ll have to endure, but…He’s thought about this before and been excited about it, too. Kids weren’t always ideal to him, not really. But having a kid with somebody he considers the love of his life, who’s looking at him like a puppy awaiting a bone toss, he’s content with whatever happens next. “Yeah, Stevie, I think I do,” he murmurs, “But only with you. With anybody else, I think I’d shrivel up and die.”

At that, Steve bounds off the mattress and disappears down their hallway, clambering about their living room. He rushes back in, careless of the neighbors below them, and skitters to a stop in front of Eddie. Slams his butt back down on the bed, hand gripping something, taking both of Eddie’s hands.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” Steve pants. “Like, seriously, insane.”

“Okay,” Eddie says slowly, “You’re scaring me a little, baby.”

He can see Steve swallow harshly. “Sorry,” he mutters sheepishly. “I just—This is crazy. I’m crazy. So, like we were close friends for a really long time before we got together,” he begins first. Gesturing with their conjoined hands between them. “And I knew that you were somebody I wanted in my life, no matter what we were. I knew that, like, day one? So, when we started dating, I had a feeling deep down that you were it for me.”

His eyes dart very briefly as if searching for words. He bites down on his bottom lip and works his breathing to be set normal. Eddie didn’t even realize he was still panting until he fully relaxes in how he sits.

“In our second week of dating, I got this insane idea. Went out to the mall with Robin, dragged her to the nearest jewelry store, and made them figure out the size of one of your rings. The ones you put on your ring fingers,” Steve explains softly. He grabs for whatever is in his left hand, fidgeting with it so that only he can see it, and then turns it around for Eddie to finally peer at. It’s a small, blue, velvet box. “We don’t have to do anything about this immediately. Whatever you want, I want. You’re one of my best friends. My romantic soulmate. And I love you beyond belief. So…Marry me?” He asks, enamored and giddy.

The box opens. Revealing the shiniest silver ring Eddie’s ever seen. It’s not that thick, a simple thing, doesn’t have anything added to it. But to know that it was made to his exact size, that’s something he carries warmly inside his chest.

He looks back up to Steve. “Yes!” He exclaims. “Are you…You’ve had this since week two? I can’t believe you right now, baby. Holy—“ And he takes the ring from the box, lets Steve slide it on his left ring finger, and just admires at it.

“I can’t believe that I get to be a dad, too, Eds. You’re the love of my life. This is…Fuck sleeping, lets celebrate!”

“Oh, how do you plan to do that? Because I could just sit here and fucking ogle this forever, Stevie.”

“I’ll show you how excited I am, how about that?” Steve teases. His eyes hood, cheeks flush pink, and Eddie knows he’s the happiest man alive right now. Well, other than the darling man in front of him. The pure giddy excitement on his face is something special.

#stranger things #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #my asks #trans eddie munson #ftm eddie munson #established relationship #mild hurt/comfort

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astrobei · 1 year

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byler + 35 for touch prompt asks: kissing their bruises and scars (+ some bonus injury tending!)

“I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

Mike tries for a grin, a last-ditch attempt at lightening the mood, at playing it off cool, at proving that he’s not hurt half as bad as Will’s convinced himself he is. That backfires at once, though, as he winces involuntarily with his next step, and Will’s frown immediately deepens.

“Mike,” Will chides, wholly unamused. He’s not smiling. Mike wants to tell him to lighten up, that it’s only a scratch, that it’s superficial and Mike’s faced worse after tripping and falling on the Hawkins Elementary playground. He doesn’t think it’ll matter, though, because Will is looking at him with equal parts concern and exasperation and the kind of irritatingly steadfast stubbornness that makes Mike want to grab him by the shoulders and shake. Hard.

“It’s not that bad,” he repeats anyway, fighting back a second wince with everything he has as they clear the top few steps of the stairs. “Really.”

“Your leg,” Will points out, reaching a hand out as Mike lets out a slow exhale, “is bleeding. A lot.”

Mike takes his hand and lets himself be hauled up over the last stair. He glances down, sees the red seeping slowly through the rough denim of his jeans, cut open from his ankle up his shin and the back of his calf. “It’s not a lot,” he insists, because it’s really not. “It’s just a little scratch.”

