#[ T - T it's actually quite difficult to get him to talk about himself ]

[thinkinonsense]

call me if you're lonely⟡

old man!logan howlett x phone sex hotline worker!reader

cw: dirty talk, mutual masturbation

author's note: very short. just an idea that came to mind.

masterlist

this is so desperate, logan thought to himself as he dialed the number written on the fourth page in the second column. in pretty cursive words it read, call me if you're lonely!

your number had been living in the back of his head for almost a month now but he never got this close to calling it. in the column, it's written that you are a college student working on your masters degree and that you are very popular within your profession as a phone sex hotline worker. honestly, logan didn't care if you just started yesterday. he's been so stressed and overworked lately that he needs a release soon. logan waited as the phone rang after entering his card information. he's sat up on the old mattress under him, waiting patiently to see if anyone answers.

on the third ring, someone picks up.

"thanks for calling, hush hotline." you say, giving him the typical welcome speech before jumping straight in. "what would ya' like me to call you tonight, sugar?"

the sweet tone in your voice made logan's boxers feel tighter. resting his hand on top of his heavy cock, squeezing lightly and slowly stroking himself over the thin material.

"james is fine, honey." logan mutters.

"i like the way you call me, honey." you purr, getting relaxed in bed.

you had a long day; woke up late, missed class, messed up during important meeting at work and needed to blow off some steam. normally, the people you talk to over the phone don't have an effect on you, instead opting to fake it and offer phony pornstar like moans but something made you want to give it another shot.

"is that so?"

the stranger's voice was rough around the edges. deep, cold, straight to the point. it sent a shiver up your spine. usually, your customers were weak. willing to give into your every word and fully submit to you.

"mhm," you hum, lightly running your fingers up and down your thigh. "so, what's gotcha call in tonight, james? rough day at work or you just wanna hear me touch myself for you?"

"bit of both." he was already lost in this little world between the two of you.

“aw, can’t wait to make you feel good." you tell him, playing with the lace of your underwear. "wanna hear what i'm wearing right now?"

"mhm." he grunts.

"a white t-shirt and lacy blue underwear. wish you were here to take them off of me." you sigh, slipping your hand under the waistband.

"what would you do if i was there right now?"

"hmm, think i'd start by kissing you, making sure you get nice and hard for me then i would beg you to fuck my tight throat for hours. are you hard for me right now?"

"y-yes." logan sighs, trying to slow down a bit.

"that's sweet, james. got me blushing just thinkin' about it." you run your middle finger through your folds, gathering the slick and circling your button a couple times.

"just blushing?" he teases, catching you off guard.

"not 'just blushing'." you giggle softly. "you also got me r-really–ah, fuck! really soaked."

logan could hear the obscene squeak of you dipping your fingers inside of yourself. his chest moves up and down at the same rhythm as his strokes. your pretty little gasps made it difficult for him not to release right away.

"s-shit, honey." he groans, listening to the small wet slaps of you fucking yourself. "wanna taste that pussy of yours. i'm sure it's as sweet as that fuckin' mouth you got on you, honey."

never have you actually gotten wet from the men that call you. most of them let you do all the talking, only offering moans and whimpers. you couldn't quite place a finger on it but something about james was doing it for you.

"w-wish it was you inside of me instead of my fingers." you whine, tickling the spot that makes your vision blur.

"bet you would look so pretty wrapped around my cock, honey."

"i would look even prettier with you dripping out of me." faintly, you can hear him shuffling around, trying to stifle his groans. "don't hide yourself, baby. wanna hear you."

like a rubber band, something snapped inside of logan. unable to control his noises anymore, he's fucking his fist faster than before, chasing after every little moan you let out.

you move to rubbing your button switching occasionally, picturing the man that you believe james to be. a little older and rugged. maybe even someone your father would be friends with. someone you would definitely have a secret crush on.

logan's hips thrusted with need. the louder you got, the faster his orgasm was approaching. he had to hold off, he thought to himself. hear you cum first. by the broken whines and little hiccups you let out, he could tell you were only moments away from your release.

"f-fuck, i'm so close." you squeal, legs shaking a little as you near your high.

