#actually though like can they just do a goddamn tour.

[youre-dizzy]

Soooo rude and evil for Blur to sing their best songs to CALIFORNIA. Come to where the real freakazoids are. Such as Detroit Michigan

#sorry I have a grudge against California #actually though like can they just do a goddamn tour. #blur #blur band

[livwritesstuff]

Steve comes home from a few hours of running errands with his and Eddie’s one-year-old daughter Moe to find Eddie pitching an absolute fit to his beleaguered book agent Paul over the phone.

Given how Eddie’s third book is about three months away from its release date, Steve has a pretty decent idea what the fit might be over.

The dreaded book tour.

Look – Steve doesn’t like it either. He didn’t like it back in ‘95 when Eddie’s first book came out. He didn’t like it in ‘99 with the second one either. He definitely won’t like it this time around, especially now with Moe in the picture. He actually likes having his partner around, believe it or not (and, if he’s honest, there’s still some baggage surrounding work-related travel and his parents’ relationship that he’s still trying to shake).

Still, he knows it’s a necessary evil of Eddie’s success and they’ll all survive it.

That’s Steve’s perspective anyways, even if Eddie doesn’t share it with him.

Eddie looks over as Steve drops a few bags of groceries onto the kitchen counter.

“Hang on, Paul – Steve just got back from absconding with my daughter,” Eddie says, and then he pulls the phone away from his ear, “Don’t put her down for a nap yet.”

Steve only shakes his head.

“Sorry, Paul,” he says, not raising his voice quite enough for Paul to actually hear him (Eddie hears him though, and that’s what matters) as he continues on his way up the stairs to get Moe ready for her nap (he’ll drag out the process as long as he can for Eddie’s sake – he’s not a total monster).

In the end, Eddie’s phone call ends no more than five minutes later.

“So what’s the damage?” Steve asks when Eddie makes his way into Moe’s room.

“Five weeks,” Eddie grumbles as he pulls Moe out of Steve’s arms. He presses a kiss to her chubby cheek and then adds, “Stops goddamn nation-wide.”

“Maybe stop writing so good and you wouldn’t have this issue,” Steve points out.

“Shut up – I’m not gonna do it. Paul can drop me, see if I care.”

“You’d care.”

Eddie’s shoulders slump.

“Yeah, I’d care,” he mutters, and then he shakes his head, “It’s entirely unfair that he’d expect me to leave home for over a month when he knows I have a little baby at home. I’m not doing it. She’ll be a whole teenager when I come back, Stevie.”

Steve looks at him, “It’s five weeks, love. She’ll probably still be the same shoe size.”

“I’ll miss our anniversary.”

“No, you won’t. It’s not ‘til the month after.”

“Okay, who’s side are you on here?”

“Paul’s, obviously.”

Eddie’s jaw drops as he feigns an affronted expression.

“I cannot believe that my beloved, my betrothed–”

“Betrothed?”

“–would side with my traitorous agent over–” 

“Ed, Paul was pretty forgiving when you slowed down writing for six months for the foster training stuff,” Steve points out (and it’s a point that actually manages to stop Eddie’s tirade – an impressive feat, he’s well aware), “And then he was really forgiving when you stopped completely for almost a year when Moe was born. Wasn’t this book supposed to come out, like, over a year ago? I feel like the least you can do is put up with a book tour given everything you’ve put him through.”

Eddie only blinks at him a moment – clearly trying to fathom any kind of counter-argument and coming up empty.

“Damn you,” he mutters.

“Can’t believe you used to be the guy who wanted to be a rockstar and go on year-long world tours,” Steve laughs, “Now you can’t even handle a month of the continental United States.”

“Watch your mouth, Harrington. Hey – maybe you and Moe can come and be the world’s cutest groupies.”

“We’ll see.”

#little do they know robbie’s gonna show up 10 months later and delay the next book by another four years lol #liv’s steddie dads verse #steddie #steddie dads #steve harrington #eddie munson

[yandere-sins]

Do you still write for yandere omega? That piece was soooo good oml, can you write an aftermath or just a snippet of day to day life with them? Yan omegas are so rare and they are rarely explored and tours really set a tone on what they could do. Its the ultimate ploy, nobody can suspect an omega desiring a simple beta, simply too outrageous to think

I never really stop writing for anything (that might be the actual problem, lol). Thanks for your request!

Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content!!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Tap, tap, tap.

Their fingers swept over the keyboard on their lap, restless and excited, generating countless words per minute. A smile played on the omega's lips, giddy and amused as they scrolled and replied to endless comments, the flood of new notifications never-ending. The success of their latest video—a video showing you and them immersed in heat and rut for hours to no end—was something that not even they could have expected. Still, they kept their online banking up, watching donations and premium membership fees roll in by the second, putting a wide grin on their face.

Humming in satisfaction, they halted their fanservice, glancing up from the blinding laptop screen to you, sitting on the chair next to them, still dazed as you ate your cereals. You two had been holed up for days in your nest, the whole production of your very first video having ruthlessly dragged you through all emotions known to mankind and leaving you exhausted. Not exhausted enough to refuse the food your omega procured for you, but enough so that you didn't argued or cried anymore while shoveling colorful, animal-shaped cereals and milk into your mouth. 

Even like this—disheveled, still a little crusty (since you didn't want to get out of your curled position and shower with them after they stopped the recording), and sore—you were no less their beautiful beta than you were down in the love nest, ravaging your omega like a goddamn beast. 

You had visibly turned off reality around you, sitting there completely out of it as you ate, heading your omega no mind. What you must be thinking about was as puzzling as it was unconcerning to them, their own thoughts had always been louder in their head. However, as they watched you, they grew antsy, missing your full attention on them like when you two were buried in sheets and in the spotlight of their production, even though it had been painful at times. But even pain was beautiful to some, and your pain was a gift to them, just like your love was. They missed your hands all over them, spit and sweat mixing as your bodies moved in perfect harmony with each other. Now, despite sitting close enough to you that they could easily reach out and hold your hand, it was not close enough.

They hadn't brought you here for you to be away from them. All the money and time that went into building, securing, and completely erasing the location of this mansion had not been so you two would be apart from each other. Not for you to have that kind of freedom, one that the omega didn't want for you or for them. 

It was bittersweet to abandon their beloved fans for you, the very same people who made it possible for you two to be together. Who supported and encouraged the omega, no matter what, as they worked their butt off for more and more of their attention. And yet, the omega announced their farewells for the day, promising more exciting content to come tomorrow before logging off and closing the laptop.

It was your attention they wanted. Only yours. 

It had only ever been you they desired, from kindergarten well into adulthood. They had always clung to you and pleaded for you to claim them long before your diagnosis. It was such a shame that you didn't present as an alpha when the time came; otherwise, their place at your side would have been surely secured. This way, they had to go to drastic lengths to be with you, even though the effort hadn't been in vain. Now they had you right where they wanted. 

Their hand sliding up your arm, you halted your movements, spoon hanging in mid-air with milk dripping from its rim. There was a slight shake in your hand, growing more and more intense the higher the omega's hand traveled. Until they gripped your shoulder, the spoon clattering on the designer table, milk and cereals going everywhere as you winced in pain. 

Their grip was merciless, considering the many, many marks and bruises they left on your body, the pain only now registering that you were out of the drug-induced rut. Your whole body was practically mauled by your omega's teeth and sharp nails, fists they used to get you in position when you were too high to listen to their demands. Everything hurt, and when they climbed on your lap, tears shot back into your eyes, their hands freely roaming your chest and arms without remorse about what they did to you. 

In fact, they were proud feeling the indents through your t-shirt. A shirt they rubbed all over themselves before helping you into, marking you with their scent. Had you been an alpha, it would have been so easy to make sure you smelled like your omega. But you weren't. So they needed to use more drastic methods to mark you. The omega could think about a good handful more ways but decided to keep those for the next time they'd put you in front of a camera. Until then, a shirt and their body rubbing against yours had to suffice. 

"You did so well," they cooed, longing for nothing more than to hear you praise them as well. But perhaps they had to show you first how to take care of an omega, so, once again, they took the lead, just like they always had in this relationship. "Fucked me so good, made me feel so full ~ My pretty little beta. You enjoyed it, too, right? We made such a lovely video; now my fans love you too."

"Ah- No more..." you gasped weakly, gripping the omega's waist and trying to push them off you. They grinned at your little, helpless defiance, the bite you had after arriving in your new home now muzzled after days of fucking. You had so many more beautiful sounds to give them than your screaming and crying—moaning, whimpering, begging. Their hips were grinding over your legs and into yours, the pain etched into your face of no concern to the omega as they kept disturbing all the sore and wounded parts of your body.

God, you were beautiful. 

Day, night, evening, morning, you were always fucking stunning. Happy, smiling, angry, crying, needy, drooling, hurt, and despairing. There was no moment they didn't love you. You were only made for them, your beauty belonged all to the omega. Even god must have meant for you two to be together. 

"Hush, it's okay. There, there..." your omega muttered, leaning forward to kiss your tears away, licking up the salty trails they left behind while their hips picked up speed on top of you, causing some blissful moans from the omega's lips. Nothing in this world turned them on like you did, even sitting at the table, crying pathetically over the pleasure they gave you. You were so seductive, even when you were hurting. Anything they gave you, pain or pleasure, you had to accept it just like the omega did. Pain, acceptance, being close to each other no matter what—all these feelings you harbored for them, you had to accept the same way they did. That's what love meant.

Sliding their hand down your chest, they dug under your waistband, sliding further and further. You let out a beautiful gasp, followed by your body shifting and hands trying to stop the passionate grind of the omega's hips. But latest when they had their hand on your sex, making you flinch at the touch, you slowly stilled, merely trembling as your breath turned ragged. 

"That's it, baby!" the omega cheered, your pleasure becoming their own as they used their hand to get both of you off by grinding against it. "Come for me, Darling! You'll do it, right? Come for me? Come like a good beta from your omega's hand?"

They'd turn all this hurt into more and more love. Your pain would soon cease when you realized they were doing what was right for you. Their hand was slick with your juices, confirming that the omega was right—they were the best and only option for you to thrive in this life, just like the thought of you had driven them to success. It would turn you into an alpha despite your genes, at least one in mind. Now that they had you, they would never let you go. They'd never abandon you and take a real alpha; there was no need for it anymore when they could shape you into what they wanted. 

Slipping their hand out of your shorts again, they licked off the remnants of your orgasm, watching as your body collapsed beneath them. That's right, they thought, just let yourself fall. Once you'd learn to leave behind all the bad thoughts and drown in the pleasure and love they'd give you, everything would get better. You could live your life with them, secluded and confined in your togetherness, in peace and harmony. 

Your omega would do what you needed to realize this.

"I love you," they murmured against your lips, licking over the bloody marks of your own teeth that had bitten into them, kissing away the pain. Soon, there would be no need to hold back like this. No need for hostility against them. Everything would go back to how it was before your diagnosis. You two would finally be happy. 

"I love you so much," they sighed, ignoring the jolt in your body as they began to grind again, not yet done with you. Mouths mixing in a one-sided kiss, the omega moaned into it, ignoring every flinch and your whining when they bit into your lips as well, combining your mark with theirs and tasting what belonged to them. 

They knew they might have to ruin you some more to achieve their goals. Break in the old belief that you two could never be together, and let it crumble like a house of cards by showing you how they could take care of you. Bring out your real potential as their partner. Claim you until you were too weak to refuse them as your bonded partner. 

It was a rocky road until then, littered with more arguments, nights of silence, tears, and them getting what they wanted no matter how much you suffered. But they had gone through much worse to get to where they were now. The extra effort would not stand in the way of your happiness. After all, that's what devotion was.

And your omega would always be the one and only for you. 

#omegaverse #yandere omegaverse #yandere!omegaverse #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

[xoxoladyaz]

It Hits Different This Time, Part 2

Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Rock Star Eddie x Steve Harrington

TW: Mentions of alcohol, drug abuse

QUICK AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry that the last entry was so angst heavy, I promise this one provides some comfort! Eddie needed to take a big step here and he really, really does. Also, much love to everyone who commented, I've tagged you at the bottom of the post - let me know if anyone else would like to be notified of the next entry!

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five

It was another five days before Steve heard from Eddie. Another five torturous days of radio silence, only this time, there wasn’t anything online. No new articles were popping up saying he’d been spotted somewhere, no new TikToks of him meeting fans on the street. The rest of the band was MIA too; Steve had thought about sending Jeff a text to check-in but ultimately decided to wait another couple days. Robin had been texting with Chrissy, after all, and if something bad had gone down, she would know.

When Eddie did finally call, it wasn’t from a number that Steve recognized.

“I’m getting a call from Malibu.”

“Holy shit!” Robin sat up on the other end of the couch and shot him a look. “Okay, just breathe dingus, okay? It’s going to be okay, I’ll be here the whole time.” She squeezed his ankle comfortingly. “You can do this.”

Steve accepted the call with shaky hands and brought his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey Steve.”

He shut his eyes and swallowed, trying to stop his voice from cracking. “Eddie.”

He heard Eddie let out a watery laugh across the line. “Do you, uh, have a minute?”

“Mmmm hmmm,” Steve hummed. He physically couldn’t get an actual word out. 

This was it. Eddie was leaving, he’d cheated, it was over – 

“I’m in rehab.”

Steve’s eyes shot open. “You’re what?”

Robin started rocking back and forth. “Turn it up!” She hissed, and Steve obliged, turning up his volume so she could just barely hear what was being said. (Was this a private conversation? Yes. Did Eddie know he’d probably immediately tell Robin everything? Also yes. 

Was this news big enough to warrant having Robin eavesdrop?

Absolutely yes.)

“Yeah, I’m, uh, at the Promises Treatment Center in Malibu,” Eddie continued. “We got back about five days ago and when I saw your note, I – 

“Look, Steve,” Eddie continued, and his voice was choked up, like he himself couldn’t speak, “I fucked up. I’ve fucked everything up. You are – you said in that note that you didn’t want me to give up on my dreams, and you’re right, making it big and getting famous for my music was my dream for literal years. Because I kept thinking “once I get a record out there,” “once I go on tour,” “once I win a Grammy,” “once I get a million dollars,” then I’d finally be happy. 

“But it turns out the only thing being famous has done is make me pretty fucking miserable,” Eddie let out a harsh laugh. “But I was so goddamn convinced that this was it, you know, that I’d accomplished my dreams so I must be happy that I started taking whatever I could get my fucking hands on to make me feel that way. The thing is drugs and the alcohol and the parties never made it fucking last. It just made every other second that I was in the public eye that much worse.

“But I’d still made it, you know? I felt like I didn’t deserve to feel this fucking miserable. And everyone back home was so fucking proud and I didn’t want to let them down - ” Eddie paused for a few moments to clear his throat before continuing. “I didn’t want to let you down. Because Eddie “The Freak” Munson didn’t deserve you, but maybe Eddie “The Rock Star” could.”

Steve can feel his own throat closing up and he can barely see Robin’s face, his eyes are watering that bad. “Baby,” he sobbed. “I wish you’d told me.”

“Me too,” Eddie sniffled across the line. “I didn’t though, I just kept self-medicating and ignoring it, because that’s always worked,” he huffed sarcastically. “But then - ” Eddie cut off again, and Steve can hear that he’s trying so hard to hold back his own sobs, “then I came home last week and realized that I’d missed our goddamn anniversary because I was too fucking high and that you were gone and I just – I called Jeff and I told him to get me on a plane out here because you – you, Steve Harrington, you are the best thing in my goddamn life. And the only dream I want to chase now is the one where we get married and adopt some kids and grow old together.”

“Eddie,” Steve sobbed out again, and he heard Eddie start to cry too, and then suddenly they were crying together, even from hundreds of miles away.

“So I’m gonna be here for the next six weeks,” Eddie finally continued, his voice still full of tears. “I’m, uh, meeting with a therapist for a few hours every day and working through my shit. I wanna be a guy who deserves good things, baby. I wanna be a guy who deserves you.”