Will stares at him, still holding loosely onto his hand. They’re standing in the upstairs hallway, and they’re tracking mud and dirt and, yes, okay, just a little bit of blood all over the carpet but honestly? Mike can’t find it in himself to care. “I can’t believe you,” Will says at last, but he looks like he’s trying his hardest not to smile. His eyes are giving it away, just like always– sparkling, going creased at the corners like they do whenever he thinks Mike is being funny but won’t give him the satisfaction of saying so. “You went and got yourself all cut up–”

“I got scraped by a vine,” Mike grunts, limping gently as Will hauls him into the bathroom. “That’s not cut up.”

“It is in my books,” Will says, and then Mike is lifting himself up into the counter by the sink and Will is digging through the drawers for a clean towel. “Because there’s you, and there’s a cut, and the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

Mike watches him move, grabbing the soap from under the sink, brows furrowed and jaw set in quiet determination, the same way it is every time he’s upset. “You’re being dramatic,” he says quietly.

Will doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Mike presses, as Will turns the faucet on. “Will–”

“I’m being perfectly reasonable,” Will says coolly, then sticks the towel underneath. “Go get yourself all cut up then. See if I care.”

He does care. The front isn’t even an attempt at authenticity, and Mike reaches out to still Will’s wrist as he turns off the water. “Will. Hey. Just– can you look at me?”

Will looks up. His eyes are a bit watery, and he blinks once, twice, glancing between Mike’s own eyes before looking away. “What?”

Mike immediately feels the sour rush of guilt wash over him, even in the warm lighting of the bathroom and the heady, steadying safety of Will standing in front of him, bracketed by his legs. “Hey,” he whispers, tugging him closer by the wrist. Will catches himself on the counter with the other hand, towel still clutched tightly, and looks back at him. “Are you okay?”

“Am I–” Will stares at him, blinking again. He shakes his head, laughing a little incredulously. “Yeah, I’m fine, Mike. You’re the one that’s hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Mike says earnestly. “I swear, it came out of nowhere and I just didn’t react fast enough.”

Will’s hand comes to rest gently just above his knee. They’re face to face like this, the low counter making up for the few inches Mike still has on him. Up close, Mike can see the shadows his eyelashes are casting across his cheek, stark in the bright overhead light. He could count them all, if he wanted, and the sparse smattering of freckles across his nose.

“I know,” Will sighs at last, those dark lashes fluttering closed. “I just–”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Mike reaches out, cups Will’s jaw with one hand. “Just– look at me, okay? I’m fine. It’s just a scratch. And you can patch me up and I’ll be good as new and also I’ll know to jump out of the way when the vines start moving next time.”

Will cracks a smile, and then huffs out a laugh, dropping his head to Mike’s shoulder. “You’re insane,” he says, a little muffled. “You’re the one that’s hurt, you shouldn’t be comforting me.”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe a little,” Will admits, pushing himself up and away, pressing a fleeting kiss to Mike’s cheek on his way to. The contact is light, brief, but Mike feels himself grow warm at the gesture anyway.

“And,” he gets out, trying his hardest to make sure his voice does not give out on him in the middle of a sentence. “You can kiss me all better afterwards.”

“I’m starting to think you did this on purpose,” Will murmurs, but he’s grinning now, so he can’t be all that mad. “We’ll see. Stick your leg out.”

Mike does. “Going to patch me up now?”

Will rolls the tattered remnants of denim out of the way. “I’ll try,” he says, studying the wound. “It doesn’t look deep, but– you know, what do I know?”

“Reassuring,” Mike mutters.

“It might scar,” Will warns him. “I feel like this kind of thing always scars. And, uh, this might sting,” he adds, holding up the towel.

“That’s cool. Scars are cool,” Mike says, “and I can deal if it– ow, holy shit!”

—

It does scar, obviously, because at some point along the way, the universe decided that Mike can’t have nice things. It’s cool, though. It’s pretty neat, and Will’s a good doctor, and it was shallow and blessedly not-infected and now he’s got a pretty gnarly pink line of a scar winding its way up the back of his calf.

“Wow,” Will says simply, when Mike pulls the leg of his pants up to show him. “That’s cool.”

“It’s awesome,” Mike grins, then flops back down onto the bed. Will is still hovering over him, Mike’s leg propped up on his lap, the leg of his sweatpants rolled up to his knee. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s a scar,” Will laughs. “How cool can it be?”

“Very. If anyone asks, I got knifed.”

Will runs one hand down the side of Mike’s calf, palm flat to the skin and his expression contemplative. Soft. “In the leg?”

Mike shrugs. “It could happen!”

“Right,” Will laughs again. “Is that cooler than a supernatural interdimensional vine?”