"me too, honey."

within seconds, your head is thrown back against the silky pillow case. the sheets under you were drenched but you were too full of bliss to care. logan finally allowed himself to let go as well, pearly white spurts coating his lower stomach and even some landing on his tank top. it's quiet for a minute or so before your little giggles can be heard on the other end of the line.

"something funny?" he asks, confused.

"no, no, it's just..." you giggle again with a sigh. "ever since i started this job, no one's ever made me orgasm. at least not like that."

"hm.." logan couldn't fight off the smile creeping on his face. "might need to call more often then."

"i'll be looking forward to it."

[despairforme]

Oh, her cousin was a woman? Well, that wouldn't help her then. Two chicks together weren't much safer than if they went alone. She sounded quite different from Adelha, who was the motherly type. This chick sounded like she'd get herself into a lot of trouble. Nnoitra didn't much care for that type of woman. Women who tried to be dominant and thought of themselves as strong? No fucking thanks. He liked his women feminine.

❝ I ain't never seen a woman sign up 'fer a fight, so I dunno if it's allowed, but she can try. ❞ There would be no point though, since they had no female fighters at the club, meaning she would have no opponent. She obviously couldn't beat a man. ❝ Ya think I'd get along with her, huh? Mah, we'll see when I meet her. ❞ He seriously doubted he'd get along with a woman like that. If she'd been a guy? Then sure. But yeah. He preferred girly women. All his friends were like that to varying degrees.

Adelha proceeded to ask him more questions. He certainly wasn't used to getting interrogated like this, but since it was about his job, he didn't mind at all. He was engaged in the conversation. He liked being called impressive. ❝ Oh, we got a couple 'a regulars, but I bet they do other jobs as well, 'cause they don't get paid as much as me. ❞ This was a reason why he wasn't friendly with ANY of the other fighters ( except for one ). Nnoitra's paycheck was no joke. His manager was afraid Nnoitra would leave to go fight professionally in MMA, and so he tried to secure his loyalty to the club by showering him in money. Nnoitra had no complaints about that. ❝ I only hang out with one other fighter, Ikkaku. He's cool. ❞ He was one of Nnoitra's only male friends. A pretty chill guy who could handle Nnoitra's dominant personality.

She asked him yet more questions, but this time related to his missing eye. Nnoitra lifted his vacant hand to touch the fabric. Yeah, for sure, missing an eye was a disadvantage. It was a weakness his opponents tried to exploit. He looked at the bowls of stew, his mouth watering. He was so ready for food!

❝ I've been livin' my whole adult life with only one eye, so I'm used 'ta it. It don't bother me no more. ❞ At least not when it came to fighting. ❝ I used 'ta have more pain in my bad eye, 'n my opponents always tried 'ta punch me in 'da eye. ❞ He tapped his eyepatch. ❝ But 's better now, 'n ain't like it's easy 'ta hit me up here anyway, 'cause I'm tall. ❞ In the past, if he'd taken a hit to the eye... The pain had been dizzying. Enough to make him want to throw up. Now that his bad eye had been removed? It wasn't painful anymore. Now it was almost an advantage to have his opponents go for his missing eye, since it was so goddamn fucking predictable. ❝ I ain't never worn no glass eye. Back in 'da days I couldn't afford 'ta get my eyeball removed 'n have a glass eye fitted. ❞ And now? Now his eye-socket was completely ruined and he'd need major reconstructive surgery if he was ever going to get a glass eye. Nah, he'd much rather just wear the eye-patch.

Adelha keeps her attention to Nnoitra even as she carefully moves a sleeping Wesson so the puppy stays comfy and dozing. Her steps soon taking her to where the beef stew and bread rolls sat waiting for them. A warmth there in her words as she chuckles a bit. "I promise to bring my own entourage when I go to cheer you on. Verne on the other hand... She might try to sign up for a fight of her own if they let her. Verne is the kind of woman that is very dominate and wild to live her life riding her motorcycle from one adventure to the next. I think you'd get along well with her enough to be drinking buddies."