“What – what about the band?” Steve sniffled, rubbing at his eyes. A handful of Kleenex appeared in front of him. Robin must have gotten up to grab them at some point. He shot her a thankful nod and patted at his eyes; Robin nodded back and did the same, her face flushed that bright shade of red that accompanied her own tears.

“Murray wrote a provision into our contract where if one of us checks into rehab, then the band is instantly put on a two-year, non-negotiable hiatus.”

“But – what about your momentum, the label kept talking about it?”

“The label can go fuck themselves” Eddie practically growled over the phone. “Who do you think hosted the party where I first got my hands on the hardcore stuff anyways?”

“Babe - ”

“Murray said he was going to look into some sort of contract termination so we can sign somewhere else. And even if we didn’t have that thing written into our contract, we probably would have gone on hiatus anyways, or worse. That – the last leg was rough. Gareth was just as fucked up as I was and Jeff was fucking pissed. He kept having to pull Gareth out of orgies and shit while babysitting Phil and I too.”

“Did,” Steve swallowed harshly, “did - ”

“No, baby, never,” Eddie declared quickly. “Even when I couldn’t fucking see straight, you were the only one I wanted to be with. I honestly don’t even know who we were partying with at the end there, the label sent them for some PR shit, I don’t know. It’s just another reason why we want out.”

“Oh,” Steve murmured, “okay. Good. Or, well, not good. You know.”

“Yeah, baby, I do,” Eddie replied softly. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, just listening to each other breathe. “I, uh,” Eddie started up again quietly, “I’m wearing the ring.”

“Yeah?” Steve found himself smiling despite the fresh tears welling up in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Eddie’s voice was just as choked up as before. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Eddie - ”

“Look, I know, I know I hurt you so, so badly and I’m never going to fucking forgive myself for what I did, but I – you’re everything I want, baby. If I had to give up Corroded Coffin tomorrow for you, I would do it in a heartbeat. And I – I know I can’t expect for you to just, like, forgive me after the shit I pulled, but – will you be there, when I get out? Can I – I want to come home to you,” Eddie finished, and Steve could hear that he was crying again.

Steve looked over at Robin, who was wiping more tears out of her own eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments.

It might be crazy, but I think I want to say yes.

I don't blame you. I mean, this is one hell of an apology, especially from Mr. “I’ll Never Need to Go to Rehab Ever.”

Yeah. And I love him.

And you love him.

“I’ll be there,” Steve murmured reassuringly, and Eddie burst into a new wave of muffled sobs on the other end of the phone. “Just do what you need to do and come home when you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting for home.”

“At home?” Eddie’s voice broke on a whimper.

“At home. I’ll even clean the bathrooms and everything,” Steve joked, and Eddie let out a loud laugh despite the quiet sobs Steve could still hear. 

“Really? You’ll be there?”

“Yeah, Eddie. I’ll be there. We can get through this.”

“Together.”

“Together. Because I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.”

“Fuck, Stevie,” Eddie let out an incredulous laugh again, “I love you so fucking much, baby. I’m going to marry the fuck out of you someday.”

“Save the sweet talk for when you get home, okay?” Steve could feel his heart settling in his chest, and whatever tears he’d had left to cry were all gone now. There was just the twinge of missing Eddie, but that would go away soon enough. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Eds.”

“Thanks, baby.” Eddie’s answer was soft now. “So I, uh, get a couple hours to call people every day from one of the site’s phones. Can I keep calling you?”

“Please,” Steve heard Eddie exhale in relief. “Every day sounds perfect.”

“Good, good. I’ll have to, uh, use some of my time to talk to Wayne, but the rest of it is yours, baby. And Gareth, Jeff threw him into a different center too. His check-in was much less voluntary though.”

“Shit,” Steve winced. “Is there anything Robin or I can do to help?”

“Take Jeff and Chrissy out to a nice dinner and use the Amex,” Eddie snorted, causing Steve to laugh.

“Consider it done.”

“Good." Steve heard the sound of another voice behind Eddie. Eddie replied something Steve couldn't understand, but it was in the affirmative. "Doc says my time is up for today. My, uh, talk with Wayne took up a lot of time,” Eddie returned, and his voice trembled as he spoke. “But I’ll call you tomorrow and I’ll see you in six weeks.”

“Yes you will.” Steve shut his eyes and imagined Eddie was standing right in front of him. Eddie with his riotous curls and holey graphic tees and tight jeans. Eddie with his rings on his fingers, with Steve’s ring on his finger. Eddie, standing across from him and smiling at him with that twinkle in his eye that had first caught Steve’s attention all those years ago. 

“I love you, Eds.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. I’ll see you on the other side.”

Tags List: @gregre369 @starman-jpg @skoomy-doompy @thequeenrainacorn @sleepyboosstuff @strawberrykore @paintsplatteredandimperfect @amoris-no-smut-allowed @steve-the-hairrington @iknewyouweremuggle @swimmingbirdrunningrock @sunfloweringstories @loverkasp @hyperfixationgoddess @steddie-as-they-go @zerokrox-blog @messrs-weasley @thelittleclare @lovelyscot

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #stranger things #steddie fanfic #steddie fic #robin buckley #platonic stobin #rock star Eddie munson #sweetheart steve harrington

[thefreakandthehair]

The plants are Eddie's idea.

Each and every one of them is rescued or adopted in some way: salvaged from a home that hadn't cared for it, up for grabs on the side of the road, forgotten in the corners of Home Depot, leftovers from wedding centerpieces that surely are going to be tossed after the reception ends. Eddie knows what it feels like to be forgotten, left out, neglected, and just because plants don't have a voice stand on lunch tables and air their frustrations with broken systems, that doesn't mean they don't feel. So yes, Eddie loves his plants, loves them with almost the same intensity that he loves their cat, Bruce.

At first, Steve just nods and shrugs and gives Eddie that fond smile that says I don't get it but you're happy so I'm happy. The same smile Steve wears when Eddie rambles on about Dungeons and Dragons, about the intricacies of being both a Black Sabbath and Ozzy Osbourne fan, about why Mothman and Bigfoot and mermaids absolutely exist, Steve! It's endearing and warm, and Eddie loves him so goddamn much. Even more than Bruce, even more than the plants.

What Eddie doesn't expect, though, is for Steve to grow to love the plants, too. In true Steve fashion, he brushes it off when he pinches dead leaves from the Pothos, or when he smiles as he sprays the Boston fern. Eddie knows that, bare minimum, Steve cares about their plant babies and so when he ends up going on a week-long tour with Corroded Coffin, he doesn't worry too much about the little green souls that litter their apartment.

A week is a long time, and Eddie misses home so much that he doesn't announce himself as he barrels through the front door the following Saturday afternoon.

"Yeah, see? You’re doing great."

Eddie freezes in his tracks. Who the fuck is Steve talking to with that whispered voice? The one that, up until now, Eddie presumed was for him and him only. He knows he'd never cheat, but seriously, who's in their apartment?

"Atta girl, look at you! See, I told you, we'd figure this out."

He sets his bags down as quietly as he can, toes off his boots, and slowly pads along the beige carpet to peak around the corner to their living room.

Oh.

Steve's talking to their plants.

Eddie leans against the doorframe and watches as Steve smiles, wide and bright enough to replace the sun shining in through the streaky bay window, while moving from plant to plant, pot to pot, singing their praises and lavishing them with compliments and affirmation.

"You're growing so well!"

"See? I watered you and you popped right back up. You don't have to be dramatic about it."

"When your other dad gets home, we’ve gotta talk about repotting you. You're definitely outgrowing this pot."

Eddie clears his throat and Steve whirls around with a wild look in his eye that reminds him so much of the time he caught Dustin snooping in his campaign materials that he briefly wonders if Dustin and Steve actually are biologically related.

“Oh honey, I’m home!” Eddie singsongs and grins as he shoves away from the door jam, walking over to Steve who’s already rolling his eyes and groaning.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough to feel a little jealous of the Boston fern over here.” Eddie gestures towards the large fern spilling over the sides of its planter. “You never tell me I’m growing so well.”

Steve sets down the watering bottle and pulls Eddie in closer, both arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Eddie melts, letting himself be held and loved. A week really is a long time.

“No, but I do tell you when you’re being dramatic,” he teases, pressing a soft kiss against Eddie’s lips that’s more the touch of smiles than of mouths.

Eddie pulls back just enough to catch Steve’s gaze, warm and comforting. “You do realize that I’ll never let this go, right?”

Never. Always. Forever.

Eddie was never one for absolute language, except when it comes to Steve. He’ll never let him live this down, because he’ll always be here. Forever.

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “I’d sure hope not.”

#steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington x eddie munson #eddie munson x steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #myfic #myblurbs #honestly my anxiety spiked at random so i spent a lot of time today tending my plant babies #and idk but then this happened! #plant dad eddie munson #plant dad steve harrington #steve is like the dad that didn't want the cat and then is the cat's best friend

[morganbritton132]

I really think Eddie would propose to Steve every time they go to a restaurant just to get free dessert

because this man is a menace

Oh man, he would’ve only started doing it after gay marriage was legalized too.

It’s romantic when Eddie tells the waitress at Enzo’s that it’s Steve’s birthday for free tiramisu. It’s their one-year anniversary and even though they can barely afford the meal, Eddie insists that they go. He makes the reservation months in advance, saves up all his money, and even dusts off Wayne’s one good suit so he looks nice.

His car battery unexpectedly dies a few days before and Eddie kinda already knows that he isn’t going to be able to afford the meal and dessert, but he is going to make damn sure Steve gets his fancy Italian cake. And he does, after a whole song and dance that colors Steve’s face pink.

Steve gets the last laugh when it turns out Eddie doesn’t like the coffee flavor of the tiramisu.

It’s sweet when Eddie accompanies him and Hopper to a specialist Dr. Owens recommended for Steve’s worsening symptoms. It’s sweet when Eddie holds his hand while they wait for results and sweeter when he insists in all his grand Eddie Munson fashion that today actually is Steve’s birthday and he deserves – nay, it is his god given right as a hero of this goddamn country  - to have cherry jell-o.

It’s cute when on that same trip, Eddie lies to the hotel staff that Steve just got engaged so they’d send complimentary champagne and chocolate covered strawberries up to their room (though they were bunking with Hopper so not too romantic).

It’s funny when Eddie tells every restaurant they stop at in every city they visit that it’s Steve’s birthday so they can get free ice cream when they’re twenty-somethings traveling the world on a nationwide tour.

It’s so fucking embarrassing when, for no reason other than his own amusement, Eddie tells their waitress that they’re waiting for Steve’s girlfriend to arrive. He says that Steve is going to propose and Eddie is there to capture the moment on his camera, and could they have champagne ready for when she gets there?

No one arrives because there is no girlfriend, no ring, no proposal, and the restaurant staff keep giving Steve sad sympathetic looks. Eddie spends the entire night laughing his ass off and is pleased as punch when the restaurant gives them the champagne for free.

The first time Eddie gets down on one knee at a restaurant, they’ve been legally married for sixteen days. They are not teenagers anymore. They are in their forties but Steve can’t even find it in himself to be mortified at all the people staring at them because Eddie is asking him to marry him (again) and Steve wants to (again). They get a round of applause and a free chocolate cake.

The second time Eddie does it, Steve threatens to kill him. Eddie asks ‘but you’ll marry me’ and Steve angrily says ‘yes, of course, duh.’ They get side-eyed and peach cobbler.

The fifth time Eddie gets down on one knee in the middle of a restaurant, Steve cuts him off half way and says, “Sir, this is a business meeting. I am your co-worker.” 

#love the thought that both the Enzo staff and the nurse at the hospital know when Steve’s birthday is but humors Eddie because he’s clearly #putting in a lot of effort to get Steve a dessert #eddie munson tiktok saga #steve harrington #eddie munson

[hippolotamus]

Eddie’s thumb hovers over the location dropdown in the weather app, just like every day. And just like all those other days he allows himself to click it. The list unfolds as he huffs a humorless chuckle at how much it’s grown.

When he got his first cell, the only place he ever needed was current location. Technically, it’s still the only one he needs. Regardless he’s continued adding to it through the years. Hershey, Virginia Beach, a couple random towns in the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. Fucking Sundance, Wyoming. All because he gave up pretending he doesn’t need to know.

It’s sunny, mid-50s today. A nice break for the time of year. Eddie scrolls through the upcoming week, noting a heavy snowstorm hitting in a few days. His nose wrinkles and he begins to worry his bottom lip between his teeth. Another thing born out of pure habit.

Not for the first time he types out a few messages before deleting them again. Eddie doesn’t even know if he’s got the right number. It’s been nearly three years since they exchanged anything at all. Not since Eddie could have manned up and told Shannon he could be a father, but not a husband. Not her husband, anyway.

He could have just been honest and said what he wanted when she finally decided to show up in her second trimester. He and Evan could have continued building a life together. But Eddie’s never claimed to be smart. Especially when it comes to all the bullshit his own dad drilled into his head about responsibility and honor and god knows what the fuck else. In the end it was too sticky to let go, trapping him like a spider web.

He can’t even say it was worth it because she loves him and they’re making it work for the sake of Christopher. Because why would that have happened? Instead all he got was a tour in Afghanistan, divorce papers (not that he’s surprised or blames her at all) and coming back to an empty house. Well, not totally empty. He’s got a son he’s still getting to know outside of a screen and shitty internet connection. A son he could have been raising with the love of his life this whole time.

Hope your coat’s warm enough, cowboy he types.

“Daddy!” Chris babbles from the floor, using Eddie’s pant leg to pull himself to standing. His toothy smile is on full display while he looks up at Eddie like he hung the goddamn moon and stars.

“Hey there little man.” Eddie tosses his phone to the side in favor of picking up his son and arranging him on his lap. Chris snatches up the yellow car from the next couch cushion, choosing to run it in a small loop over Eddie’s forearm, shoulder and chest. “Where are you off to today? Big race?”

Chris shakes his head vigorously. “Outer space,” he says as though that should have been obvious.

Eddie chuckles to himself. “Of course. How long until liftoff?”

There’s no answer as plastic wheels continue zooming along until Chris decides he’d rather be on the floor again. Eddie loosely assists as his son climbs back down. Some days are more difficult than others, but he tries to follow the physical therapist’s advice to let Chris do as much as he can by himself. She says it won’t do either of them any good in the long run. Eddie can certainly see the wisdom in that even if he’s constantly itching to roll Chris in layers of bubble wrap.

He blindly grabs for his phone, buzzing from the coffee table. “Hello?”

At first there’s complete silence and he winces thinking it’s yet another telemarketer. Before he can check he hears rustling, like someone’s covering the mouthpiece.

“Hello?” He asks again, more insistent this time.

“Uh, sorry. Didn’t think you’d actually pick up.”

Eddie thinks he might drop the phone. Or throw up. Maybe both? Probably both.

“Evan?”

tagged by the lovely and talented @monsterrae1 @spotsandsocks for Inspiration Saturday (go check their posts, I’m very excited) Instead of working on anything current, I wrote this instead. Not sure I have any actual plans to expand it, I just had to get it out of my system, y’know? So, bon appetit or whatever 💖

no pressure tagging (lmk if you want added or removed) @stereopticons @this-is-bwr @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @wikiangela @tizniz @theotherbuckley @elvensorceress @apothecarose @barbiediaz @buckaroosheart @buddierights @chaosandwolves @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @eowon @fortheloveofbuddie @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @honestlydarkprincess @hoodie-buck @indestructibleheart @jesuisici33 @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @loserdiaz @spaceprincessem @statueinthestone @steadfastsaturnsrings @the-likesofus @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @vanillahigh00 @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @wildlife4life @your-catfish-friend @epicbuddieficrecs

#evan buckley #eddie diaz #christopher diaz #alternate timeline #eddie is a great dad #hippo writes #buddie wip #maybe???? #buddie ficlet #possibly??? #idk #inspiration saturday #fic: you can plan for a change in the weather and time #divorced eddie diaz

[batneko]

bowuigi rock star x roadie AU.