“Getting knifed is a story I can tell to people who are not from Hawkins, Indiana,” Mike says matter-of-factly. He pushes himself up onto his elbows to see Will better– the sloping width of his shoulders in Mike’s borrowed tee, the way his hair is still a little wet around his neck from the shower. The easy, languid way he’s sitting, curled up on Mike’s bed with one hand splayed across Mike’s ankle. Appreciative. Absentminded, like these are all things he’s doing without really being aware of them.

Will hums softly, then trails a gentle finger up Mike’s ankle, around his shin, up his calf. He stops right below the back of his knee, right where the skin starts to get soft and ticklish. Mike jerks in a full-body twitch. “Will!”

“Sorry,” Will grins, not looking even a little bit sorry. “You’re right. It’s a cool scar.”

“Thank you,” Mike says, then pulls Will down onto him the rest of the way. Will lets out a small, startled little noise before catching himself, one hand on either side of Mike’s head.

“One of these days, you’re going to kill me,” he grumbles, easing himself down onto his side next to Mike, who gravitates towards the alluring warmth of his body like it’s a magnetic thing.

“If I knife you, you can also have a cool scar,” Mike mumbles, tucking his face into the hollow of Will’s throat. “We can match.”

“Are you going to get me in the leg too?”

“Nah,” Mike whispers. “It’s a cool scar, but it’s ugly. I wouldn’t want that on you.”

“It’s not an ugly scar on you,” Will says immediately. The sound reverberates through Mike’s body from where his ear is pressed up against Will’s sternum. “You wear it well.”

“What, like an accessory?” Mike laughs, turning and pressing a light kiss below Will’s Adam’s apple.

Will hums appreciatively. “Sure,” he laughs. “You could make it work.”

“Not all of them,” Mike says, too distracted by the all-encompassing warmth of Will’s body to really be paying too much attention to what he’s saying.

Will pauses. He cranes his neck so he can see Mike, and says, “What?”

“My scars, I mean,” Mike yawns. It’s not that late– barely eleven– but it’s been a long day. He’s had a warm shower. He’s lying in bed with a very warm, very comfortable, very pretty boy, and things are starting to go a little hazy around the edges. “They’re not all that nice looking.”

Will doesn’t say anything for a moment. Mike listens to the faint, rhythmic sound of his pulse, eyes almost fluttering closed, when–

“Show me,” Will says.

Mike’s eyes fly open again. He frowns. “What?”

Will’s arms tighten around Mike’s shoulders. “You should show me,” he repeats. “If you want. I’d– I want to see.”

Mike is confused, a little. “What?” he says again. “Why?”

Will looks thoroughly baffled by the question. “Because they’re you,” he says, like this is obvious. “I don’t think there’s any part of you that’s not all that nice-looking.”

If Mike were even ten percent more awake, he’d try to protest. As it is, it’s taking most of his brainpower to even understand what Will is saying, but his brain-to-muscle communication must be better than he thought, because he’s tilting his face up before he can even register the action.

“Here,” he says, tapping at his chin with one hand. “Troy pushed me over at school. I hit my chin on a rock.”

The mark is mostly faded now, he knows, but it’s there if you squint, if you lean in and look real close. Will’s eyes dart down, then he hooks a careful finger around Mike’s chin, tilting his face upwards before pressing a kiss there, to the underside of his jaw. It’s light. Gentle. It sends Mike’s heart soaring anyway.

“You’re a sap,” Mike says, trying and failing to hide the violent red that his face is probably turning. “What was that?”

“You asked me to kiss it better,” Will says. “There you go.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “You’re about four years too late, okay?”

Will ignores him. “I like that one,” he smiles. “It’s cute. I can’t imagine your face without it.”

“It’s–! Okay,” Mike splutters, and Will laughs quietly. “Moving on.”

“Next one,” Will coaxes, but Mike shakes his head.

“Your turn.”

“What?”

“I can’t be the only one embarrassed here,” Mike says. He taps a finger against Will’s cheek. “Go on. Tell me your secrets.”

“Mike,” Will tries, but Mike fixes him with his best patented Mike Wheeler Look, and Will gives in. “You’re impossible,” he groans. “Anyone ever told you that?”

“Yeah,” Mike laughs, “you. Now come on! Tell me things about you!”