Adelha takes a moment for her gaze to linger on Nnoitra's eyepatch. A sadness there before she speaks further. "So you've been a top fighter at Huecho Mundo for years? That's very impressive for a fighter who just walked in one night. Yet I have to wonder if the other cage fighters are regulars or if they circulate around to the other establishments like Huecho Mundo. Do any of them hang out with you after work to chill with some beers or play a few rounds of blackjack?"

The lady pauses to soon have two bowls of beef stew waiting as well as her glass of scotch for her to drain and hum at the taste. Her smile soon there as she points to Nnoitra. "Come to think of it... Nnoitra. You mentioned to me a while back that you got hurt as a teenager. Which lead to you wearing that eyepatch you always have on. Meaning that whoever fights you in the cage would try to take advantage of that. How many times has someone tried to do just that only for you to hand them their own ass? Or do you instead wear a glass eye to Huecho Mundo so new opponents wouldn't be aware to try such?"

Adelha seems keenly interested in finding out more about Nnoitra's night to night interactions at his job. Or for Nnoitra to tell her about how good he is at said job. Her gaze to his face for her to still be smiling at Nnoitra. A genuine interest in someone she considers to be a valued friend and interesting person. While Wesson gives a soft growl before he rolls over while still snoozing on the couch. The puppy obviously enjoying the home away from home nap time.

[imsilay]

Dozakh

i’m back? :>

word count: 1k

not smut just obsessed, manipulative König. also not very proofread cus im lazy and have no time T-T

cr: @gruhhhuu

His heart skipped a beat when you pushed him away. He just wanted to kiss you like he always did, but you didn't seem to be in a mood for it. Because you were determined to talk about what had been bothering you. "We need to talk, König." His eyebrows frowned with confusion and hunger. He needed your taste, and he wanted it now.

“Nein. Come here.” he growled, pulling you back into his arms and wrapping them tightly around your body, trapping your arms and leaving you no room to move. You struggled and squirmed to break free, only making him angrier. "Scheiße." He lifted you up, sitting with you on the couch. "Fine. Talk." he said, breathing impatiently, still holding you down in his arms.

His big, calloused hand ran through your hair as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. "I need some space." you murmured, trying to push him away once again to put some distance between your bodies. He sucked a sharp breath, squeezing your body to stop your movements. The moment you told him that you wanted to be at your apartment for a week to think about your relationship, his brain stopped working completely. How would he continue living without you? How would he eat, sleep and breathe? It was already difficult for him to be away when he was deployed, but how could you expect him to survive without you? "Ja? Why?" his voice sounded calm yet cold. You sighed and attempted to explain: "It's overwhelming, I know you love me, and you want me close, but this," gesturing to your place on his lap and his arms holding you firmly when his voice was cold like ice. "This doesn't feel like love. I love you. I really do, but I don't know if I like being so... clingy." you watched his jaw clench as you spoke. He was always like this, getting angry whenever you mentioned leaving. His arms tightened around your midsection, as if he feared you would slip away. You could hear his breathing, feel his searching eyes scan your face and body. He wanted to be brutal, but couldn't quite lose himself yet. Not yet, at least.