The Mario bros are still plumbers by trade, but they're friends with the guy who manages the nearby concert venue and often get roped in to help out during big shows. They're both stronger than they look, and have plenty of experience at repairs even aside from plumbing. And Luigi has always been good with machines so he takes to the new equipment with ease. Though Mario is better with people and makes friends faster, Luigi is the one that everyone comes to rely on when things go wrong.

At a concert a few years ago Mario got into an actual physical fight with the star, but since the guy was already well-known as an asshole Mario's friend pretended to "fire" him and then brought him back to help out again next week, no big deal. Just can't work the next Bowser concert, that's all.

Bowser got famous when he was only eighteen, which means he never really had to grow up. He's spent the last ten years getting his way and experiencing no consequences (as long as he punched down). However now that his son is old enough to talk about how he feels and what he wants, Bowser is starting to realize he's been absent at best and a phenomenally bad example, and wants to start being better. Too bad he has no idea how.

His star is also starting to fade, and he feels conflicted about that. He's had enough hits now that as long as he manages his portfolio well and does enough stupid celebrity appearances to keep himself in the public eye, he'll never have to work again. But he likes performing, he likes rock, he doesn't want to be the "cameo appearance by" guy. He's not even thirty yet, dammit!

So he's doing this show at a slightly-smaller venue he hadn't ever intended to return to (some little guy with a mustache tried to step to him last time), and trying to figure out how much he can cut down on touring and still be able to afford the nanny and all the stuff he likes, and some intern just told him "my grandma loves you!" and then one of the subwoofers explodes and the replacement won't work for some reason and the concert is in twenty goddamn minutes and Bowser is going to lose it.

But out of nowhere another little guy with a mustache (not the same one as before? that one got fired, right? this one's cuter anyway) turns up and fixes the replacement and gets everything back on track so efficiently that Bowser is on stage ready to go with ten minutes to spare.

Come to think of it, that same little guy had been the one organizing the roadies to unload all the equipment earlier. And Bowser's pretty sure he was running the sound check. Does he do everything around here?

In the middle of his concert as Bowser is about to start a rather raunchy song, he suddenly says, "This one goes out to the guy who fixed my subwoofer and saved the show. Come to my dressing room after and I'll thank you properly." There's laughter from the audience (plausibly-deniable bisexuality has been a part of rock music for as long as there's been rock music) and Bowser adds, "I'm not joking," and then starts the song.

After the concert, Luigi comes to his dressing room.

True to his word, Bowser is all set to get down to business, but it turns out there was some work that needed running by him and everyone figured Luigi had earned some goodwill so they made him go. He didn't even watch the concert, he was too busy working behind the scenes.

Of course this only comes out after Luigi was halfway seduced to go ahead and let an asshole rock star blow him, but Bowser is so embarrassed at the misunderstanding that he throws him out into the hallway, breathless and disheveled. A lot of people see him and a few people caught Bowser's dedication, so by the end of the night everyone assumes it happened anyway.

And that was just the Friday show. There's one more to get through tomorrow.

#bowuigi #luigi #bowser #super mario bros #luwser #bowigi #green shell #suggestive

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

I'm thinking about season one Steve, again. He never gave me the preppy popular vibe to me. I knew people like Tommy and Carol in high school. They weren't popular. They were outcasts who sat away from other people and exhibited gross weird behavior like propping their nasty feet up on the table. In season one, they mention that the game is about to start, but if Tommy and Steve were on the team, shouldn't they already be ready, you know? Maybe it was a different game. Did they ever actually say that he was on the basketball team, or is that something we just assumed? I know they said he was on the swim team. And I know that they showed him playing basketball in season 2, but that didn't necessarily mean he was on the team.

Anyway, I think because Steve was rich with good hair, nice clothes, and good with the ladies that people thought he was this asshole jock who bullied people. I mean, occasionally, he would show up to parties and show off his keg king skills, but for the most part, I think he was as much a loner as Jonathan was. He had two friends, and that was it. People called him king, and so with that title came the expectations of knowing everyone. Everyone wanted his attention, even Robin, but they never even bothered to try to get to know him. They just put that ball into his court. For the most part, though, I think he was this dorky outcast who just wanted to goof off with his friends and wanted so badly to stop feeling lonely even when he was around other people. I think he stopped feeling lonely when Dustin came into his life. Anyway, I just think what people know about Steve is just assumptions that they made about him like they made about Eddie. I like that in season 4 that Eddie admitted he made that assumption about Steve, that he was wrong, and that he told Steve that he was a good dude. It's why I love Steddie so goddamn much. Not even Robin said it out loud. I mean, I love platonic Stobin, but I hated it when she said that he was such an asshole for not paying attention to her in class. I mean, I get that she was jealous because of Tammy, but come on, does that mean just because he was popular that he has to know everyone in the goddamn school? In a way, though. I do like it because it shows that Robin isn't perfect, and I think later she sort of realizes it in the bathroom, but I don't think she ever apologized out loud for making that assumption about Steve like everyone else does. She also did say that people like her also wanted his attention. There was just something about Steve. I mean, yeah, he is a bitch but I love that about him but then again so is Robin, so is Eddie. I think that's why I always have them hanging out because, in a way, they're so much better for him than Tommy and Carol ever were. There's not this expectation of being perfect or being popular and Steve can be as bitchy as he wants with them because they'll bitch right back. It's their love language. To sum it up, Steve was an outcast in his own way. He just had a big house, rich parents, and women wanting to be with him. And I'm just really tired of Steve having to keep apologize for that. He apologized for the theater thing and what he said to Jonathan, and then he risked his life for them. He has nothing to apologize for anymore. People keep making him do that in fanfictions too, and it's so annoying. There needs to be a Steve Harrington apology tour in season 5 where everyone apologizes to him instead of the other way around.

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington character study #steve harrington s1 #stranger things s1 #robin buckley #platonic stobin #eddie munson #steddie #rueleigh's thoughts

[be-my-ally]

The Lisa-Marie

Big Bunny + The Return Flight (in case you want to catch up!)

Warnings: 18+, exhibitionism (public rehearsal, but no-one else is watching/or sees), elvis is a panty thief for no reason other than it’s now totally canon in my head that he continually stole knickers, fingering, mentions of drug use + abuse, oral (v receiving, p mentioned), jealousy, p in v sex, the briefest mention of a gun threat, references to elvis’ ill health. this is somehow the least-bunny fun + plottiest, while also the smuttiest so uhhh enjoy the angst at the end?

Director Elvis is linked where the scene goes in the middle of this, however there have been some minor adjustments to the opening + closing paragraphs to make it fit *just right* and so they’ve been inserted here. 

wc: 12k

Pls forgive me for the longest author note ever:

I went waaaay too far into attempting to make the timeline totally accurate; to the extent that I was noting down what city each night when i wasn’t even referencing them but honestly it was stressing me out so much that I gave up and removed a lot of the references - so this is *mostly* accurate in the general tour dates and vibes but not entirely because … this isn’t a biography, it’s smut with a lil teeny weeny bit of plot. 

Confession time! I was and am super unhappy with The Return Flight, there was so much in it that I was excited to share but I think my writing is off and I’m not super sure why, which affected my motivation for this A LOT so apologies for the fact this took a literal months. But hopefully you’ll all think it was worth it! And hopefully a lesser wait for the fourth and final part. 

Anyway, I might return Elvis onto the Big Bunny plane for a little spin-off fun but for now, enjoy bunny still being referred to as Bunny even though, by half-way through this, she is no longer a bunny. 

October 1974. 

You’re awake before him, gently shaking his shoulder as he groaned into the fur comforter that he didn’t want to wake up yet. He eventually shoves you hard enough that you decide it’s probably safer just to leave him as he is, pulling yourself together and redressing instead - he’s still got his eyes closed when you slip out. Ten minutes later you get a note passed to you with details about where to meet them for the pre-show rehearsal but you don’t actually get the chance to see him again, too distracted with dealing with all the matters of the disembarkation and cleaning. After you’re done you change as quickly as you possibly can, ignoring the questions from the other girls about where you’re going - practically sprinting to catch a cab.

He’s already on the stage when you walk in, pacing about - blocking the show as best they can in preparation to allow for the lights crew to have some idea of where he might be at any moment. He looks marvellous - absolutely gorgeous, his hair back but essentially left to do what it likes, all fluffy and soft looking. Eyes bright underneath his tinted glasses. He’s dressed in a white shirt, cuffs like a pirate, damp see-through sweat patches evident when he raises his arms, filigree studded belt, huge against his stomach, blue stones glinting in the lights. You feel your mouth water and tummy start to flip just at the sight of him. He smiles when he sees you, with your tiny little halter dress on, chilly in the cold air of the auditorium at the venue. The breeze causes you to wrap an arm around yourself a little self-consciously as he waves you closer to the stage. You're practically leaning on the edge when he kneels down in front of you and you get a sudden flash of what it must feel like to be a girl at his concert. Someone who hadn't had the luxury of falling asleep beside him, or the feel of his palms against theirs. The feeling of being forced to look up at him, his head backlit by the lights, a halo like he's the goddamn messiah. That feeling of desperately pining for a single moment of his attention. 

“Ah-ha! lil Bun-Bun! C’mon up here,” He puts an arm down before retracting it, looking you over more carefully, a note of stern shock in his tone,

 “Good lord! That might be more r’vealing than your lil bunny get-up. Uh - here!” He gropes around the floor for his jacket before he thrusts it at you, and you look at it with amusement, it’s a rainbow. Rainbow fringe. It’s truly one of the most preposterous things you’ve ever seen in your life. He grumbles as he holds it out, 

“Don’t need every man in here to be starin’ at you. Got work to do - don’t need ‘em bein’ distracted.” You don’t think you’re particularly scantily clad, you’re certainly showing a fair amount of leg but you’re far more covered up than Playboy enterprises would like you to be had you been on shift. But still, it was chilly, so you shrug it on gratefully. The soft leather caresses your arms, encasing you in his thick scent, it’s heavy on your shoulders and big enough that the fringe tassel tickles your thigh. 

“Uh Hi, Where-“ You wonder if you should even ask, “Where’d this come from?” You shake your arms out, making the fringe dance. 

“Oh - it was a gift,” He grins at you, lips all crooked in his sheer delight, “You like it?” He clearly loves it. So you lean into the absurdity and realise that what you’re about to say wasn’t even really a lie. 

“Uh. You know what, yeah I do,” You giggle as you shimmy a little making the strands swing. “I love it.” He looks at you fondly before he leans over the edge of the stage, tugging you up with a grunt. 

“Glad you could make it doll, been waiting for you.” You smile back at him, pleased as anything that he’s laying on the charm but that underneath you can still sense the sincerity in his voice. 

“Thank you for inviting me.” He pulls you close to him and you brace yourself with a hand on his belt, feeling the weight of the buckle against your fingertips. He reaches down to grasp your hand, pulling it up to press a kiss against it. It’s intimate and gentlemanly and you feel like you’re in a period drama, feeling your chest heave as your breath catches in your throat at the movement, and you’re helpless to do anything but gaze into his eyes. You glance down, eyes catching on the wide white band on his wrist, just above his diamond encrusted ‘Elvis’ bracelet. 

You stroke his wrist gently before looking up at him with a questioning brow raised. He kicks his foot out to show you that beneath his gently flaring trousers there’s a matching white band on each of his ankles. 

“It, uh, it mimics the weight of the ‘suit, gets me used to it for the performing.” He flicks a wrist, “And, uh, gotta try and get some of this weight off.” He pats his stomach, gripping the side harshly, “No-one wants to see a big doughy ol’ Elvis.” He shakes his wrists at you, and you’re mortified at the fact that it makes you squeeze your thighs, drool pooling in your mouth forcing you to swallow hard. Something about the way the rings on his fingers glint under the stage lights, the way the buckle makes the tiniest little metallic clang, feels akin to being shown a hidden sliver of skin. Makes you think all sorts of things. Of the weight of them around his wrists, of the possibility of them around yours, weighing you down, wrapped around your ankles too, making you heavy and pliable. Or his belt around your middle, the huge buckle pinning you in whatever position he chose. You don’t realise how low your eyelids have slid at this line of thinking until he laughs, 

“God - you got them dirty thoughts written all over your face Bunny, this is a respectable r’hearsal, don’t you go getting any ideas now.” He wags a finger at you, you feel like you’re being hypnotised watching it.

“Go on now - hop over there for me, sit yourself down, just watch the show baby.” He slaps your ass, causing you to yelp as he catches your bare thigh, while he grips your upper arm and ‘helps’ to lower you down gently, almost missing his huff of laughter in response. You have to take a second after you're on the ground forcing a deep breath feeling your heartbeat between your thighs. 

You take a seat where he’d pointed, content to try and settle down and watch him practice. It’s gorgeous to watch, he struts about the stage, breaking into gospel every now and again, making you smile at the clear little flashes of joy on his face. You’d considered if it was going to be boring, contemplated even bringing a magazine with you but now you were here you can’t imagine being able to concentrate on anything but him.  Every now and again he cracks a joke, changing the lyrics to something dirty and tossing you a wink, laughing back at the boys who all join in like a pack of wild hyenas. It’s different to how he is in private, yet shockingly the same - there’s flashes of the insecurity you caught on the last flight, a quietness to him while he waits for a song to be set up or a wire to be fixed. But also an exaggerated boyishness to him, playing the jester for men who don’t seem to be aware he’s putting it on.

He calls a break after you’ve been there about an hour, and he slides himself off the stage to walk over to you. You were going to try and play it cool but you can’t stop yourself from gushing at him; 

“You sound wonderful. I can’t wait to see the show tonight.” He smiles, a little bashfully, 

“Yeah? I can see you wigglin’ your yittle hips from all the way over there,” He narrows his eyes at you, crinkles forming as his high cheekbones move, “ ‘just wonderful’, ‘s that all I am?”  

“Well you’re not - ” You squirm a little under his line of questioning and consistent stare, suddenly feeling a bit too hot in his jacket, “- not bad to look at. You’re so different out here than on the plane.” 

“In a good way?” You hum back a non-committal noise and though his brow wrinkles a little he lets it go. Instead leaning back on the chair in front of you, feet crossing between your legs. He folds his arms across his chest, your eyes track the bands on his wrists again and when you look up he’s smirking at you watching him. You can’t take it any longer and his smile grows wider watching you shrug his jacket back off, letting it hang over the back of the chair, fringe tickling your arms as it falls, 

“Let’s make this more interesting for you huh, must be boring having to wait for all this - ‘n I can see you’re all fired up for me doll.” You look around, but he’s blocking your view forcing you to focus on him even more, as if he wasn’t already the only thing you could see. 

“Oh no, it’s plenty fascinating enough El honestly,” He shakes his head, magnanimously as if he’s doing you a favour, 

“No, no, must be boring for an exciting lil girl like you.” He taps his chin almost pantomime-esque in its overdramatic nature. 

“Hmm… what shall we do to keep it entertaining.” You squirm silently begging him to stop drawing your attention to his wrists. He bends down, unstrapping the weights from his ankles, 

“They’re gonna be a bit big on you. But still,” He kneels down, like he’s the prince and you’re Cinderella, tapping your foot to make you lift it up for him. He slips it onto your ankle, letting it fall down over the top of your foot as the weight drags it down. You wiggle your foot - it’s not particularly heavy, you could definitely still walk and run in them - as was probably their intended use. But they made you feel very … aware, made you notice whenever you wanted to move your leg. He grabs your right leg now, doing the same, placing it back down when he was finished, your legs wide. You glance down at him, realising that your dress was certainly too short for this. You try to close your legs but he stops you with a hand to your knee. 