Will huffs and says, “You know everything about me,” which maybe is a little true, but it doesn’t mean Mike doesn’t like finding out stuff about him anyway. “And, uh, here,” Will is saying, tapping above his left eyebrow. “I ran into the doorway when I was six. My mom lost her shit. It wasn’t a lot of blood but I was a small kid so it looked a lot worse than it was.”

Mike’s first instinct is to laugh, which he does. He’s surprised at how it comes out– sharp, delighted. Happy, because this is one thing he hadn’t known about Will before that he does now. He can see the scar; it’s small and it’s faint, especially now that Will’s lost any vestige of a summer tan he might have had, but it’s there.

“It’s cute!” Mike runs the pad of his thumb along it, palm pressed up against Will’s cheek, then leans in, brushing his lips over the warm skin there before pulling it away. “There you go.”

If nothing else, at least Will is also turning a very entertaining shade of pink. “Who’s the sap now?”

“It was your idea,” Mike shrugs happily. He kisses Will there again, just because he can, more firmly this time. A proper forehead kiss, stroking one thumb gently under Will’s eyes. “Ta-da.”

“Idiot,” Will whispers fondly, but he holds loosely onto Mike’s wrist anyway, his own thumb rubbing loose circles on Mike’s knuckles. “Okay. Now you.”

“This feels like show and tell,” Mike says. “Like when we were in elementary school.”

“Sure,” Will giggles. “Okay. What did you bring to class today?”

Mike grins. “Um. Here.” He rolls up the sleeve of his t-shirt, points to a spot halfway between his shoulder and elbow. “From the mall. There was broken glass everywhere, so I’m honestly surprised this was it.”

Will is silent for a moment. He brings his hand up to Mike’s arm, runs his thumb back and forth over the small white line there. It’s not big, and Mike hadn’t even noticed it until his parents arrived, too hopped up on adrenaline to feel it. His mom had seen the blood and promptly freaked out. Privately, Mike had thought about Billy Hargrove and figured he should count his blessings.

“I wish you hadn’t gotten anything,” Will says. It’s quiet. Sad.

”Just cuts and scrapes,” Mike says, watching Will watch him. They’ve been through some shit. Cute and scrapes are unavoidable.

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Will sniffs, leaning forward to press a kiss there too. His lips are warm against the cool skin of Mike’s arm, and he lingers for a moment, his hair brushing against Mike’s chin. He kisses him again, quick. “There.”

Mike wants to say something– anything– but he can’t be sure that whatever comes out of his mouth right now won’t be the most embarrassing thing he’s ever said out loud. Will has plenty of ammunition on him already, and Mike’s voice cracking in the middle of a sentence after Will kissed him– and not even on the mouth!– does not need to be added to the list. “Hey,” he whispers instead, and Will looks up. “It’s barely a scratch.”

Will rests his forehead against Mike’s. “Shut up,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. “I’ll worry if I want to worry.”

“It was years ago,” Mike protests. “It basically healed by the time we got home.”

“Don’t care.”

Mike sighs. He’s stubborn, but his boyfriend is almost more so, and one thing he knows now that he didn’t before is to cut his losses while he can. “Your turn,” he says instead, dropping a placating kiss on Will’s cheek.

Will makes a small, happy noise. “Um. I don’t know. I have this one here,” he points to the back of his hand, “from when Jonathan and I built Castle Byers. One of the branches was really sharp and– well, you know. It’s not even big. I don’t know why it left a scar.”

The funny thing is that Mike has seen these before, but it’s not really something he notices. Little marks, littered over Will’s body– maybe it’s a testament to how long Mike spends just looking at him, but in his head, these are all just Will. He’s so used to them that it rarely occurs to ask where they’d come from. They’re just Will.

“I think it’s charming,” Mike decides, and Will lets out a small snort of laughter.

“Charming? Really?”

“Yes,” Mike says, “because then I can do this.” He brings Will’s hand up to his face, brushes his lips across the back of his knuckles, and bites back a laugh at the way Will immediately turns extremely pink.

“You are so, so ridiculous,” Will gets out. “Charming? Seriously?”

“Yes,” Mike says again. “You heard me.”

He’s still holding Will’s hand, and he’s not very inclined to let go, so he slots their fingers together and squeezes, once.

“Ridiculous,” Will repeats, but it’s weaker this time. “Now you.”

“Um,” Mike balks. Any semblance of brainpower he gathered up for their conversation so far is rapidly being washed away, every second he spends with Will pressed up against him like this rendering him even more incoherent. He fights back a yawn, and is mostly successful when he says, “I can’t remember.”