"You think I'm clingy, meine kleine?" he trailed off as his hand wrapped around your throat, not in a menacing manner, but enough to make your breath hitch. "I just wanted to show you how much I love you..." His thumb caressed your pulse, feeling it increase with every passing second. "You can't leave me... You couldn't live without me. That feeling will fade. You'll get used to it." he mumbled and pulled you under his mask, kissing you breathless until you forgot why you were pushing him. His lips devoured yours with such hunger it made your head spin. He pulled back for air and saw that you had a blank look on your face. “See? You didn’t actually want to leave.” he said, his voice slightly hoarse from lust. You panted and tried to catch your breath as he kept you just inches away. It was hot under his mask and his cologne was intoxicating. The arms around your waist slid into your shirt, and his fingers caressed your soft skin. You shivered and softly sighed at the feeling of his big palm covering your body. "König, not again." you sighed, as you tried to resist the temptation he was casting. "I'm not doing anything." he pouted playfully, and kissed you again. The kiss was soft, but you felt the hunger. You felt as if you saw a spark of possession in his eyes. "I know what you're trying to do." you said as he broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against yours. "What do you mean?" he mumbled, but you could still feel his hand squeeze your waist and his fingers dig into your skin. He moved closer and said, "I'm just showing you my love, meine kleine. Your lips are so addicting." As you tried to turn away, he growled and kissed your lips again, this time, forcefully. He then started moving downward to your neck, cheeks, and even your ears, without hesitation. You were his, and it didn't seem that you had a choice. He was marking you with red hickeys on your neck and jaw. When you tried to push him away, he caught your hands and pinned them between your bodies, holding your wrists with one hand. He used his other hand to grip your neck and hold you in place, stealing your breath away. "König, please stop!" you yelled. He finally stopped with your yelling. His eyes wide, and his pupils dilated, making him look like a starving predator, and you his sole prey. "Don't leave," he breathed, leaning in to kiss you again. You pulled your head out of his mask for some much-needed oxygen. You hoped he'd calm down even a little, but he didn't. Instead, he nearly ripped his mask off and glared at you, his jaw tightly clenched and his eyes filled with determination. "Can't you see how desperate I am? How could you abandon me?" he pulled your head closer using his grip on your throat and growled into your ear. Then a moment later, he began trembling, and tears filled his eyes. You felt his desperation and started to feel guilty. He let go of your wrists and moved both of his hands to hold your waist. "I'm sorry, darling. I'm not going to leave you. Don’t cry." you mumbled. You wiped away the tears. Your heart ached as you saw his tear-filled eyes, and you felt an urge to pull him closer. The sound of your voice, that sweet murmur of surrender, was the sweetest music to him. All he had wanted this whole time was you. And you were here. In his arms. He leaned forward and captured your lips. A hot, hungry, desperate kiss.

After the kiss he hugged you and buried his head into your neck as if inhaling your smell directly into his soul. “You’re so easy, but you’re mine.” he mumbled against your skin and kissed your neck softly. He smirked when you worriedly apologized and tried to soothe him. It always worked. If his words didn’t, his tears would definitely…

a/n: please support me by reblogging, if you liked the content ofc <3 your comments also makes my day :* and i love to reply all of them :>

hii ~(T-T)/~ i have a really busy studying schedule that’s why im not online like before :’) but writing is my therapy AND my acc isn’t abandoned (i’m barely looking at my phone screen)

[chanelnumbermine]

2024 f2 boys when you’re on your period | f2 grid picks! x afab!reader

i tried to keep is as gender neutral as possible, i hope you enjoy! i’m still not over this season tbh, so this is me celebrating all the wonderful we made watching f2 this year! most iconic podiums, best battles and the most amazing lineup. it was a pleasure to enjoy this ride with all of you

pairing(s): ollie bearman x afab!reader, kimi antonelli x afab!reader, zane maloney x afab!reader, paul aron x afab!reader, pepe marti x afab!reader, luke browning x afab!reader;

warning(s): mentions of blood?, periods in general, maybe innuendo?

ollie bearman | prema—> haas f1

surprisingly shy about it!

doesn’t want to hurt you in any way, since you’re so sensitive and sore all over

figures its better to not say anything when you’re having an outburst

just watches you with puppy dog eyes and whisperes “can i do anything for you?”

you either burst into tears or scream at him for being so clueless and then also cry into his chest

so he just makes tea

he doesn't really know how to cook, but the british upbringing made him an excellent tea brewer

or so he tells you, knowing it makes you roll your eyes and chuckle

kimi antonelli | prema —> mercedes amg petronas

so so eager to do anything for you!

but kimi might be quite confused about things, especially if you have some weird cravings lol

he’s going to joke about those brownies or steaks, even if you get mad with him, he doesn’t understand he overstepped until you’re really upset with him

so desperate to get you to forgive him

my boy is panicking

turns into a real-life teddy bear

too scared to say anything and trusts that physical contact with do the talking for him

would put on your favourite movie and press kisses all over your cute face until you pout

"please don't pout, tesoro. can i do anything to make you smile again?"