“No, no, darlin’, leave ‘em where they are. That’s gonna be your job ok baby? You’re gonna keep these yittle legs spread, and when you try to wiggle around again these-“ He taps one of the weights “ ‘ll remind you to keep still.” You hiss back at him, 

“Elvis - someone’s gonna, you gotta get up - they’re all gonna think we’re up to no good, don’t want - I don’t wanna get you in trouble.” He grins up from between your legs, spreading them further. You cringe a little, feeling the air now brush against your uncovered underwear, feel your wetness start to drool onto the fabric despite the embarrassment. 

“Ain’t gonna be no trouble ‘round here little one. ‘Member I’m in charge.” He takes a second to leer at you, and your thighs twitch at him staring straight up your skirt. Finally, he stands up, using your thighs for balance, clutching at them on his way up, you gasp at the firm grip. He leans down over you, one arm bracketed on the back of your chair, and the sudden scent of him, stronger than what was lingering on his jacket almost overpowers you - his cologne almost too much, like walking past a men’s locker room. He leans down to murmur in your ear, his other hand going down to brush against your hip, feeling through your dress for the waistband of your panties.  

“C’mon Bunny slip ‘em off, let me have ‘em as a good luck charm. I haven’t got any of yours yet.” Your legs slip a little closer together and while he looks down and smirks he allows it, 

“You got a collection?” You ask shocked, tilting your chin up at him, he grins back at you, boyishly and amused ignoring the question. 

“C’mon! Hurry up, gotta get back to work in a second baby, want you all bare - so its nice and easy for you to slip a lil hand up there, want you to rub yerself every time you like what ‘m doin, ‘till you’re all silly with it. Okay doll?” He says it like its a totally sane request, and you have to wonder if he’s of completely sound mind. You glance around, double checking that the building is practically empty, and where there are people that they’re all preoccupied with the stage rather than glancing back at you sat in the middle of the row a few lines behind the mafia. You roll your eyes, heart going almost a little too fast, but still obediently lift your hips up to tug your panties down and off, they catch on the weight on the way down, 

“No need to be shy doll, I’ve seen it all before.” He winks, as he bends down to pick them up, glancing straight up your skirt as he does. You flinch a little at the sight of them in his hand, if you’d known Elvis was gonna be taking them home you’d have put on something a little sexier, but you can’t imagine that any change could have made his face more gleeful, as he stares down at the wet spot on them before slipping them straight into his pocket.

 “You ‘member what you’re meant to be doin’ now.” He whispers in your ear, pressing what would look like an otherwise fairly chaste kiss to your cheek, before sauntering back up to the stage.

 You nervously fumble the hem of your dress, delicately sliding a hand up, trying not to noticeably flinch as your fingers brush over yourself. You wonder if it wouldn’t have made more sense to slip your arm down the side of the wide arm-hole of the dress, more subtle perhaps? But all you can hope is that the the way the chairs are placed in front of you obscures your actions should anyone look back. From anyone that wasn’t up high on the stage. You can practically feel his laser focus up your skirt, you’re far enough away that you’re sure he can’t see anything in detail, perhaps not even the way your slickness glistens against your skin, but just the gentle motion of your fingers teasing yourself. There’s a clang as the metal inside the cuff on your ankle knocks against the chair leg and you freeze, anxiously glancing around to check no one had heard. Elvis’ head had whirled around at the noise from where he’s been talking to someone at the side of the stage and you can see the way his face contorts into a knowing smirk. 

You didn’t think you’d be into this level of wanton exhibitionism, but the sudden fear that had jumped through you had translated straight into excitement, and you could feel the pulse of arousal swirling with the butterflies in your stomach. You brush your fingers more confidently, rolling your hips with the motion, not even really aware of how much your body was moving, but simply going with it. Your eyes briefly slip closed as you rub a singular finger down your self, trying to build the anticipation, but you can’t resist moving your hand to play with your clit when your vision clears and you witness him moving about the stage - dancing, thrusting. He pauses while they reset something - the mic perhaps, or the lights, and you can feel the thrum of your climax growing; the fear of being spotted, the sheer desire for him, the feel of your feet firmly planted on the floor, weights holding them down, enough to bring you closer and closer. 

He starts singing again but if someone had had a gun to your head though you wouldn’t have been able to tell them what, and as you start to move your fingers again you make eye contact with him, swallowing a moan as you watch him attempt to surreptitiously adjust himself. You should feel embarrassed, you think, but instead a sudden boldness creeps over you at the evidence of his undivided attention, and you instead spread your legs wider, your skirt riding into the little roll of your stomach, completely exposing yourself. You run your fingers against yourself, feeling them slip as you gather wetness and drag it up, reducing the friction on your clit when you finally let your finger brush over it again. 

Elvis is stood still now, ostensibly staying put so they could manually hold the lights for him to sing a ballad, but in reality in the perfect position to watch you. You watch his face flush as he misses a note, watching you finally dip your finger into your practically dripping entrance. You’re made away of the weight on your feet when your legs try to jerk and your body compensates by crunching in on yourself a little. Making it startlingly obvious to anyone watching, hopefully just Elvis, what you’ve just done. 

You let his voice wash over you, and your eyes close as you go to add a second finger, thumb moving to tease your clit with little circling touches. Your climax comes over you suddenly and unexpectedly, a slightly unplanned harder touch directly over your clitoris and the combination of your fingers curling inside yourself sending shockwaves down your spine and belly. You continue to touch yourself through it - dragging it out for a moment. Until you just know that if you push yourself any further you’re going to scream and you have to slow the pace, gently stroking yourself as you slowly come down from the high. Your head had fallen back and with a little effort you manage to bring it back around, shifting yourself upright as you do. 

When you make eye contact he winks, mimics licking his fingers, and you look down at your own sticky pair, before following his mimed instruction. You meet his eyes again and watch him trail off mid-sentence as his chest heaves taking you in, squinting under his glasses to try and focus on your fingers leaving your mouth. You make sure for a second that you let your tongue peek out, watching him gulp in response.  Before hastily rubbing your hand against your dress, thankful for the colourful pattern that hides all sin. He sets the microphone back onto its stand, slowly, deliberately. Then, he motions you to the stage, and when you make no attempt to move, fear shooting through you that you’re going to be leaving a wet patch behind, he makes the request vocal. 

“C’mere Bunny, can’t see you all the way over there.” You rapidly close your legs, weights knocking against each other, and sit stock straight as several of the boy’s heads spin to look at you. Elvis breaks into song, “C’mon and be my little good luck charm.”  While pointing to a spot in the front row. You swallow hard, trying to make your limbs cooperate again, but it just looks like pure defiance, and he’s frowning at you when you try to plead with your eyes. 

His tone changes, “Ain’t gonna ask again honey,” You flinch as several other heads in front of you turn around to stare. You trip a little as you stand, forgetting about the extra weight on your ankles and when you look up Elvis’ smirking straight at you. 

“Can take them off now baby, leave ‘em on the chair, someone’ll clean it up later.” He winks and you suck in a gasp as you do as he directed, the implication of someone having to clean up both the weights and the seat of the chair. You can feel the heat in your cheeks at the complete lack of secrecy, with your mind all muddled you don’t have the capacity to consider that the other people in the room wouldn’t understand the double entendre. 

 “There we are, right there Bunny,” He points at the same spot again and you gratefully stumble down there, collapsing into it. You can feel your cheeks blazing and you clasp your thighs together, trying to tell yourself to just watch Elvis and not pay any attention to how wet you still are, or the embarrassment of being ordered around in front of everyone. 

You sit there primly, for the rest of the rehearsal, ignoring your newfound nakedness under your skirt - unable to draw your eyes off of his wrists, his waist, now you know how those innocuous little white bands feel. Waiting to be dismissed, sent home - although you hope that you might get another invitation. He finishes, stripping off the weights as he’s laughing and thanking the sound guys - although shouting back at them as he stalks across the stage to where you’re sat to the side of the front row.

“That interference needs to be cut by tonight, it’s messin’ with my ears, I don’t care if you have to go out and buy a whole new fucking system - just get it done.” Despite his harsh words by the time he’s kneeling in front of you he’s smiling slightly bashfully. His eyes crinkling at the edges as he mutters to you - 

“Don’t know why I keep ‘em around.” He offers you his hand, pulling with his suddenly weightless feeling arms to yank you up with him, clearly overcompensating without the weight, causing you to stumble with the force of it. His arm comes around to steady your waist. He stands there, legs spread and solid, holding you to him, brushing your hair off your neck to whisper in your ear. 

“Wanna come back with me, honey? C’mon baby,” He’s pleading with you, entreating you to follow him, babying tone convincing you as if you even needed encouragement. “How - How’d you feel about, I got some things we could watch, we could, could - I sure would love to tape ya, baby.” You lean back, brow furrowing as your mind runs through what he’s suggesting. 

(Director Elvis + Model Bunny)

But still, after some consideration you agree, and before long you’re relaxing on the bed with him, taking in the moments of quiet before he’s got to head out into the screaming crowds, performing for the pleasure of the girls and women. He’s magnificent in the flesh, masterful in his ability to command the ultimate attention of the audience. But still, as wonderful as it is to watch him, rhinestones glinting in the stage lights, you have to admit to yourself that you much preferred him in the somewhat faux intimacy of the rehearsal. 

By the time you’re all filing up the steps to the plane once more it’s night again, looking forward to a short day-break for you all after the busy past couple of days. Elvis is exhausted, and though he’s gentle with you still you can tell he’s had enough. He wearily waves to the other girls, calling you over to ask for some food before disappearing.  You push the cart into where he’s ensconced himself in the bedroom to discover him in the bathroom - door open, and you can’t help but take a peek. Your eyes catch on the little pill bottles lined up on the side, the man himself shaking seemingly every bottle possible into his palm until there was a little cocktail of medication contained in his hand. He takes them with a swig of water and jumps when he makes eye contact with you in the mirror. 

“Jeez honey, make a noise next time.” His tone isn’t harsh, it’s not annoyed - but it is solid, serious. You frown, the floor was carpeted but the rickety wheels of the cart still made some noise. 

“Oh, uh, sorry - didn’t mean to scare you.” You laugh a little bit in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. He doesn’t respond. “Uh, I’ve got, there’s hamburgers, and sandwiches and uh-“ He’s wiping his hands on a hand towel when he comes out of the bathroom, throwing it back onto the floor behind him when they’re dry. 

“S’ok Bunny, that’s good. Just-just leave it over here.” He sits on the edge of the bed, pointing to a spot within arm’s reach. He’s in the tracksuit again, out of the jumpsuit from the show, out of the the sharp outfits you were now used to seeing him in. But he still looks appealing, if not moreso now. Soft, approachable and above all else - cuddly. He’s evidently exhausted, face pale after removing the stage makeup, and he shuffles back on the bed. He’s starting to slur his words a little as he reaches for a sandwich, 

“Come. Come sit here baby… come sit here with me.” He pats the side of the bed next to him as he shuffles further up. You do so and he tucks a hand into the crease of your stomach and thigh, thumb brushing in circles, a gently squeezing grip. 

“Here.” He holds out a sandwich for you and you take it gratefully, “Gotta…feed you up while I got the chance.” His head is starting to slip forward as his eyes fall closed. You pat his arm, leaning over to take the parchment out of his hand. He grips your wrist, forcing you to put your sandwich down too as he slides down the bed to lie down, tugging you into him. 

“S’ok El, just, just close your eyes. You did so good today.” He hums, a little pleased noise like he’s somehow not used to being praised still. He pulls you closer, arm wrapping under and around you, pulling you tight to him. 

“That’s it Bunny, that’s it, just - just gonna rest my eyes for a moment, doll. Be…be ready for action in a mo’ - just, ju-“ You shush him, his eyes were fluttering closed, arm clenching around you and you felt it relax a second later as he drops off into sleep. 

There’s a few more flights scheduled, but they’re busy ones - short flights with barely enough time to get the men fed and watered, let alone enjoy any other kind of extracurricular activities - there’s a hasty blowjob and an attempt for the world’s quickest round of intercourse and that’s it.

There’s a break for a little while before he cancels the next flight on Big Bunny so you only see him once more, and that time he barely acknowledges you; exhausted from a show he locks himself in the bedroom and doesn’t appear until the plane is touching down. You wave goodbye to him, a little melancholy and hating yourself for wishing that he make some grand gesture to prove it had all meant something, instead he winks at you as he leaves down the steps, whispering a

“Thanks for takin’ such good care of me, Bunny.” As he went. 

That’s the last you hear from him. For little over six months you hear nothing else. You’re almost immediately thrust back into the reality of the normal world and you’re kept busy enough that he doesn’t pass through your mind too often. 

Occasionally, when you see a tour announcement pop up in the tabloids, or from a fan-club membership that you totally didn’t take out in a pitiful attempt to keep up-to-date with his life, you wonder about him. About whether you were a bit of fun to flirt with, to tease, to sleep with for a couple of days - a distraction from the real life, like all the bunnies were intended to be, or if he’d meant any of what he’d said. The thing is, even if you were curious, you could never know - despite being so intimate, so close to him; had he lied? Did he help every girl through a panic attack with meditation? There no longer felt like six degrees of separation between you, no longer like you were travelling in similar circles, there now felt more like a hundred degrees; what were you supposed to do; ring the operator in Memphis and ask for Elvis’ number? Pull Hef aside on the next flight and ask him? Don’t be so ridiculous, so clingy you tell yourself, disgusted at your inability to let it go. 

Time passes, as it does, and though you somehow feel like you can’t escape him, ultimately you have. Months have passed and you’re busy - being promised a promotion, training a couple of new girls and it means that you don’t get to go home for what feels like weeks.

 You finally get back to your apartment, relieved to be there for at least a week, with a stack of mail waiting as tall as your arm. You take your time enjoying the peace and by the evening it feels like you can relax for the first time in a long while, glass of wine poured, comfortable little short pyjama set instead of the bunny-approved corset or dress. You’re just starting to open the first of what looks like several catalogues of clothes you’ll never get a chance to wear when the phone rings. 

You glance over at the clock, surprised that anyone would be calling you at half eleven at night, when as far as you’re aware none of your friends or family even know you’re home yet. You consider not answering, too content with your night, but it rings insistently so you drag the handset closer, accepting the call. 

“Fuckin’ finally,” You’re immediately taken aback by the annoyed exasperation of the voice on the other end of the line, 

“Where’ve you been?” You start to protest, to question who on earth is questioning you and explain that you’ve been working but the voice doesn’t give you the chance. 

“Listen, Boss’ got a new plane, he’s uh, calling it the Lisa-Marie,” he shouts to someone on his end, “I don’t know man, thought it would sweeten the deal if she knew he’d already named it! Like - ain’t that what you’re supposed to do if you’re negotiatin’ - let ‘em know you have a name?” Right. So, Elvis. Someone is calling about Elvis’ plane. You’re trying to comprehend that when he continues,

 “Sorry. Anyway, he wants you on it. He won’t hear otherwise.” He pauses, “Permanently. On call whenever and wherever he needs to fly,” As if he can sense this isn’t the most attractive prospect, “but you’ll uh, all expenses paid for, apartment in Memphis, the whole shebang, you’ll be well taken care of.” You take a second to process that, 

“Uh, I don’t quite know what to say - do, do you need to know right away?” He chuckles down the phone at you, 

“Well - uh, no, but, he’s goin’ on tour soon and we need the flights staffed by then so….” He trails off, and you know from your limited experience with Elvis and his methods that this means, actually yes, we do need to know right now, and we’re not actually giving you a choice. You take a deep breath, still confused as to why you’re getting this call out of the blue, thinking that you’re going to regret it if you do, regret it if you don’t. 

“Oh, uh, ok fine - look I’ll be at one of the offices tomorrow; I’ll give you a call and you can fax me over the information for the dates and things?” 

“No need, we need you by July.” You pause, that’s… barely a month away, 

“Ok, I’ve got a three week notice period though, I can’t just -” 

“We’ll take care of it with Hugh direct.” You laugh incredulously - is that how they think it works? 