“You can’t– okay,” Will laughs. He kisses Mike on top of his head. “Go to sleep, then.”

Mike shakes his head. “Go again. I want to hear.”

“You just want to kiss me,” Will mutters. “You have an agenda.”

Mike grins shamelessly, despite himself. “Maybe.”

“I don’t know,” Will admits. He runs a hand down Mike’s back and then pulls him in until their bodies are flush. “I don’t know what else there is.”

Mike yawns again. “I do,” he whispers, then taps a cautious hand against Will’s side, right against his ribs. “Here.”

Will stops. Takes in a soft, sharp breath. “Right.”

“Sorry,” Mike backtracks immediately, pulling his hand away. “You don’t have to talk about that one, I was just–”

But Will just shakes his head. “No, it’s okay,” he says, lips moving gently over the top of Mike’s hair as he talks. “I just– you already know about that one. And I thought we were talking about the cute little scars, you know. Like, the silly ones.”

“I’m glad my chin got all banged up just for you to think it’s cute and silly,” Mike huffs. And then, “Seriously. You don’t have to.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can say that you don’t know,” Will says, twitching slightly as Mike’s fingers dip under the hem of his borrowed t-shirt. The scar there isn’t big at all, but Mike can feel where the skin goes smooth under his fingertips. He’s seen it– he wasn’t there when it happened but he knows what it looks like. Will hadn’t said anything until they’d gone swimming at the lake that summer– tugging his shirt off and not giving it a second thought until Mike’s eyes had nearly popped right out of his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead of bringing up any of that. “That it happened to you.”

“Don’t be,” Will says immediately. Mike tucks his face further into the curve of Will’s neck. “I’m glad she got it out.”

Mike hums in unsatisfied relent. “Still. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Will whispers. “Thank you.”

“I’d kiss it better but that requires a lot of moving,” Mike says, punctuating his point with yet another yawn. Will makes a quiet noise of amusement above him. “But it’s cool. I can be flexible.”

“What are you–” Will starts, before Mike cuts him off, leaning up and off the pillow to catch his lips in a kiss.

“See,” Mike whispers, smiling. “I can make do.”

“With every passing second, I become more convinced that this was a scheme,” Will sighs.

“So no kiss?”

“I didn’t say that,” Will says, then leans back in, tilting Mike’s head back until he’s lying against the pillow again, hand still splayed across his lower back. It’s warm, and it’s soft, and it’s–

“Wow,” Will says. “I’m sorry, Mike, am I boring you?”

“No,” Mike says, around yet another yawn. “I’m not even–”

“You are so even,” Will laughs, then pulls away. “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Mike hums, then kisses Will again. Just for the hell of it. “I know you’re not.”

#i got like 4 different asks for this one so i'm just making a new post !!#this is also a little bit of the injury tending one bc that is just where my mind went Oops #anyways i am so upset and lonely and touch starved after this god . when is it my turn to be happy fr #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #fun sized fics #established relationship byler woo #fic #ficlet #hmmm ok have fun !!

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effemar · 1 year

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raise ur hand if ur a non-noble female character who’s been personally victimized by the narrative…

#asoiaf #i loooooove characters w/o established designs….!!!#not going to tag them bc. well. let’s be real.#my art #someone asked abt my character design process once #so these notes include some of my thinking 👍

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metalhoops · 11 months

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Steddie Week Day 5:

Together/ Established Relationship / Hold the Line by Toto

Eddie would give everything for a lifetime of Sunday mornings with Steve. He’d never expected anything good in his life to last before Steve. The first year they’d spent together, he’d been waiting for it to end with bated breath. He’d wake up in a cold sweat and reach for the familiar warmth of Steve’s body as a sick animal searches for a cool, dry place to die.

He’d cross the distance between them, however great or small, and bury himself beneath Steve’s back, so he could feel the rise and fall of his breaths as something tangible. That way, if the boy left, he’d know.

Steve’s body was the grave dirt he wanted to be buried beneath. If ever he were to pick a final resting place, that’d be it. A year turned into two, and somewhere along the way, Eddie stopped waiting for things to go wrong.

Steve had his own nightly routine. There were habits that persisted well past the time Eddie had expected them to fade into obscurity. On the bad nights, he’d feel Steve jolt awake at his side with a shaky gasp. He’d roll over and press his hand to Eddie’s side, hoping to hold him together, as though the distant nightmare of seven years ago were still a freshly healing scab and not the faded, pink scar tissue Eddie knew it to be.