zane maloney | rodin —> formula e

takes this time as an opportunity to get to know you even better

long talks when you can’t sleep bc of cramps and soreness

makes it a point to ask about everything and anything you might need during this time

absolutely ridiculously in love with you, this guy, i swear

has a list of things to do before you get your period

"why would you have a period tracker on your phone?"

he's totally unfazed if you scream at him, which angers you even more and then burst into tears, because why is he so??

he would kiss belly, especially if you're ticklish, just to make you smile a little

paul aron | hitech —> bwt alpine reserve driver

actually enjoys this immensely

he feels useful and that makes him feel good about himself and your relationship

snack run? watch him storm out of the apartment in seconds

blood stain? more than glad to wash your covers

takes this opportunity to bring more blankets and tuck you in

would go absolutely feral if you're particularly sensitive during this time

has to touch you all the time, just to make sure nothing bad happens to you

right? hm, sure. totally not bc he wants to see you squirm a little, nope

pepe marti | campos, redbull academy

resident boyfriend material

but so so smug about it!!!

would be disgustingly overprepared and proud of himself, bragging about what a great partner he is

especially if you get emotional about it (hormones can be rough ugh)

stops yapping once he realises you’re serious and in need some comfort

you’re in his lap in seconds, his warm arms hugging your frame

i would picture him shirtless, trying to give you as much warmth as he can as you cuddle into the late hours of the night

luke browning | hitech —> f2

that’s, my friends, a classic gentleman

he’s quite known for being close with his family, very down to earth, and mature

so i think that attitude would extend to taking care of you during those few difficult days

i picture him calling his mum to ask how to be there for you

he's very perceptive, any gaps in his knowledge are quickly filled by his keen observations and eagerness to learn

would search the internet for cramp remedies and end up with some oddly specific ridiculous one

it's either a miracle or a total disaster, but he manages to bring a smile to your face every time, so he's satisfied

let me know if you'd like more content like that or any drivers you'd like me to write for

masterlist

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

helloooo!! I absolutely adore your works puts me to sleep with a great bag ass smile on my face! Can you please write about the moon boys where the reader is a complete bimbo/ fashion fanatic showing off her newly bought clothes and accessories to them

I hope this is okay! I'm not so good with bimbo reader, so this is a lot more like reader that likes fashion. <3

Moon Boys x gn!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? • ask-travaganza masterlist •

Warnings: Fluff, silliness, a little mention of masturbating in (semi)public, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 712

Steven Grant

Is super interested in your love of fashion because you are interested in it. Literally loves to listen to you talk about it for hours and will not get bored. Asks lots of questions and gets so happy when you excitedly tell him the answers. 

Loves going shopping with you, will give you his honest opinion on everything, even if he disagrees. “That’s awful love.” “I like it.” “Well then get it, of course, it’ll look beautiful on you, but it is hideous.” Pulls faces to make you laugh. The only thing he’ll really grumble about is if you wear clothing that feels bad (sensory wise) for him, but he’ll do it in a jokey way.

“You know where this would look better, love?” “On your bedroom floor?” “No, in the bin.” 

Is happy for you to suggest some clothing choices for him, but he won’t change his style/comfort, he’s very content to be himself. However, he does adore it when you buy him clothing because you always make sure it’s something he would like and it makes his heart so full that you put in so much time and consideration for him. (When he expresses this and you tell him, ‘duh, of course, I love you silly!’ you are getting 1000 kisses. No other option.) 

Really likes it when you try on sexy outfits in changing rooms and send him photos. (This has led to him asking you to touch yourself and send him a video while you do it.)

Marc Spector

Gets a little nervous sometimes if he comes with you shopping in person, this depends on if the shop is very busy/the lights are really bright and overwhelming. It’s difficult to let when he gets overstimulated, because Marc masks a lot and has done so for a very long time. Plus, even if you’ve told him you want him to tell you, he doesn’t want to ruin your fun. 

Also likes it when you buy him clothes, always washes them before he wears them and usually asks you to wear them/lay on them before he puts them on so that they smell like you.

Don’t tell you if he hates something, tries to be so polite, but you can tell because he does a little ‘oh’ face with raised eyebrows before he gets his expression back under control. 