“Hugh Hefner isn’t my boss - how high up do you think I am? I’m a jet bunny for god's sake.” There’s silence on the other end of the line as if they'd expected you to feel cowed, or awed by their famous friend. You can hear them whispering before the voice returns, just as confident as before; 

“Well, we’ll take care of it.” You frown but you’re not sure what else to do but agree - at least this way of something falls through you can claim you had no clue about any of this. 

“Ok, but you’ll have to ask for Ellen at the office and I’ve got a notice of -“ You’re cut off by him, 

“We’ll make it happen.” Well, you couldn’t say more than what you’d said - you’ll just have to hope they do enough that it all gets sorted somehow, and without totally burning all your bridges. 

“Right, well then, -” 

“Tickets for your flight on the 26th June to Memphis will be waiting at the airport. Someone’ll pick you up there.” 

“Uh ok, um, well then that’s -” 

“Thanks again, you’re a doll, bye!” The phone hangs up and you’re left holding the receiver wondering what on earth you’ve just agreed to. 

—— 

It turns out you’ve agreed to a stewardess job pretty similar to any other. You’ve got a cute new little uniform, and it was indeed little, sleeveless and hem skimming the middle of your thighs but Elvis had indeed fulfilled his promise - it was stretchy. With a scarf around your neck and tall boots it almost didn’t feel much different to your bunny outfits. In fact it all would have felt quite similar if it weren’t for the sudden increase in responsibility you were facing. There was another girl who worked on board here and there, but whether as a cost-saving measure (although you couldn’t fathom the necessity considering the gold sinks on the plane) or simply the knowledge that one stewardess and the pilots were enough for a plane of this size you weren’t often put on the plane together. It meant that you were often working alone and solely responsible for the cabin. It was certainly an adjustment, you’d been safety trained before - of course - but you’d never really had to use it; the focus of your jet bunny role had pretty much been to cater to the whims of the people on board. Like a Barbie doll you’d had too many jobs to count, and the responsibility to look good while doing so. On the plane you’d had to be waitresses, dancers, chefs and bartenders but less so a safety officer. 

And it’s so strange, you’d not been expecting much but you had been anticipating at least an acknowledgement, or something? But instead on the first flight Elvis collapses in a seat, clearly out of his mind and ignores you completely, There’s this, somewhat odd, hierarchy evident and you somehow just know that you shouldn’t approach him like this - trusting that his needs are being catered for by his entourage. But you can’t help but glance over at him, inspecting that he looks paler than before - almost sallow-like in comparison to the fit tan of the first time you’d seen him in the flesh. So you do your job, and see them on and off the plane with nary a word exchanged between the two of you. 

You fall into this habit pretty quickly, flight after flight. When he’s awake his eyes skim over you, unfocused and never stopping for long. You hate yourself for how upset it makes you, he hadn’t owed you anything and yet you still feel like you’d signed up for something under false pretences. It keeps you up at night, wondering how you could have been so stupid - you’d given up a stable salary, a life and an exciting one at that, for this - for him. With every month that passes you’re more and more aware that you’re creeping towards your next birthday and the chance to return to Playboy in any capacity is dwindling. They aren’t shy about declaring there’s an age limit. You feel like you’re trapped, in a never-ending cycle - flight, sort the plane while they’re at a concert, flight, fitful sleep in a hotel, flight, flight, flight. 

But then, like magic, two weeks before your birthday - two weeks before the deadline you’d come up with in your head to quit he notices you. He’d been looking better for a few days, on an upward swing or so it would seem, and seems significantly more aware than he had been.  He almost does a double-take, as if seeing you for the first time. It’s then that, suddenly, Georgia - the other girl, starts to come on board with you a lot more frequently - taking care of the other guys while Elvis not so surreptitiously pulls you into his excessively decorated bedroom.

It’s not the first time you’ve been in there, you clean the damn place after all, but it’s the first time that you’re able to look at it with fresh eyes, through the lens of the awe of a girl being invited back there as a guest. You feel the bend of the fibres of the plush carpet underfoot, against the smooth sole of your boot. 

He sits down, patting his thigh, “Give me your lil footsie baby, them little footsie sooties, put ‘em up here.” You look at him slightly askance, fondly, but still do as he asks, putting first one foot up on his lap, letting him unzip your boot, tugging it off and then your other one when he taps your ankle. He looks up at you, as he holds onto your foot, and you know you’re both getting flashbacks to that first flight, when he’d tugged your heels off, got caught in your pantyhose, the joy of that first time. He grips your wrist, forcing you to kneel onto and then shuffle across the bed as he tugs you while sliding back himself.  Pulling you're both placed far enough to the headboard that he sinks down into a lying position and drags you down with him. 

“Elvis - I, I, I don’t know what -“ 

“Shhh baby, don’t worry about anything, just, just feel it with me - you feel that?” He shifts to hold your hand, “Feel that energy? ‘S right between us darlin’ girl, right there.” You’re not really sure what he’s talking about, but you had been feeling the thrum of a connection, willing him to pick up on your silent desires, so you can’t deny a strength of feeling there. 

“I feel it.” He hums at you, happily, still holding onto your hand, threading his fingers through yours and pressing his nose against your cheek. He nuzzles at you for a moment, starting off gentle and slow, before rolling you into him and catching your mouth with his. He’s sure of himself, pressing himself skilfully against you - you’re more than aware that this is a skill he’s nurtured, learnt - been judged upon, almost as much as his singing and it shows, it feels no different to the first time you’d kissed. A masterclass in the right moves, just the right amount of bite, just the right amount of tongue, and it makes you buck into him. You’re suddenly desperate for him to break out of the cultured practiced mould, feel him lose control and slip. You gasp, trying to provoke it in him, biting down on his lip a fraction too hard. He shifts his grip to your neck, clutching it to pull you back a little, 

“Careful, honey, careful.” You can feel his lips move against your skin as he murmurs and it makes you shiver a little at the tickle of his breath. He kisses across your jaw, little sucking presses, before he returns once again to your mouth. 

It’s hard not to assign more feeling or meaning to it than what it is, when he seems to do everything with such feeling. Not for the first time you wonder how it would be possible to be kissed at a concert and then have to continue to go about your life, acting as if nothing huge had happened, as if something totally earth-shattering hadn’t taken place. But then, you imagine, it’s probably not that different to what you have to do. 

He pulls back a little, pushing himself up to be more on his knees than lying back, before he slips a hand down between you, pushing underneath your dress to pull at your panties, rubbing a finger on the outside. He pushes them against your folds, circling with his finger until a little damp patch is forming where he’s touching. He pulls them to one side, shimmying his hand underneath, a ring knocking against your thigh and catching on the fabric and your hair as he cups your mound. You reach a hand down yourself, brushing it over his trousers, but you’re slightly surprised to feel him still soft inside. He jerks his hand off of you, gripping your leg instead, shoving your hand away with his other. 

You pat his face as it peers over the top of you, the creases in the corners of his eyes a little scrunched up in disappointment and his lips in a slight pout; as if he were trying to stop himself being upset.

“‘S ok El, You’ve still gotta perform tonight too -“ You go to tug your dress back down assuming there was no need for you to remain bare but his hand flies out, gripping your forearm and pushing it against your stomach.

“Take it all the way off,” You look nervously over at the unlocked bedroom door but obediently wiggle down a little, as best you can with his arm still locked over top of you to slither out of the dress. He shifts back down into a horizontal position, sliding himself further down, shirt crumpling with the motion, before gripping you with one hand on an arm and one on a leg, to hint at where he wants you to move to, tugging you until you’re in position, straddling him.

“El - seriously, I don’t think, it’s fine, it happens all the time it’s noth-“ He cuts you off by sharply pulling, with hands gripping right on your hipbones, you closer to him - forcing you to stumble on your knees even further up his body. 

“‘Nough of that.” In that wonderful growly voice only he seems able to achieve, he lifts his chin up to press a kiss against your inner thigh. “Can still, still make you feel good Bunny, baby. Still make that pretty yittle cunt o’ yours feel good.” He yanks you so you’re perfectly placed, hands gripping the navy velvet headboard to hold yourself steady. “Just gonna have a lil taste, ok darling? Just needta give me a little more time. Let, let it kick in.” You nod frantically, although you’re not 100% certain what you’ve got to let ‘kick in’. 

“Yes, god, yes. Sure.” The kiss, and his brief touches had been enough to turn you on, and you jerk as he holds your thighs to press a kiss against your now bare cunt, 

“Oh, fuck.” Elvis laughs against you, and you can feel the vibration up your spine, thetickle sending sparks straight into your stomach. The sheer level of arousal makes you feel almost a little nauseous but you’re distracted by the feel of his tongue moving again, holding you tight to him with his grip on your thigh when the feeling makes you try to thrust out of his hold.  You can feel twin bruises form from the thick bands of the ring on each of his hands and the twinge of pain when he lifts the pressure makes you gasp, 

“Oh, Christ - Elvis, need, need you to,” You’re not sure if you were planning on asking him to let go, or hold you tighter - but you’re distracted by him shifting to suck down directly on your clit, briefly, just enough to make you choke on your own spit, before he releases, flattening his tongue and moving it down. Every time you clench or move you can feel his fingers digging tighter in and you can’t help but move, grinding onto his mouth and against his tongue. He pulls away, and you shift your hips slightly so you can look down at him, and your head tips back with a moan as he quirks a little grin at you. It’s utterly filthy the way his chin and mouth is glisteningly sticky and wet.

“You like that honey?” You nod, and he returns, surging forward to renew his efforts, your hips circling in response. 

“Oh god, yes, don’t, oh, holy fuck, - don’t stop,” You can’t stop moving your hips, and part of you is briefly concerned that you might be suffocating him, but the larger part is more concerned with making sure he keeps licking right there until your building climax hits. His tongue is flicks between lapping at your vagina and your inner folds. Your hips are constantly moving and you grip the headboard even harder, feeling the fabric pile shift and flatten under your hold as he finally captures your little puffy clit in his lips again and sucks hard, reaching up to slip a finger inside you as he does. 

Your lower back is starting to ache, thighs beginning to cramp but you can’t think about that, reaching down with one hand to comb through his hair, clutching at it as you thrust up and back, finally your climax rocking through you. He licks you through it, holding you open still, feeling you shudder around him, until you finally insistently tug on his hair enough to make him come away. 

You dread to think what it must have sounded like on the other side of the door, the wet smacking having been all you could hear past the blood rushing through your own ears and you’re sure you couldn’t possibly have stayed silent. You watch him wipe his mouth with a sleeve, blushing the whole while before he slips out of the shirt. Fully exposing his bare chest and, finally, reaching down to unzip himself. 

You’re sticky and soft when he reaches down, running a finger against you, opening you up to bump against you with his now, hard, cock. You’re not quite sure when it had happened, if it was a delayed reaction to a pill he took earlier, or if he simply was that turned on just by licking you to completion, but you’re not about to complain feeling how his head slips against your wetness, nudging at your clit before he angles himself down, bumping against your entrance. 

“There he is, Bunny, got Lil’ Elvie here just for you baby, for my sweet lil - ah, bunny bun,” 

Elvis pushes into you, a hand straying to stroke your labia on its way up to clutch at your waist, feeling the way you open up around him - for him. You groan at the sensation - it’s been a while, actually it’s been a long while; the last man you’d been with was the one currently pressing inside of you. He takes a moment to allow you to adjust, although you suspect it also allowed him a moment or two, either to calm himself down or encourage himself up. 

“That’s it, honey, there we are, there we go, Oh Lord, here we are, I got you, gonna, gonna do such a good job, you just lie back. I got you, got -“ 

He’s fucking into you now, slowly, sweetly, accompanying each thrust with his mouth joining onto yours, and sloppy open-mouthed kisses against your jaw and neck. He’s trying to get the angle right, you can tell, but he’s decidedly less sure than he ever used to be, or least how you remember him. Taking longer to hit the right spot, and then almost immediately slipping away and losing it.

“Ah, that’s - that’s it, right there,” You almost cry out as he moves again, begging him in your mind to return to where he was. 

Still, he’s not totally unskilled, and the motion of his body against yours, of the feel of his hand reaching down to play with clit, combined with the growling curses and praises falling from his lips, southern accent coming out harder as he loses himself in it, is enough for you to feel yourself start to shudder your way towards a second orgasm, clenching down onto him. That is, apparently, enough to set him off and he takes some time firmly rocking his hips into you, before, with a hand splayed on your tummy for balance, withdrawing fast to shoot across your stomach. He collapses there for a moment, lips in a pout and eyes closed from the sheer pleasure of the minute before. 

He rolls off of where he’s pressed against you, where you’d welcomed being crushed under his weight, tummy pushed against yours, hairs tickling your own bare skin to flop onto his back. You watch his chest heave, eyes drawn to his tight little nipples, as he catches his breath back. You take a moment to swipe the cum off your belly with the edge of the bedspread, noting in your head to send it to the laundry later. You know you should be getting up to pee sooner rather than later but he’s holding out an arm to you, and you can’t bear the thought of refusing his offer. Instead curling into him with a sigh. He smells the same as you remember now, that same heady mix of sweat and sex, woodsy heavy cologne combined with the tint of smoke, and you hate how it sends flutters down your tummy again at how you feel a sense of familiarity from it. He murmurs into the top of your head, lips catching on your hair, 

“You been here all along Bunny? Hopping around my plane?” You nod and you feel him grimace, “Didn’t recognise you without your ears, or your yittle tail.” You don’t mention that you very rarely wore ears on Big Bunny, and that he had in fact seen you both on and off the plane without them too. He tips your chin up to look at you and you make eye contact with his pair of guilt tinged blue eyes. Your nose wrinkles and he taps it with a finger, “Twitchy lil thing though still ain’t ya?” He pats your cheek, “Still gonna be my bunny? Ain’t got another bunny, got, got,” He stumbles over his words as he takes a breath in, clearly struggling to stay lucid enough to have the conversation, “got other girls, not got ‘Cilla no more, but got, got Linda … and, and - I got a whole list, baby, but no - you’re my only bunny.” 

The thing is though, it’s never for long. You prefer the flights after a show to the ones before, he’s more awake before but he’s panicked like a tiger in a cage. It’s still difficult to tell what kind of Elvis you’ll be dealing with on any given night. There’ll be one flight where he’s perfect, drowsy from a show but awake and alert, flirty and fun, and then another where he sleeps for so long and so deeply that you worry he’ll never wake up. The worst are the ones where him and Dr Nick, his father or one of the other boys with that damned black bag disappear into the bedroom for the flight. He stumbles down the stairs after in a daze, clearly half out of his mind. The alternative - that you have to listen to his whimpering cries, that his body aches, that sleep won’t come to him - why won’t anyone listen to him? That he wants his mama, that everyone leaves him, “even my yittle yisa.” Is worse, it makes you wish for when he’s sedated or so over the top in his exuberance that you know his ‘vitamins’ have a lot to do with it. You don’t know how much longer you can silently pick up the pieces - cleaning up when he’s trashed the room in a rage, or left pill bottles littering the floor. Going in to him when he calls for you, acting as his waitress, nurse and on-call girlfriend all at once. 

Linda accompanied him often, and you’re shooed out of the way of her keen eyes as they watch you a little too knowingly. She’s sophisticated and classy though, more than you would be in the situation. More than you are. You take the opportunity to swap with Georgia as often as you possibly can when you know she’s coming with him. 

You’d avoided her too at first, often being the only one working on the little plane, not usually that many people on board - maybe ten at most, well within the capabilities of a single girl and the pilots. You hated that you felt the sting of jealousy, of worry that he was fooling around with her too, to the extent that when she, unprompted, had reassured you that she had not slept with him and nor would she ever sleep with him you had laughed it off. Pretending you had no idea what she was suggesting. 