Eddie wasn’t a romantic. He’d grown up in a broken home where the word ‘love’ was only used to mean an apology. His mother and father would keep the street dogs barking until the morning birds sang with their screams. Then come sunrise, his father would take his mother’s face into his hands and say ‘I love you’, in the way Eddie knew meant ‘I’m sorry.’

Eddie and Steve weren’t used to having people in their corner worth losing. That made keeping each other all the more important. Eddie was reminded of how much he had to lose every Sunday morning when he woke up with Steve’s limbs flung haphazardly over his body. It was the one day they kept obligation free. No jobs. No laundry. No kids, who really weren’t kids anymore. Just the two of them.

For once, Eddie was the first one up. He hadn’t been able to sleep. He was too busy trying not to think. Instead, he traced the familiar landmarks of Steve’s skin. He walked the path of freckles and moles dotting their way up the other man’s arm and lingered on the tiny silver scar at his elbow. It was the one he’d gotten from falling off his bike when he was seven.

Eddie wasn’t a forever kind of guy, but Steve was. If you’d told Eddie back in high school, he’d be in a relationship for seven years, he’d say that was forever. Jesus, it’d gone quick. He wanted more forevers with Steve.

“Mornin’ already?” Steve spoke, peering bleary-eyed around the room, his voice gravel road rough.

“Same time every day,” Eddie confirmed, peering down at the man on his chest.

Age had changed them in ways Eddie only noticed in pictures. They were still young. He reminded himself, with more urgency than necessary. Eddie had more tattoos to cover up the scars he knew they’d both rather forget.

Then there was Steve. His trademark hair was longer than when they first started dating. Eddie liked to joke that he looked like Kurt Cobain if Kurt Cobain knew how to style his hair. He’d also learnt to sport barely-there stubble on the days he couldn’t be bothered to shave.

“You’re staring,” Steve remarked, hiding his face in the crook of Eddie’s shoulder.

“You’re beautiful,” Eddie commented, and he meant it. He really goddamn meant it.

“Flattery doesn’t work with me, Munson,” Steve grumbled, moving to pull the covers up over their heads, hiding them from the morning. Eddie didn’t care. He had nowhere to be.

He dipped his head, placing a chased kiss on Steve’s lips, and watched as the man’s nose scrunched.

“Morning breath,” He groaned as he pulled back.

“You love it,” Eddie teased, trailing kisses down Steve’s jaw.

His lips lingered on the spot he knew made the man exhale sharply through his nose. It was right near another crooked scar Steve got on his twenty-second birthday. He’d been drunk and had fallen into the pool, clipping his jaw on the cement ledge. Eddie had the painful job of trying to extract Steve’s tooth from his lip as the boy cursed like a sailor and squirmed like a worm.

“I love you, there’s a difference,” Steve chuckled and pushed Eddie back, examining his face.

He traced the dark circles beneath Eddie’s eyes. He was long past the point of being self-conscious with Steve. The man had seen him in all manner of undress and unflattering angles. He chose to stay with him anyway. That’s what love was, wasn’t it? Choosing each other over and over again, every day- forever.

“You look like shit,” Steve spoke candidly.

“Oh honeybear, you wound me,” Eddie breathed, clutching his chest with all the overdramatised fervour his sleep-deprived body could muster.

“What’re you thinking about?” Steve asked, pulling his hand back.

“Quitting my job, getting the band back together, going on tour and dragging your ass across the country... Maybe getting a dog.” Steve hummed and traced the outline of the faded-blue demon tattoo on his chest.

“And that’s why you haven’t slept all week, right?” Steve repeated sceptically. Eddie was going to have to do this now, wasn’t he?

“Steve,” Eddie spoke, hating how his voice shook. His body was betraying him.

Steve’s head snapped up. His brows furrowed, painting his face with concern. He’d screwed this up already, hadn’t he?

“What’s wrong? I’m only ‘Steve’ when you’re pissed off, or it’s something serious,” the man observed.

Eddie didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t planned what he was going to say- alright, that was a lie. He’d tried to plan it. Hell, he’d tried to write a whole damn script, but it’d felt wrong. He’d thought when the moment came he’d know what to say. Turned out, he was wrong.

“Was it because I took your notebooks off the table? Because I told you it’s cool you use it like a desk, but we need someplace to eat so you’ve gotta put your shit away when you’re done with it,” Steve began.

It was an old, familiar argument he didn’t have time to get into that morning.