Surprisingly, really loves bright colours. Doesn’t tend to wear them much himself, but is always drawn to them. Really loves whatever personal style you have (bright or dark colours, he doesn’t care, you look amazing no matter what.) and will try really hard to point things out/show you what he thinks you’ll like/fits with your vibe.

Really likes watching shows about fashion with you, gets very invested in The Great British Sewing Bee.

Jake Lockley

Has so much fun going clothes shopping (in person or online) with you and having a massive try on montage. Literally flings the curtains open so dramatically. Will try on anything for the thrill of it. 

Quite often you both have a silly day where you try to dress as each other, this has led to some very realistic interpretations and some utterly chaotic ones. 

If he’s annoyed with you he will find the most eye watering outfit in the universe and wear it, saying ‘It’s the height of fashion’. 

His favourite t-shirt to sleep in is one with grammatically incorrect spanish on it that he found in a charity shop and thought it was hilarious. You cannot get him to part with it for love or money, even though it is falling apart and he has fixed it many times. (You don’t actually want him to get rid of it, but it’s become a fun little teasing game both of you play with each other.)

I’ve said many times that I headcanon Jake as a knitter, (because he is (joking)), I think he would happily knit with you/teach you if you wanted/didn’t know how to. He’ll also happily make you lots of clothes and accessories as gifts. However, it took him a long, long time to ever make and give you a jumper because of the knitter's curse and he just got so paranoid about it.

Thank you for reading!

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If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

(I love your writings, you are an impeccable smut machine)

But I raise you The ghoul being dotted/cared/comforted a bit later in the relationship from a sweet S.O/ partner etc… how would he react??? ( hurt/comfort be making my brain go brrrr)

Have good now❤️

This is the Cooper hurt/comfort request that doesn't have smut in it, and it's the only one of the couple I've been working on that stayed within a reasonable word count. I will let that speak for itself. Thanks for reading, Anon!

One of the funny ("please work with me, here" funny, not "ha-ha" funny) things about Cooper is that he's easy to hurt and difficult to comfort. Particularly so if you two are becoming close, but still feeling growing pains in your personal relationship. His desire for closeness is so overwhelming that it paralyzes him, leaving him afraid to lean on you, lest you flee (or worse, collapse) under the weight of all his issues. For all this time, he's suffered in silence through his worst days, his emotions a tertiary concern at best. Why should now be any different, especially if he wants you to stick around?

When you try to talk to him early on, sensing an emotional "in" as the two of you gravitate towards one another more and more, he likes to deflect with the remark that he didn't bring you into the partnership that led to what you are now to be his therapist. He's developed a hard shell out of necessity over the many decades, but that hard shell protects a still-sensitive core hidden deep inside.

It takes him an almost immeasurable amount of time to reach a decent level of trust with anyone, but once you make it there, the ache in his chest that yearns for understanding and companionship only intensifies. He wants to be known, to be cared about, but to get what he wants, he has to be ready to make himself more vulnerable than he's willingly been in lifetimes. It's difficult and painful and terrifying, and it feels like he fucks it up more often than not. What hurts more is the knowledge that he used to be capable of this, that it came naturally to him at one time.

It's pretty easy to hurt his feelings or put him in a pensive mood, actually. Not that he'd say anything out loud about it. However, there are very clear signs, changes in his behavior that only someone who knew him fairly well would pick up on. He's quieter, less present in the sharpness of his remarks. Meaner.

The fact that you notice these things about him is both flattering and annoying, as you grow bold enough to investigate what's wrong when you do. He's long grown used to the toxic, numbing comfort that simply swallowing down and stewing on his emotions affords him, and you knowing him to this level leaves him feeling rather exposed.

You're quite surprised to find he's actually very sensitive about his looks, what with as prone as he is to using jokes at his own expense as a disarming tool. You're less surprised to find that he's really only sensitive about them when it comes to what you think or say. It's both flattering and almost surreal to wrestle with; typically, you choose your words carefully with Cooper to avoid the cutting sting of his razor-sharp tongue should you say anything stupid. As it turns out, it's a bit of a different art to mind someone's ego, especially while pretending you aren't.