Linda though proved difficult to ignore. She was a presence - even when she wasn’t physically there - he was swearing to the boys they were through, broken up, done, and then would spend hours on the phone to her. He’d swear he didn’t give a shit about her anymore; just had to keep his promises to take care of her - but then a week later she’d appear on the plane with him. They’d sit cuddled together half the time, shouting and screaming for the other half. You had no idea how to react when she called you in to the bedroom, Elvis’ head pillowed on her thighs, dead asleep. She doesn’t ask you for much, a coffee and some water to be brought to them. You do so, still slightly surprised to be invited to intrude on what seemed like an overwhelmingly private moment. But then, a large part of your job is being invisible when necessary. You don’t expect to her acknowledge you when you return, but she does - she’s polite and courteous, but quiet, eyes never leaving his relaxed forehead. A cynical part of your brain wonders if it wasn’t intentional, if she didn’t purposefully call you in at that moment to prove she was different, but that line of thinking gets you nowhere. It’s not your place to be jealous.

Occasionally there’s other girls with him, you burn when Sheila comes aboard - you’d given up your cover dreams for this, and it feels like she’s the new kid in town - replacing you in every way. Better than you in every way, she’s pretty and lithe and young; you’re young and pretty too but you’re feeling it less and less. She’s above you - in the privileged position to sit at the side of the King while you have to settle for serving him and her. She had the cover, you had gotten pouring the drinks into branded glasses.

Elvis didn’t help how you felt - the first time she came on board he took it upon himself to personally introduce the two of you. He was sat with his legs spread wide, Sheila’s own legs over the top of his, an arm tucking her tight against his side out in the lounge area, the public display of affection almost too much for you to witness. 

“Here she is!” He called out when you came around the corner of the half-dividing wall, and you balk a little before steeling yourself to walk over, 

“Here I am.” You respond, flatly. He’d been particularly difficult recently, and your patience was wearing thin. 

“Looksies - this here is my Sheila,” He raises her arm, she nods politely, “She’s - she’s a bunny too, she was on the cover.” You smile, what else can you do? 

“Oh - wow, congratulations.” You nod at her, she’s silent. 

“Two bunnies on the plane! My two bunnies together!” He laughs, and the tone and words immediately make you smart. There’s a cruel edge to it that you don’t quite understand, it’s not like you’ve ever turned him down or refused him, not like you’ve done anything to be treated second best - to have her paraded in front of you. 

 It makes your skin crawl, furious with every decision that led to this point, cursing those pretty blue eyes that you couldn’t refuse. Makes your skin crawl that he’d sworn you were his only bunny; and as ridiculous as it might seem, the evidence that that wasn’t true at all, that it was an empty promise makes you cry yourself to sleep for too many nights in a row. The first time you’d found a notelet, tucked under the bed having perhaps fallen out of a pocket or book, 

“To Sheila, 

Love you allways, 

E.P.” 

You take two weeks off, and debate whether you should even return, if it’s worth how it makes you feel. You don’t have time to see anyone else, and you’re not dating him. But then in some ways it makes sense all your emotions would be put onto him, you weren’t physically seeing anyone else, in general, exclusively cocooned in the Elvis Presley Show bubble. There is, you think after three glasses of red wine at home in your fancy new Memphis apartment, nothing else in your life. There is only Elvis. You wonder if you can use that as the excuse on your notice. You make yourself go back though, determined to get a grip of yourself, of your feelings, give it one last try. 

It’s short-lived with Sheila, at least from your perspective up in the air above the reality of the ground below. Ultimately, you feel you somehow won. And although he may, every now and again, bring some pretty young thing up into the air with him or have Linda come on board during some of the tour he’s fundamentally alone again - the same group of men his only constant companions. You form your own opinion of them, watching two of them cringe at the sight of the little black bag of pills and needles and two others writing his signature out on blank cheques. 

You’re horrified, making eye contact with Charlie, you think, you know their names now you need to start to use them. You open your mouth to say something, but uncertain about what, but he catches your eye, shaking his head and you wonder if there’s anyone on this plane willing to stick up for him.  You’re forced ot consider if it’s something you can do too - turning a blind eye to all of this or if you’re going to be forced to leave because you were unwilling to do so.

But then, there’s a few months where he behaves differently, and he looks different - his face brightens up, and though you don’t dislike how he looked before you can appreciate that he’s slimmed down a little, looking less bloated than he had before. A renewed interest in the happenings of the group. Suddenly, he’s interested in you again - ensconcing you in his bedroom, telling the boys to stop telling you what to do or asking you for things,

“It’s not her job - her job is looking after me.” And you do, distracting him as best you can when that’s what he’s after - reassuring him when it’s not. You have to talk him down from a panic at one point and you’re thankful to have the memory of him calming you down to use as your guideline, even if you find irony in being the one trusted to provide the measured breaths. 

The sex though, is still almost non-existent; he apologises constantly, and at one point you try to have a conversation about it, lying with him in the bed, cuddled together. 

“I’m not your girlfriend, E, you don’t needta explain yourself to me,” He hushes you, 

“You’re my girl as much as any of ‘em.” It’s your turn to stroke his cheek, 

“I don’t need to be, you don’t hafta say that to me.” He just hums at you, tucking you further under his arm and cupping your face to his chest. That’s when the gifts start rolling in, before you’d even arrived back at your apartment for a few days off, finding on the doorstep a gift bag filled with lingerie. You smile when you see it, but you’re a little puzzled - he’s not even seen you in your underwear in months. Was this a hint? Were you meant to be the one putting out? You took it as you thought he intended it, picking out and wearing the little white set you found in there, but you were unsurprised when nothing came to fruition on the flight. You tentatively bring it up the next time you’re curled up next to him - the flight not really long enough to justify a nap but happy to be tucked up in his chest.  You’re drawing circles with a fingertip through the gaping neckline of his shirt, absentmindedly thinking of how best to bring it up. 

“El, what’s -, not that I’m not appreciative but you don’t needta buy me things - especially, especially if you’re not gonna get anything out of it.” You refuse to look at him, anxious for his response. 

“Wasn’t that what you told me before? That you don’t dress for me?” You can feel him already grinning at you in anticipation of your reaction and you laugh, surprised he’d even remember that conversation from a year and a half ago. 

“Well, You weren’t really my boss then.” He chuckles, wrapping his arm tighter around you, 

“Oh-ho, so I can have my wicked way with you now huh?” He squeezes you hard against his side. You giggle, and he continues - his tone turning more serious; “Honey… - Bunny,” he laughs when you squirm at being called bunny still, “I’m just, I can’t, can’t do more at the moment but I uh, I do still - I like thinking about you all pretty for me unner that tiny little scrap of a dress.” He flicks the hem, leaving his hand grasping the back of your thigh and your respond in playful outrage. 

“Scrap! You picked out this dress!” You smile into his chest as you feel his tummy move with his laugh, “Elvis - you don’t owe me anything, I don’t need to be bought things, you don’t need to feel like we have to do anything. I just, just want you to take care of yourself.” He hums at you, as non-committal as one can be. 

He shifts a little so he’s lying on his side, brushing his hand down your body, fingers fumbling as they graze over your core, he seems remarkably less sure of himself than the last time he’d touched you, and you have to wonder if, despite all these girlfriends hanging around, he hadn’t actually been doing it with them either. Whether it’s because his fingers are a little thicker than before, or his skills are simply rusty,  or maybe this is all some new technique he’d thought he’d try, he seems to take a while to do anything. He slips a finger between your folds, gathering the wetness you’d started to feel drip as a pavlovian response to his fingers anywhere near you, and rubbing it up your pussy but when he reaches the apex he seems to struggle, fingertip roving around, rubbing down but not quite finding your clit. You squirm as he continues to rub around just a bit too low, his finger making you pant simply from the virtue of it being Elvis’ finger, but not because of success with his ministrations. You panic, eyes flying open, wondering if you’re gonna have to fake it with Elvis beforehe pulls his hand away with a grunt. 

“Ain’t no good little, my hands are hurtin’ too much tonight, got them, got them shakes again.” You nod even though you know it’s at least partially untrue - his fingers not in the least bit unsteady, if anything they’d been a little too solid. 

“Just, it’s fine to just cuddle El.” He’s silent beside you for a few moments, 

“One sec doll, lemme just -“ He shakes his arms out, staring at the curvature of the plane ceiling as if he’s trying to talk himself up. “Ok, ok Bunny, lets, lets give this another go.” He captures your mouth in his, sucking gentle little bruises across the bottom of your jaw, and lowering himself down to your neck. He concentrates there for a moment as he dances his hand back down your body, shifting your dress up again. His touch this time is more sure, more similar to how he’d always felt, the confidence appeared to be back.

He circles your clit just right, the two fingers curving inside you hitting just the right spot, and he moans with you, 

“C’mon darling that’s it, oh that’s your lil button isn’t it - let me, just relax into me baby, relax, I’ve got you.” He crooks a finger, and your hips jerk, his other hand reaching over to pin you firmly against the bed while he takes the opportunity to brush directly over your clit once again. You squeal, panting, as he whispers into your neck, 

“Such a good girl, good little baby Bunny, c’mon now,” He croons into your ear, voice unmistakable, “C’mon - for me.” His words, the sight of his face, the feeling of his fingers, it all combines so that in mere moments your back is arching off the bed, clutching at his arm as you tip over the edge. 

When you’re back into the land of the living, and your breathing is starting to ease up a little, you’re able to sit up. You get onto your knees for him, expecting to reciprocate but he shakes his head at you, “Just, just lie with me, mama, let me cuddle, ‘s that alright? No-one lets -  everyone wants somethin’ offa me.” You frown, standing up, his words manipulating you into believing you’d even asked him for something, 

“Sorry El- there isn’t, there’s no pressure from me, I just thought because -“ You gesture to his still clearly wet and sticky fingers, “Just wanted to give it back to you.” He huffs, lying down again, and looking over his shoulder at you. Betrayal written on his face. It softens when you clamber back under the covers with him, and he tugs you closer. 

It goes downhill fast, the tours just keep coming, and the random, sudden desires for trips here and there. You’ll be home for a scheduled three, four week break and get maybe 60 hours before a call comes in - he wants to be taken to Colorado, California, to Vegas. Before you know it you’re careening into 1976. He swings like a pendulum from happy to angry - the emotions impossible to keep up with. He wasn’t ever wholly staid before but everything seems suddenly emphasised and the erratic nature of his personality is making you wonder if you can do this job much longer. It’s worse without a girl on board. Linda and he may have argued but he was almost always easily soothed. But she’s coming on less and less, and he’s telling tales about her more and more with the boys. Expressing how he hates her shopping now, how she deserves it but doesn’t earn it, how he can’t stand her nagging. He seems to have more girls than ever before, one or two picked up for him in every city, but they never seem to make it onto the plane.

Without the settling presence of a girlfriend that role falls to you, and although you’ve now spent countless hours with him it’s different; the fits and starts with which you get to see him is completely different to being a girl who’s able to be with him in his home - you find him almost overwhelmingly difficult to manage. The first time he’s brandishing a gun and threatening to shoot you for attempting to put him to bed, you laugh - not expecting to be essentially thrown off of the plane for weeks for such an indiscretion. It doesn’t get mentioned again - not until a while later; simply brushed over, forgotten about. There’s no apology, just suddenly one day, a bashful joke gets made with Elvis tucking his chin to his chest to look at you shamefacedly but almost immediately he cracks a laugh, and you’re forced to laugh it off with him.

His health swings like his moods, it seems to be entirely dependent on a number of factors that all seem to change within a minute’s notice. It’s a combination of his mental health, the exact cocktail of medication at any given time, the number of shows he was doing, how often he was getting to see Lisa, whether he’d been home recently, the financial situation or whether he’d recently liked how he’d looked in the mirror. As soon as any one of these changed it would either send him crashing into lengthy highs or a period of lucidity. 

You didn’t sign up to be a nursemaid - it wasn’t the role you were expecting to fill but as time goes on it seems the only form of relationship you can have with him. You don’t truly mind, although you do wish for more, if he’s going to let you have this part of him - the part of him that’s sad and lonely, the part of him that he’s ashamed of - even if just for a few hours on a plane where he can pretend to be distinct from real life, then you think you deserve the same relationship back on the ground. But you would never broach that with him, not even when he’s alone, or when he brings a girl on board who doesn’t even make it to the next city. All you can do is stay. 

The last part of the year is particularly hard. He looks awful, you only really get to see him directly after a show, the schedule doesn't allow for more spare days in each spot, and the sweat pores off of him. You can’t say he doesn’t look appealing in some ways, you wouldn’t mind  licking him clean, or crawling onto his sweaty chest. But in other ways, his face growing paler and yellower, it makes you cringe away from him. It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with him, or that you’re disgusted - a fear he’d mumbled into your stomach one night recently, it’s that it’s so difficult. Difficult to watch a man, so otherwordly virile to succumb to earthly decay. It’s almost painful - and it’s made all the worse by the fact that you’re only given the choice to witness it in fits and starts - over a tour you watch him, keeping a close eye, spending hours alone with him. But then, as you land back in Memphis, or Vegas, or California you lose him again - with no idea of how he’s getting on physically or mentally, no idea of how he’s feeling. He grows distant - and all you want is to make his journey easier, although the destination at this point is unclear. 

--------------

TAGLIST:

i’m just gonna tag anyone that’s specifically msged me about it and/or anyone who commented/reblogged the last two chapters - there’s one last chapter to this ‘verse coming soon(ish) so lmk if you wanted to be added or taken off the list before then :)) 

@ellie-24, @whositmcwhatsit, @thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @a-literal-no-name @elvisabutler @precious-little-scoundrel @eliseinmemphis @iloveelvis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1

#elvis smut #elvis x reader #elvis fanfic #big daddy elvis #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley x reader #be-my-ally #elvis x you #big bunny #big bunny vibes #be my ally

[film-in-my-soul]

Dirty Words | 10,207 | morningberries / @morningberriesao3

Summary: Steve gives Eddie a lesson on dirty talk, but things start to get carried away.

Cassiopeia, Orion, Bootes | 10,780 | AidaRonan / @aidaronan

Summary: When Steve finds the flyer for Bayou Bobby's midnight swamp tours, he's excited to finally get the opportunity to do something interesting on his work trip to New Orleans. Until he finds out he's human bait for something that lives in the swamp. Something with claws and scales and eyes that glow red in the moonlight.

if you wanna be my lover (you gotta be my friend) | 10,909 | hopewithfeathers

Summary: Eddie is so unused to being this fucking messed up over one specific person, and it’s driving him absolutely crazy. The fact that it’s Steve fucking Harrington doesn’t make it any better, and even though Eddie knows him now and he’s a good guy (the best guy, actually), it doesn’t help that Steve is probably, one hundred percent not interested.

Bad Timing | 11,071 | Anonymous

Summary: Steve's just trying to keep them all alive. He's stuck in the Upside Down, he's been attacked by flying demon bats and this is turning out to be a really terrible week. He's ignoring the aching in his body and the fever he seems to be developing because getting out of the hell dimension really seems like a more pressing matter. Except it's not just his injuries he's been ignoring. The stress has brought his heat on months early and being surrounded by Eddie Munson's scent is not making things better. Thanks to everything else going on, he doesn't notice until it's too late.

thirty days | 11,570 | Adure / @toburnup

Summary: "Okay, you should probably leave,” Eddie says quietly, hand slipping underneath the blanket. His other hand reaches for the remote and he pauses the movie. “Why?” “‘Cause I’m going to jerk off.” Steve's mouth is dry. His body is heavy. “I don’t want to go.” “Fine." Eddie leans his head back against the wall, reveals the column of his throat. "Stay.”