“It’s not about the table,” Eddie sighed and felt Steve shift.

He sat up and pulled the covers from their heads, letting the morning light in. This was a conversation to have in daylight.

“Are you okay?” Steve pushed, trepidation in his voice.

It was 1993 and even if they’d never sat down and talked about what was going on with the rest of their community, they’d both seen it first-hand. No. Eddie wasn’t going to let the morning be about that either.

“I’m okay, Stevie. Promise,” Eddie assured, wrapping his pinkie around Steve’s and placing a kiss to their intertwined fingers.

“You know, I think a lot of things we’ve gotta do are bullshit, right?” Eddie began, crossing his legs and pulling Steve into his lap. The man shot him a confused look but nodded.

“Nine-to-five? Bullshit. Conforming to society? Bullshit. Growing up-.”

“Let me guess, bullshit?” Steve breathed and Eddie snorted.

“Yeah. But you and me? I think we’re the one thing in this world that’s not bullshit.”

Steve gave him a look Eddie knew too well. It was an echo of his ‘King Steve’ days, only a little softer around the edges. The look told Eddie Steve thought he was talking shit, but he was trying to be polite and not bring it up.

“Right,” Steve hummed thoughtfully.

“I’m not finished. Hold your bitchy comments until the end, dude,” Eddie snorted.

“Up until you, I thought relationships were... I’m going to stop saying bullshit. I thought they were for other people. And I also thought- shit. Alright. I’m doing this, aren’t I...?” Eddie huffed and pushed Steve back from him, leaning over to rummage around in his bedside drawer. He was really doing this. No turning back now.

He pulled out one of his favourite rings. It was a little more understated than the others, but it belonged to his Uncle Wayne, so it was his favourite. He turned back to see Steve. The man had gone pale. Finally, the guy was catching on. Here Eddie was thinking he’d never be able to surprise Steve again with how well they knew one another.

“I know we can’t get married, Steve. But I know how much you want to and it surprised the hell out of me, but I want that too. I don’t need a shitty piece of paper to know what you mean to me. We could have a party, invite Wayne, Robin and the kids over,” Eddie was rambling, his hands trembling as he passed the ring to Steve.

The guy looked seconds from crying or laughing, frozen in a half grin, half grimace. God, Eddie hoped that was a good sign.

“You haven’t asked the question yet, Eds,” Steve breathed, his lip twitching. Oh, that was a smile. A wave of relief crashed over Eddie.

“I want to be with you, Steve, forever. Will you marry me?”

Steve surged forward, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and sending them both toppling backwards. Eddie could feel the man nod against his skin.

“I-,” Steve began, but paused when his voice sounded wet.

He sniffed and buried his face deeper into Eddie’s body. Steve hated anyone seeing him cry, even Eddie, especially Eddie. He waited, knowing the answer from the half-moon crescents Steve’s fingers were leaving in his skin.

Steve pulled back after a moment.

“Alright, on one condition,” He huffed, his voice still sounding rough.

“It’s always conditions with you,” Eddie teased, moving his free hand to Steve’s back, rubbing circles into his skin, trying to calm him down.

He knew how to put on a brave face, but Eddie understood marriage meant more to Steve than it did to him.

“Promise to clean your shit off the kitchen table and I’ll marry you,” Steve proposed. Eddie couldn’t help but laugh.

“How about this? I promise to clean up the table, if you promise to keep your crap on your side of the bathroom. Then we can get married.”

Steve pressed his lips to Eddie’s, morning breath be damned.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

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bidokja · 11 months

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I was joking a while back that the actor they have playing KDJ for the orv movie was too handsome for him and a friend who's read orv was like "KDJ is actually secretly attractive!!" And I just felt my soul leave my body right then

SIGHS...

Okay. Buckle in. I'm gonna finally actually address and explain and theorize about this whole...thing.

I'm not gonna cite any exact chapters cause it's like 11:30 and I've got an 8 hour drive in the morning but I'll at least make an approximate reference to where certain things are mentioned. Also, this post is just my personal interpretation for a good bit of it, but it's an interpretation I feel very solid about, so do with that what you will. Moving on to the meat of things:

There is one (1) instance in the web novel that I know of which describes specific features of Kim Dokja (especially ones other people notice). This takes place when members of KimCom are trying to make Kim Dokja presentable to give his speech at the Industrial Complex (after it's been plopped down on Earth). This is when they start really paying attention and focusing on Kim Dokja's appearance since they're putting makeup on him; I still don't think they can interpret his whole face, but they can accurately pick out and retain more features than usual. If I remember correctly they reference him having long eyelashes, smooth skin, and soft hair. These features can be viewed as (stereotypically) attractive.

