₀₈ seaweed monster, little swan

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DOMINIC WAS THIRTY SECONDS OUT from taking the metal clasp of his unworn seatbelt and smashing it through the window. Seriously, this was not how Thursday was supposed to go.

     As if the predicament he and Dustin had found themselves in wasn't bad enough, he now found himself sprawled out across the backseat of Steve Harrington's stupid car. Yes, King Steve. Dom would never finish staring daggers—he imagined the little bayonets strapped to his rogue DnD persona's legs, to be precise—at Dustin in the passenger seat. The very friend who decided this was a proper plan B. Who sentenced Dominic to suffocate on musk and bergamot in a BMW because, as it turned out, Steve wore way too much fucking cologne.

     "Wait a sec. How big?" Steve was asking, looking to Dustin. He was referring to a creature the two younger boys had once regarded as a pollywog. Well, until its face petalled open like a Demogorgon and layers upon layers of sharp teeth testified otherwise. Oops.

     "First he was like that." Dustin spread a couple of inches between his fingers. "Now he's like this." The space widened by a good foot. Dom nodded from the back, lips pursed, which Steve caught in the rearview mirror.

     Steve filtered out a sigh. "I swear to God if this is some little lizard—"

     "It's not a lizard, alright?" Dom grumbled.

     "Yeah, and how do you know that, big guy?" Steve sent back. Dom faced him with eyebrows knit inward.

     "How do I know it's not a lizard? Because its face opened up and it made breakfast of Dustin's cat!"

     "It did. As far as D'Artagnan was concerned, Mews was bacon," said Dustin, whose lips pouted, hand draped up over his heart in memorium.

     Steve made a face. "D'Artagnan? The hell does that even—?" Dustin's lips parted, only a small (and inappropriately excited) breath allowed to escape them, before— "You know what? Forget it. Don't explain that. No, I don't want to know what that's from."

𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑, steve harringtonWhere stories live. Discover now