Please see below for more recommendations!

got a devil's haircut (in my mind) | 11,809 | harmonictechnicality / @harmonictechnicality

Summary: Models are beautiful people, that’s the goddamn gig. Makeup, no makeup. Photoshop, no photoshop. They just look better than the general population and society accepts that as a fact. But Eddie is a grubby little voice actor that burrows himself up in his boxy apartment for days. Very little sunlight, very little human interaction, and a shit ton of takeout. Long story short, he doesn’t get out much. So this? Seeing a biblically hot heartthrob in the flesh? With his own two eyes? It’s knocking him into deep space. Sending him into an astral projection without sticking a tablet on his tongue first.

the pre-show ritual | 12,062 | helix_stomper

Summary: Steve wasn’t really all that surprised to find himself here. He had never seen a gloryhole before. He’d chalked them up to a horny teenager’s pot at the end of the rainbow. Fantasy, and nothing else. A fat old man couldn’t squeeze down a chimney, and a guy couldn’t get his dick sucked in a public bathroom. But here it was, a small circular hole cut into the side of two adjacent stalls, as real and as terrifying as it could be. What surprised Steve about tonight was that he wasn't sticking his dick through the hole. Instead, he found himself sitting on his heels in front of it, hands wringing anxiously in his lap as he licked his lips and waited for someone to shuffle into the other stall.

In My Boxers, Half Stoned | 12,338 | Eddywow

Summary: "You can," Eddie said, almost sounding like he was nodding along to his words. The image was too pure for Steve. "You could say anything you want to me and I'd- I think I'd be into it. Because I saw your pics and like, I know your face isn't in them but- but I really like them. Is it okay that I liked them?"

An Accidental Flogging | 12,965 | ArtaxLivs / @artaxlivs

Summary: Steve is just staring at him, looking at Eddie over his shoulder. Eyes wide, mouth open in a perfect O. The ring of the smack Eddie just delivered on his perfect, beautiful ass still resonating in the empty kitchen.

Bone Mirror | 13,048 | Oonionchiver / @azrielgreen

Summary: Steve has never killed a human being before. It’s all he has. His life is oppressively quiet. Silent. Waiting for the day he’s brave enough to fill the pool again. Waiting for change. Waiting for the moon. It’s all he fucking has. Until Eddie Munson is accused of murder.

Swipe Right | 13,759 | aaliona / @bifuriouswaterbender

Summary: Eddie Munson knew how to take a profile picture, Steve decided right then. The angle was from straight on, but Eddie had his head tilted to the side, somehow managing to give big doe eyes at the viewer as his long hair fell around him. His sleeves were pushed up, showing off tattoos on both arms that he was subtly flexing. Steve had heard a lot about Eddie and didn’t even know which of it to believe. But hey, perhaps this was his chance to find out. At very least, Munson seemed like the kind of guy to know what he was doing. Taking a deep breath, Steve swiped right.

I’m on the Hunt (I’m After You) | 16,362 | OhlioOh

Summary: Odd is Eddie Munson’s thing, acquiring knowledge of the esoteric and strange a core tenet of his personality. Yet Hawkins National Park had been one big, beautiful blind spot. Plenty of people visit, plenty of people vanish, and yet not a soul is talking about it. Something is stalking these woods, and Eddie is going to be the one to find it. If only Park Ranger Steve Harrington wasn’t such a giant, unfairly attractive pain in his ass.

A Gem Beyond Counting | 13,728 | teddywesworl / @teddywesworl

Summary: The wrong feeling pitches and dives toward nausea again. Steve folds in half, eyes squeezed shut. The room spins, and his skin goes clammy. Behind the rush of white noise in his ears, he thinks he hears Eddie’s voice, calling to him, saying his name. There’s a soft pressure on his back that moves up to the back of his neck, and— Gone. Everything’s fine. He feels fine. He feels good, even. Eddie has a hand on the back of his neck and one clutching his forearm. Eddie looks frantic, eyes wide, a sheen of sweat on his face and stray damp curls stuck there. Steve’s gaze is drawn to his mouth, taut and worried and always in motion. He wants to lick into it.

fear is fading fast | 14,389 | amiparanoidmuch (p1013) / @p1013

Summary: Eddie is twenty years old. He lives in a small sprawl of suburbia that holds his heart in a vice grip. He only knows one gay man—himself—and he's never getting laid, ever.

Hard to Learn | 20,285 | DaaroMoltor

Summary: Steve pulls up to just outside the garage door, then cuts the engine. He turns in his seat. “Eddie.” He startles, a visibly painful jerk, and his eyes snap to Steve. Steve meets them steadily, trying to project calm. Eddie’s gaze do linger on him for a moment, before he looks around. The house towers above them, dark and empty. Eddie frowns, plainly confused, then glances to Steve and- Realization dawns, then it’s quickly followed by anger and… hurt? The first quickly eclipses the latter, and Eddie flings open the car door. “See you around, I guess, Harrington,” he spits, beginning to limp away. Steve is so startled that it takes him a moment to get his bearings. “Hey!” he calls, scrambling out of the car. “Hey! Where are you going?! You can barely even walk!” “Home,” Eddie snaps. “And I’m walking because apparently I’m the only one who doesn’t deserve a fucking ride.” “Oh, for the love of-,” Steve mutters, then runs the couple of hobbled steps that Eddie has managed to put between them, grabbing his arm to spin him around. “Your home is half portal, idiot,” Steve says. “You’re staying with me.”

The Adventures of Eddie Munson, Cheerleader | 26,082 | bookworm1805

Summary: Hawkins Indiana, January 1985 The moment the basketball players walked into the gym, all hell broke loose.  Curses were spat. Teenagers whispered in scandalized tones as their nikes squeaked over the polished wood floor. Prayers were chanted. Somewhere across town, a baby probably cried. Eddie Munson grinned. 

the affliction of the feeling | 27,203 | nondz (pinkjook)

Summary: “Hold on,” Robin interrupts. “Hold on, is this— are you, like. Do you know what masochism is?” “I know I act like it sometimes, Robin, but I’m not actually fucking twelve,” Steve says.

for your eyes only (i'll show you my heart) | 32,068 | strawberryspence / @strawberryspence

Summary: “Damn you, Harrington.” Eddie shakes his head, looking back at the box again. He can see Robin looking at him, but Eddie avoids looking at her. He didn’t want to answer questions about his damn crush on Steve freaking Harrington and how he keeps getting more perfect by the minute. Eddie needs him to stop, like literally right now. “Oh my god,” Dustin screams, making Eddie look at him from across the room. Eddie finds him staring at someone, so he follows his line of sight and finds one Steve Harrington, yeah, that one, the one he just asked a second ago to stop being perfect? Yeah, that guy is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a crumpled box in his hands and is wearing glasses. Steve Harrington just exceeded perfect.

off the beaten path | 34,208 | pukner

Summary: "I'm saying this," says Steve, loudly, cutting him off, "because someone I love is, uh, gay. And I love them, but like, platonically. And also me calling you a queer might've been a little hypocritical, in restrospect." There is a long, baffled pause. "What," says Jonathan, "Steve, are you--are you coming out to me?" Steve frowns, "Oh, yeah, I guess I am. Cool."

The Shire is NOT on Fire | 54,148 | kissesforcas

Summary: The kids convince Steve to take them all to a Renaissance Faire and LARP event. Steve has more fun than he admits. And then Steve has a LOT more fun than he admits.

Ahoy, Big Boy | 83,733 | ChronicRabbit

Summary: Scoops Ahoy. America’s favorite place to cool down, and quite possibly the lamest summer job under the blazing Indiana sun. Especially if you were former High School royalty, brutally rejected by each and every university you’d applied to and promptly cut off by your shitty parents in an effort to teach: “some goddamned responsibility.” Between accidentally intercepted secret Russian communications, a meddling preteen matchmaker with no collarbones, and increased proximity with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, a measly $3 an hour plus tips is nowhere near enough to deal.

caught in the middle, helpless again | 131,425 | margosfairyeye (Skittery) / @margosfairyeye

Summary: Fuck, Eddie has been here before. The deja vu was bad enough but this is like, double, this is like deja deja vu or deja vu vu or something, this is unprecedented shit here. And Eddie knows what comes next, knows like the roiling ache in his stomach that they’re going to go in, go though the portal and into the Upside fucking Down and didn’t they already do this?

Master Reclist · Personal Masterlist · Blog Nav.

#steddie #steve/eddie #steddie reclist #reclist #fanfic reclist #stranger things reclist

[queatherine]

td spoilers episodes 9-13 (long post; more in depth thoughts towards the end)

ep 9:

the dudes being there for priya awwwww that was so sweet !!

hey julia, is that car cool enough :)

sighhhhh mkulia

julia is that tiktok lumberjack lesbian,, i think shes canadian too

ep 10:

listen, i think we could all agree that the moment damien found that immunity idol way back when sealed his fate that he was NOT going to be a finalist,, so i wasnt surprised, just saddened

julia manipulation truly is everything i love evil women

ep 11:

MACARTHUR??!?!??!??!? truly not the cameo i expected, but i did not mind it!!

can we stop this annoying distrust arc between priya and caleb?

cant believe they killed off raj

so like,, did dinosaurs just never go extinct in the total drama universe??? is this one of the insane lore bits like 9/11 never happening (or happening some time after 2009???) 9/11 was the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs

CANT BELIEVE THEY VOTED OFF RAJ NOOOOOO IM WAYNE FRRR

ep 12:

me 🤝 priya afraid of lighting + thunder

OLD MAN TENNIS YAOI????!?!?!?! PULLED THEM OUT OF THEIR GRAVES FOR THIS CAMEO WOW

can we stop this annoying distrust arc between priya and caleb? pt2

i dont ship juliayne (juliayne shippers i do not hate you please do your thing i love you), but goddamn i want more interactions between theyre sooooo silly

ep 13: listen, i think wayne winning is fine. do i love himbos? yes. was i rooting for him in the finale? yes. in the grand scheme of things, do i think he is a good finalist? no. we can all agree that hes very much an owen, and i dont mind that!! i actually think having a fan favorite, comic relief, underdog third party winning makes sense in this season, because i dont think caleb or julia winning would be a satisfying end (especially how they were handling them by the end)

caleb's story was messy, and at the end of the day (and i know that the intentions changed), he did start his alliance with priya to use her. him winning, after all of the drama, after priya was gone, wouldve just idk felt shitty. he did get the girl in the end, which concludes his story better than him winning it. (if im comparing this to the tdi 2007 final three,, i guess hes the gwen)

as for julia, she had two seasons to be villain, and it was amazing. she is so good at what she does and she is such a joy to watch. and we all know how total drama handles its villains, they need to get their comeuppance. did bowie double cross her last season? yes. and she came back still was the main villain and was AMAZING at it. but she was still the villain for another 13 episodes, AND HER GETTING PRIYA OUT LAST EPISODE, she cant win. was her just desserts satisfying? meh. nice callback to heather (we all know julia is the heather of this comparison), though i can understand people who dont like this callback and think its tiring or something. they couldve done something else, but im not mad (i kinda fuck with the mullet). i just see no satisfying way for julia to win with how she was presented in these seasons: she was not world tour heather, with three full length seasons and a greater threat to overcome; she was island heather, and therefore could not win.

overall thoughts of the season:

im someone that thinks the hockey bros jokes nearly always land, so i enjoy the shit out of them (i think im in the majority?)

im someone that did not like priyaleb at first, grew to being more neutral about it, but still found it to be a bit tiring. i like priya, i like caleb, i dont like tiring romantic subplots, and it sucks that that was the entire thing for these characters this season

the julia mk duo was AMAZING, one of the highlights of this season and one that i never wouldve expected to be real. mkulia wins in my heart and i hope they start their podcast (JULIA WAS GOIGN TO USE THE MONEY TO START THE PODCAST WITH MK HOLY SHIT GIRL IS IN LOVE)

it sucks that certain characters really got nothing this season (millie, nichelle, emma, and even axel to an extent).. but i get that characters like millie and emma already had a lot of screentime last time and someone has to be an early boot (just realize the ones i listed off were all women,, damn the writers fr just hate women)

at the end of the day, i really enjoyed this season. and i think the most important part of that enjoyment was this was the first time i got to watch a season and have no idea what was going to unfold. i watched the first four season of total drama when they were airing, but i was a little kid with poor comprehension skills. the first three seasons aired before i knew how to read (i learned to read late). and with tdpi, rr, and tdi 2023, i watched them after the fact and knew who the winners were going in. this was the first season i watched were i truly did not know the winner, and that added to my enjoyment. not to mention this being the one and only time i was present in an online space to talk about show as the episodes dropped. this season was a bit messy here and there, but it delivered some great stuff. i found myself laughing out loud and just having a good time, which is all i need out of my silly little cartoon

#total drama #td spoilers #total drama spoilers #total drama 2023 #someone gave me a microphone

[comicbookhyperfixationtime]

Uncanny X-men #196- What Was That?!!

CW: racial slurs

Last Issue Recap: The Power Pack made a cameo and Wolverine did not disembowel a child. Callisto in the Morlocks did show up and they are as skrungly and terrible as ever. And then there was Secret Wars 2 which I have mentally blocked out of my brain because it's too pointless and annoying to take up important Nightcrawler Obsessing Space.

Anyway, HOLY HELL, how did this cover make it to print?! Its literally a woman in a gimp suit! Have I talked about Rachel's Mutant Hunter gimpsuit before? I feel like I have, but I would once again like to say, what the actual fuck.

It's Chris Claremont so I expect to be using this a lot in the near future. Also, in this cover there are spikes around her crotch that form a thong/triangle shape (super umcomfy 😬) which (spoilers) are not there when she wears the suit in-issue. Which just makes this worse.

Gimpsuit aside I don't like this cover. The composition is meh, and its the same sort of misdirection we saw in the last issue. Is Rachel going to beat the shit out of the X-men and get stabbed by Wolverine? Of course she's not. The splash panel on the first page is pretty striking though.

The title is uncreative, but I do adore when writers try to work their issue title into the first page's dialogue or onomatopoeia or something (Thor #366 is my absolute favorite example of this). This is a fantastic first page, not only does it immediately set up tension, mystery and stakes while quickly delivering exposition, but it cleverly uses the in-universe curtain behind Professor X as a tool for adding motion and energy, whilst directing the reader's eye around the page.

I half forgot that Professor X is actually a professor and that he didn't just make that title up to sound cool. Hell, since he has a PhD it should actually be Dr X but that sounds a little too much like a porn knockoff of Dr Strange for my and Marvel's liking. Jesus Christ I bet he's the sort of proff who never ever grades essays in time because he's too busy fucking off fighting Godlike entities in space. I'd give him a 2 on Rate My Professor so fast.

Several students in this packed classroom are smoking. Oh 1985, how the times have changed!

As his students leave, Professor X laments that he cannot simply read their minds and figure out who's thought this was. Not because this would be highly unethical, but because his mind and body has been weakened ever since he got the shit kicked out of him by anti-mutant muggers a few issues back.

Meanwhile, Storm is home in Africa on her self discovery tour, where she is- shot in the head and left for dead by the racist poachers she'd fought before?!

I know logically this is just a fakeout but I'll be damned if it isn't some good tension! Also; the racist poachers are a brother-sister pair named Andreas and Andrea. Their parents must have hated them even more than I do.

We immediately cut to Kitty talking about Ororo's letters at a team meeting just to hammer the stake further into my goddamn heart. The Gang has gathered in a deli to discuss Professor X's mystery, including Magneto (whose presence goes undiscussed, probably because it was explained in Secret Wars 2) and some blonde lady named Aleytys who I have no idea who she is. (Edit: I know who she is- Lee Forrester, Scott Summers ex-girlfriend who apparently hooked up with Magneto in New Mutants. What an absolute power move.) Something I haven't mentioned yet because it hasn't come up is that Chuck has been hiding his growing frailty and power loss from his friends and teammates for some reason I've forgotten but which is probably stupid. Also he can walk at this point in continuity but that's not important.

Rachel sees the Beyonder shows up for his editor mandated plot interruption for a few pages and I'm not going to discuss it because I Don't Care.

My thoughts exactly Kitty.