Certain parts of the fandom have taken this scene and run with it at a very surface level, without realizing (or without acknowledging at the very least) that this scene is not about how Kim Dokja looks. This is, in part, due to not realizing or acknowledging why Kim Dokja's face is "censored" in the first place, and what that censoring actually means. I think it's also possible that some people are assuming the censorship works like a physical phenomena rather than an altered perception.

I'll address that last point first. The censorship of Kim Dokja's features is not something as simple as a physical phenomena. It's not a bar or scribble or mosaic over his face. If that were true it'd be very obvious to anyone looking at him that his face is hidden. But his face is not hidden to people. They can look at him and see a face. If they concentrate on his eyes, they can see where he's looking. They know when he's frowning or grinning. They see a face loud and clear. But what face are they seeing? Because it's not really his, whatever they're seeing.

No one quite agrees on what he really looks like. And if they try and think about what he looks like, they can't recall. Or if they do, it's vague, or different each time. We notice these little details throughout the series. Basically, Kim Dokja's face is cognitively obscured. Something - likely the Fourth Wall, though I can't recall if this is ever stated outright - is interfering with everyone's ability to perceive him properly. This culminated in him feeling off to others; and since they don't even realize this is happening, they surmise that he is "ugly."

Moving on to the other point about what the censorship means: To be blunt, the censorship of his face is an allegory for his disconnect from the "story" (aka: real life, and the real people at his side). The lifting - however slight - of this censorship represents him becoming more and more a part of the "story" (aka: less disconnected from the life he is living and the people at his side). The censorship's existence and lifting can represent other things - like dissociation or depersonalization or, if you want to get really meta, the fact that he is all of our faces at once - but that's how I'd sum up the main premise of it. (The Fourth Wall is a larger part of the dissociation allegory, but that's for another post).

So you see, them noticing his individual features isn't about the features. It's not about the features! It doesn't matter at all which features got listed. Because they could describe any features whatsoever and it would not change the entire point of the scene. Because the point isn't what he looks like. The point is that they can truly and clearly see these features. For the first time. They are seeing parts of him for the first time. Re-read that sentence multiple times, literally and metaphorically. What does it mean to see someone as they are?

This is an extremely significant turning point dressed up as a dress-up scene.

---

P.S. / Additionally, I'm of the opinion that Kim Dokja is not handsome, and he is not ugly. He is not pretty, and he is not ghastly. Not attractive, nor unattractive. Kim Dokja isn't any of these things. More importantly, Kim Dokja can't be any of these things. The entire point of Kim Dokja is that you cannot pick him out of a crowd; he is the crowd. He's a reader. He's the reader. Why does he need to be handsome? Why must he be pretty? Why is him being attractive necessary or relevant? He doesn't, he doesn't, it's not. He is someone deeply deeply loved and irreplaceable to those around him, and someone who cannot even begin to recognize or accept that unless it's through a love letter masquerading as a story he can read. He is the crowd, a reader, the reader. He's you, he's me. He's every single one of us.

#orv #orv analysis #orv meta #orv spoilers #mine #ask #there's also the meta that he is described with these (stereotypically) pretty features as they are about to try and 'sell' him to a crowd #which feels to me like a very pointed way to convey how 'beauty' is commodified. how audiences like 'attractive' characters more #note: made some edits to add in a couple of sentences my brain forgot in the moment so make sure u reblogged those if u do #tag edits for further commentary that isnt strictly relevant to the point i was making:#do i think that this face censorship was executed as well as it could have been? nah.#not that it was like. done Badly. it's followed through to a certain point. its established enough for me to make this post at least.#but i do think it is the one thing in the web novel that SS didn't capitalize on.#like. they still stuck the landing but it was not as picture perfect of an execution as the rest of the metaphorical stuff in orv #also. this (not the face censorship specifically but the 'hes just some guy' point of it all) is one of the big reasons i think that-#-visual adaptions of orv can never quite work. they can do the best that they can with that medium but a lot of nuance is lost-#-simply by virtue of it being a visual medium #i personally think the only way a visual medium could work would be one where they commit to the power move of not showing kdj's face #(until a certain point (of view) that is)#his face is always facing away or out of frame or hidden by someone or something else in the way #commit to the fucking allegory or simply perish

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