But eventually, with patience and more hard-fought digging into the bedrock of who he is, you find that he's also pleasantly susceptible to apologetic flattery and flirtations, rather easy to draw into a genuine apology with a few complimentary kisses. It's some of the most nakedly human behavior you see from him, this man who leans so hard into othering himself as a defense: failing to resist the charms of a pretty lady one is enamored with, eager for attention, affirmation.

Some hurts are easier to soothe than others, though.

Accidental (or intentional) insensitivities are plentiful in the world you two find yourself in, including your own. After a relatively short amount of time wandering the desert compared to him, even you develop a certain level of thick skin to just how cruel people can sometimes be. But not all wounds come from the outside. There are times where that hard mantle of pure anger fractures just enough to allow the ocean of sadness beneath to be glimpsed for a moment.

When he reveals to you that he's spent all this time looking for his daughter, something really changes between you.

Beginning in that moment, it's in these incredibly vulnerable times that he lets you in the easiest, the torment of what he's missing aching down into his bones and sending him scrambling for whatever he can find to ease the pain. Often it's booze, chems. Harsh, needless violence. More than once you've watched him pick deadly fights like it's compulsory, drowning himself afterwards in whatever he can find that's highest-proof.

You would be lying quite obviously to say that you didn't prefer when he seeks comfort from you, instead. Usually, this consists of him simply using you as a sort of sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry drunkenly on. You're often silent, not sure anything you might say wouldn't fall entirely flat at best. You know where your family is, know they're probably safe without you, even if your feelings about being separated from them weigh heavily on you sometimes. You made the choice to leave; they weren't taken from you.

It's the not knowing that's the hardest, he tells you in not-so-many words. When he's this raw, the far-away look in his eye unsettles you deeply. It's like you can see the pain of centuries of search and struggle reflected there.

Sometimes that far-away gaze is especially wet-looking, and that's when you tuck your chin on top of his head and allow him to hide his face in your throat. You know he hates to cry, that he hates it more with an audience, so you don't look. When you feel warm trails running down the side of your neck, you don't say anything.

Every once in a rare while, when he begrudgingly accepts that you already know exactly how exposed he is, he softly pins you down and rests his head on your stomach or chest, allowing you to fully hold him as close as you want, cradling the back of his head with your hands. This is a behavior you only see when he knows the two of you are truly alone; who knows what sort of damage could be done to the fearsome reputation of Thee Ghoul if people found out he likes to be held when he's sad?

You swear moments like these are the closest you see him get to real rest, to peace, to sleep. He tells you they're no such thing, but when he's truly beaten down, you find him in your lap more and more. You don't complain.

[yandere-daze]

I´m back to my Collar x Malice obsession (currently playing the FD) and so I just had to write something for my favorite boy! And since he already shows some yandere tendencies in the game, I decided to run with it. Hope you enjoy <3

gn reader

1.3k words

tw yandere, obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, manipulation, implied stalking, overprotectiveness, brief mentions of violence

General Yandere! Kei Okazaki headcanons

Okazaki strikes me as the type of person who could take an immediate liking to someone when meeting them for the first time but then needs a lot of time for true love to materialize. Or in this case, obsession.

He´s quite fond of you from the very beginning, he likes seeing you smile and enjoys being around you. But the true obsession only starts once you two get to know each other better.

He has been in a lot of relationships before and while he had liked all of his partners, he never felt like he could show them his flaws, he never felt comfortable being true to himself, always hiding away a part of himself in fear of rejection. It´s like that at first with you as well, he only wants to show you his charming and cool side as he wants to make a good impression on you. How would you ever fall for him if you knew about his past and his mental troubles? About his possessiveness and jealousy?

You inadvertently sealed your own fate when you encouraged Okazaki to be honest with himself and that you would accept him for all his flaws. That you wouldn´t turn away from him, no matter what. That you won´t judge him.

How can you say these things and not expect him to become absolutely obsessed with you?