Speaking of the best boy, he is off at his parish, talking to the priest about his crisis of faith.

I cannot imagine what it must be like to go into confessional with a superhero he has heard some shit someone redraw this man in that one stock photo of the priest.

The monster Kurt is talking about his the Beyonder because goddamnit I guess I can't just ignore that motherfucker. TLDR, he was the ultra-powerful being who started the excuse plot for the original Secret Wars. In Secret Wars 2 he comes to Earth to learn the meaning of life or some bullshit and wanders around causing problems before turning himself into a baby (probably, idk I never finished it, Jim Shooter did that before so he'd probably do it again.) Kurt's faith has been completely destroyed by the Beyonder's sheer power which is like no being he's ever seen before- oh please.

This whole scene sort of pisses me off. First off, its more wanking off about the Beyonder and I really don't want to hear about this guy. Second, its another reason to leave Kurt out of this weeks plot and that pisses me off, give my boy more screentime! Third, this really doesn't feel justified by the Beyonder. Nightcrawler saw Dr Doom hand him his ass in Secret Wars, he knows he's not omnipotent. Nightcrawler having a breakdown is fine but there's way more interesting stuff for him to break down over.

Back on the main plot, a group of shadowy figures sneak into Professor X's office and plant a bomb under his desk! I see someone has been reading Hitchcock's quotes on suspense.

Rogue and Rachel are flying over Columbia U having a dramatic irony-laden conversation about how much less nasty this current timeline is than Rachel's home time whilst she mind-scans for the culprits. They don't find them, but they do find a mugging in progress and stop it.

I'll tell you what else is a crime, that hairdo! Yeesh.

It turns out the civilian they saved is a anti-mutant jackass who was grafitti-ing the words "Muties die!" when he got jumped, because Marvel civilians are assholes. Kitty and Wolvie take a quick break from crimefighting and have an conversation that's too cute for me not to share.

Kitty phases into a building because she sees a light on in a lab after hours. She finds some of her student acquaintances skulking about and, despite having doubts that any of them could be murderers, is immediately suspicious. I personally think the fact they ordered pizza with anchovies on it would be enough to peg them as supervillains on the spot, but Kitty is more of an optimist than me. The terrorists realize Kitty is a mutant and confront her about it.

Kitty Pryde just said the N-word. This isn't ok. I don't know how the editors at Marvel ever thought it was ok, and it speaks volumes that they did. "Mutie" isn't a real swear. "N-----" is. That word is hateful and terrible and affects real people and it is not ok at all to equate it to a made-up slur. The X-men are supposed to be an allegory for suffering that empowers minority groups. This just hurts them more. Hell no to all of this.

I took a hot minute to absorb what I just fucking read and then moved on with the issue. The terrorist kids get the jump on Kitty and chloroform her before she can phase out, with intent to kill her. Meanwhile, Magneto, Professor X and Rachel Summers are in the Prof's office, discussing the case and the Beyonder's continued presence because he's been stalking them like a weirdo. Rachel tries to psychically link the three so they can sense the Beyonder like she can, but using her psi-powers sets off the bomb, which is actually not a bomb but a "psi-scream," a device that amplifies and reflects psychic energy back to its source. This is a massive plot-hole; how did they know Xavier was psychic?! As far as I'm aware its not common knowledge Professor X is a mutant at all, let alone what his powers are! And these are just normal Columbia U college students with no connection to any supervillains or secret organizations whatsoever, there's no way they'd have access to this info!

The bomb overloads Rachel and she accidentally destroys the office, sending out a shockwave of energy that sends Professor X and Maggie flying. Rogue has to catch them both which I find sort of curious because its always so inconsistent whether Magneto can fly or not (my personal headcanon is that his costume has metal soles and he levitates them). Rachel senses Kitty's distress through their psychic link and freaks out so bad she manifests her BDSM Mutant Hunter costume. She flies over to the lab, explodes the anti-mutant students and rescues Kitty in a very hetero way.

Cannot imagine what goes on in Kitty Pryde's head. Must a beautiful and terrifying place to visit.

The guy in the pink jacket from before regains consciousness and tries to shoot Rachel, but its a bit like trying to stab a rhinoceros with a butter knife. She's about to kill him, when Magneto shows up to stop her from making the same mistakes he has.

I don't know bout you but if Magneto in a suit told me to do anything I'd drop whatever I was doing immediately. I love reformed Magneto, such a richer and more interesting character than racist whiny asshole villain Magneto. I sure hope Marvel lets him continue to grow as a person and don't constantly regress his character for the stake of a stupid status quo! Haha. I hate the Endless Wheel of Comic Book Samsara.

The conversation between Magneto and Rachel is honestly really beautiful. Two people who've never interacted before, but understand each other's pain better than anyone else can. Its a fantastic scene only slightly marred by the final panels being of the Beyonder observing the scene and giving some pointless, longwinded commentary. Its too long for me to screenshot and post here so I super recommend you check this out for yourself!

On the plus side, next issue is Dr Doom!

Final Thoughts: This issue had some really high highs and some really low lows. I'm honestly super shocked the panel of Kitty Pryde saying the N-word isn't more infamous than it is, because holy fuck that was awful.

#comic books #marvel comics #x men #professor x #storm #ororo munroe #kitty pryde #nightcrawler #kurt wagner #wolverine #rachel summers #magneto #rogue #way too long #way too many tags #i didn't proofread this

[remyfire]

I don't know if I'll keep this post up because this is not what any of y'all are here for, but I have to get it out somewhere. This is just a lot of gritted-teeth venting, so if that's not your style, scroll on, I love you, I hope you see a cat photo soon.

Truly every day of my life I find myself gritting my teeth when I see another joke or article or post or anything at all about booktok romance novels, that specific style of book cover, the disdain about promotional graphics like trope maps, that whole kerfluffle because I just! Wanna be like. Hey guess what! None of us wanted things to go that way either!

Like it really is remarkable sometimes to remember how readers don't necessarily get to see us smaller romance authors gritting our teeth and bitching in our spaces because we hate the trends that are being pushed forward, but also we have to compete somehow, right? We have to be sell books. We have to find a way to be picked up and read in this oversaturated sea. We have to try and gain traction against those people who hire 50 ghostwriters at a time for pathetic rates to churn out romance novels so they can release one literally every month. We have to fight against the 99-cent expectations even though we're lucky to make 35 cents per book sold if we offer it at that rate.

I think one of the most insulting things that publishers did was decide that it was the author's responsibility to go viral on booktok. That way, the publishers got to save a hell of a lot of money on marketing budgets, right? No, we won't be arranging tours unless you're lucky, we won't be pushing your book as hard as we usually should. It is your job to have a social media following that is broad enough that you make your books go viral, not us giving it a boost as your publisher. If you don't go viral on booktok, we will probably not be signing you for another book, sorry, bud.

Cannot express to you either how many of us erotic romance authors especially were gritting our teeth when the cover trend started leaning toward basic primary colors and splotchy abstract shapes. I completely understand that not everybody wants a shirtless man with a 12-pack just slapped on the front cover of the book they're reading—I actually thought it was brilliant when I saw several self-pub authors offering both the traditional steamier cover but also an option of paperbacks with a more tame, understated cover that just makes it look more like a literary novel. But god, it felt so lazy, these aforementioned abstractly illustrated covers. They told me nothing about the book. There was barely a sense of themes or important objects and these shapes had no defining characteristics that set any of the characters apart and they just looked like YA novels, which is fine for YA novels, but how do you market your extremely high-heat romance novel in that cover trend? If you throw together those blotchy illustrated shapes, people are going to think it's sweet or closed-door, and then they get in there and there's 12 graphic sex scenes on the page, and they're furious about it. I loved seeing illustrated covers that were more detailed start to make a move forward, especially because it meant starting to separate the American cultural assumption that illustrated = childish. Letting them be sexy, letting the author be able to represent any kind of protagonist they wanted without being restricted to the tiny selection of mostly skinny white able-bodied cis models on stock photo sites? Incredible. Love that. Want more of it. Wish it was easier to get publishers to really buy in on that.

The fact that readers will complain about promotional things like trope maps when the publishers require the use of them. The publisher makes them, they hand them over, and now you are the one who will be using it because that is contractual and because even if it wasn't, you want your goddamn book in front of people's eyes. And if you are self-pub or indie, if you don't have a substantial marketing budget to spent thousands of dollars on ads, promotions, and whatever the hell else, you are all but required to follow the trend because that's the only way you're gonna get people to share your shit.

And god, the way that it's all reduced to just 'booktok romance novel.' I get what that's referring to, that exact grouping of authors and why they're frustrating, but holy shit, I wanna know how many of those readers have picked up a self-pub or indie romance by a marginalized author. I'll see people complain about the quality of romance novels as compared to the quality of romantic fanfiction and I wanna shake them by the shoulders and say, "It's there! It's out there! It's self-pub and indie romance authors out here doing the goddamn work and you! Aren't! Looking! For it! Because it's easier to mock the genre instead!" Especially self-pub/indie queer romance authors who are marginalized, they are out here revolutionizing the genre and not getting anywhere near the accolades they deserve.

It's just irritating and exhausting. It's frustrating enough to have your genre used as the constant butt of jokes, treated like it's a substandard genre, like all it is is trash, using 'bodice ripper' as a disparaging term for modern romance novels when that is a relic of a very distant past and a historical pinpoint about which we can have an in-depth discussion about the decades-long process of making it socially acceptable for a woman to talk about her sexual desires rather than the 'bodice ripper' days when a woman had to have them forced on her instead before she could ever dream of admitting that she might know her own body and its cravings.

It's frankly embarrassing to see my genre so poorly understood. That's all. The one genre that is devoted to making sure that every marginalized person can have a happy ending of their choosing—marriage, pregnancy, queerplatonic, no sex necessary, no marriage or kids necessary, whatever feels right—rather than just the skinny white able-bodied cis people, that's the one that is always getting the potshots taken at it, and it's really a goddamn shame.

#yeah i will delete this later for sure #it's just painful to see that we have still not advanced forward from this genre mockery in all the years i've been published #it's giving 'i'm not like the other readers' and i really hoped we'd left 'not like other girls' in high school #my ramblings

[ghaniblue]

Red, White & Royal Blue recs, all Alex/Henry. I've been doing nothing but read rwrb fic all week. I'm obsessed with the damn movie. All recs are using book canon as the starting point. All fics are 50k+ and explicit.

If you have any recs, please share!

the poem you make of me by @omgcmere (91k, explicit)

Charming, happy-making AU

Henry writes gay erotic poetry (enough said)

check out the author if you're into explicit sub!Alex fics

After being discovered on Instagram as a teenager, Alex Diaz is thriving as a social media influencer and model who just landed a high profile, high fashion contract with Calvin Klein. Alex can get any girl he wants, and he’s loving it. Meanwhile, British poet Henry Fox has just arrived in L.A. to kick off a North American tour promoting his new, steamy book of gay erotic poetry, and he’s attracting a lot of attention.

Bad blood is immediately sparked between them when Henry blows Alex off at their first meeting. Several tabloid rumors and an Instagram tantrum later, Alex and Henry are reluctantly thrust together to make nice, resulting in a grudging friendship and a magnetism between them that Alex can't explain. Why is Henry's poetry making Alex feel like this? And just what is it about Henry Fox that gets to him so much?

all that glitters (is not gold) by @indomitable-love (112k, explicit)

(book)canon-compliant, post canon, established relationship, Alex focused

Sensitive exploration of mental health issues

Alex Claremont-Diaz has it all. His mom won the election, he’s got the perfect boyfriend. He gets to love Henry out loud. Everything is great. Perfect.

Except for the itch under his skin every time he goes outside, and the tightness in his chest when he goes online, and the fact that he can’t fucking sleep.

But it's fine. He's fine. Really.

—-

Or: after the emails, Alex Claremont-Diaz isn’t fine.

(our last summer) memories that remain by bleedingballroomfloor (91k, explicit)

AU, getting back together, dual timelines

love the setting and watching them fall in love twice over

Fresh out of law school and fresh out of a relationship, what Alex Claremont-Diaz needs is a goddamn vacation. He plans to spend his summer on a small island off the coast of Wales, three months of peace and relaxation and figuring out what the hell he actually wants to do with his life. But all that is thrown out the window when he runs into his ex-fling, Henry Fox, who just so happens to be running the hotel he's staying in for the next three months.

Four years prior, Henry Fox meets the most beautiful boy he's ever seen at an NYU party: Alex Claremont-Diaz. Henry soon finds himself whisked away to Texas with Alex, a summer full of poetry and skinny dipping and stolen kisses, and everything is perfect. Almost too perfect for a summer fling. Yet Henry can't stop himself from falling in love with Alex, falling for the lake house and everything Alex loves, even when he knows it's too good to last.

Two summers, two places of falling in love, one filled with memories of the last. It leaves Alex and Henry wondering: is this summer truly going to be their last one together?

With so much of my heart (that none is left to protest) by @kiwiana-writes (WIP 14/17, 56k, explicit)

Work in progress, AU, getting together

love the structure and Rafael Luna's role in this, hits a lot of the emotional beats of the book (without the outing)

Alex is a former child star struggling to make the transition into being seen as a serious actor. He jumps at an opportunity to perform on stage in the UK, seeing it as a way to break free from the typecasting and show what he can really do. But he wasn’t prepared to star alongside someone he hates.

//

Henry is a recent theatre graduate who accepts an amazing role in a queer reimagining of Much Ado About Nothing. And then it turns out his co-star is none other than the man he’s been hopelessly pining after for years—even though Henry made a terrible first impression when they met.

//

It’s… well, it’s practically Shakespearean.

>> more rwrb recs <<

#rwrb fic recs #rwrb #firstprince #firstprince fanfic #firstprince fic #rwrb fic #acari recs

[couldneverhurtusnow]

No, no. We HAVE to talk about that quote and Paul and Andrew falling in love on set. WTF is going on. I have gone from, yes I can see this chemistry to... yeah they have done it to... are they a couple? Why would he say that out loud!

haha, to be fair, claire foy also acknowledged that 'you're falling in love with a person you're not in love with' (though it happens that actors actually end up falling in love sometimes, she said) & sometimes it can get very confusing, kind of blurring of lines, i guess -- your body doesn't know you're acting, actors end up tricking their body (she mentions how she reacted to seeing herself on screen because her body was remembering of what it was going through in that moment). so, i don't want to overanalyze, but i can't really recall actors ever being this open with 'falling in love' with their co-star; to be fair, i haven't really kept up with any other press tour like this either though, so i'm not saying no one has ever talked about this before. i've kind of briefly touched on this whole thing before in the tags on a post, but i'm always kind of reminded of how jessica chastain was talking about how her & oscar isaac's friendship wasn't the same after filming 'scenes from a marriage' & she felt like she needed some distance -- though i guess that movie is very different to aous lol. so, i guess it's fair to conclude that sometimes it bleeds through into real life (because your body doesn't know you're acting & will react). & the bleeding through is what has got me unintentionally curious about these two; i can't help it. like yeah, they were friends before & have both acknowledged how they became closer & closer while shooting aous, but where does it end? are actors truly superior humans & able to switch it all off once filming wraps up? it's the fact that they don't seem to want to distance themselves from one another that has me really question it? bc they've both played love interests before & stayed friends with those actors, but this feels different -- from the little i've seen of them. like paul didn't talk about daisy or saoirse this way, though to be fair, they didn't do a lot of promo for those projects. all i can think of is when my best friend confessed he was in love with me & when i didn't reciprocate he needed space from me & our friendship. but maybe andrew & paul are able to separate themselves from adam & harry and have set boundaries. & someone said that's just how irish dudes act with their friends so 🤷🏻‍♀️ and re: "why would he say that out loud!", they've both said some incredibly wild shit during this goddamn press tour, but that's a different subject altogether.

#does this even make any sense? i feel like i'm just word vomiting my incoherent thoughts lol #anon #answered