For the first time, he feels this deep connection to someone else, he feels like he can be himself around you, even if it´s scary and difficult. So you wouldn´t mind if he let his obsession with you show, right? If he got clingy and possessive with you. You said you accepted all of him, right?

Okazaki for sure is a protective yandere. He works as a bodyguard so he´s an expert at making sure certain important people are safe. And you most definitely count as a very important person to him!

Whether you´re actually dating or just acquaintances, Okazaki will insist on accompanying you wherever you go so he can "keep you safe". And he´s quite persistent when it comes to this as well, not taking no for an answer and just tagging along anyway with a smile on his face.

It doesn´t even matter if you were planning on meeting up with him or not, he´s somehow always there whenever you go out to wander the streets. How does he always seem to know when you´re about to head out?

In truth, Okazaki keeps tabs on you even when you believe you are alone. Due to all his training, he´s more than capable of staying hidden in the shadows while still keeping a watchful eye on you. Even if you say you need some alone time, he just can´t risk anything happening to you. He´s still shaken up from that incident all these years ago where his inaction caused his coworker to die on the job. He can´t let something like that happen to you, his dearly beloved.

And next to making sure you´re safe from harm he also has to make sure you´re "safe". What does he mean by that? He has to make sure that no other men try to approach you to ask you out. He knows they´re no good for you, so just leave it all to him.

Okazaki has an uncanny ability to swoop in out of the blue whenever a man tries to talk to you, inserting himself in the conversation and making the other person uncomfortable with his unnerving smile and underlying threats. He can be quite scary when he wants to and thus it´s easy for him to scare people off. He also isn´t against using violence to get them to back off, whether it´s punching them or twisting their limbs until they crack, nothing is off-limits. Under no circumstances will he allow anyone else to sweep you off your feet, you´re meant to be with him after all.

Afterwards, he will explain that the person that tried to talk to you was dangerous. There had been warnings going around at work and so he tried defusing the situation immediately. You see what happens when you´re out there without him? Really, you were in luck that he just happened to be around! Maybe ask him to tag along next time again, okay?

Of course, that´s all lies. No such warnings about a suspicious person existed, he just needed a convenient excuse for chasing them away. He can´t let those people possibly get in between the both of you.

Okazaki is also just really really jealous in general. He doesn´t like it when you spend time with others and if you´re dating, then he would directly tell you this, though he tries to word it in a way that sounds more reasonable than "I want you to cut ties with all your friends". He hates seeing you smile and laugh around people who aren´t him, it makes him fear that you might be getting sick of him.

And he can´t have that. He vows to never let go of you. Strangely enough, he will actually tell you this many times (like he does in the game) but you just take it as a bit of cute possessiveness, nothing too concerning. You just don´t know how obsessed he is with you.

He canonically has thought about locking the player up so they´re for his eyes only so a kidnapping would not be completely out of the question I believe, though I do still see it as a last resort, something he would only do if he felt an immediate threat to your relationship or if he was close to snapping. For now, he would much rather use words to try and convince you to spend more and more time together.

It´s normal for a boyfriend to want to spend all of his time with his darling, right? He just loves you so much! He wants to spend every second of every day with you, aren´t you being a bit cruel by depriving him of that? Why do you insist on being with people that aren´t him? Isn´t he enough? Don´t you love him?

He can get quite manipulative if he feels like it will bring results. But also, he just genuinely feels like that. He just can´t fathom it, how can you bear to stay away from him when he feels like he´s being ripped apart every time he has to part from you?

So to no one´s surprise, Okazaki is very clingy, even before a potential relationship. He loves being close to you, wrapping his arms around you or resting his head against you. He also loves holding your hand in public, both as a way to show affection but also to show anyone else that you´re unavailable. He´s also shameless enough to kiss you in public while people are most definitely watching.

Resting his head in your lap while he falls asleep is also another favorite of his. He´s often exhausted from his job as a bodyguard and tends to not get a lot of sleep, so he treasures being so close to you while he gets to rest up. Please run your fingers through his hair too, he will sigh in bliss if you do!

Also very affectionate in the way he talks to you. Once he realizes his feelings for you, he won´t really try to hide that he likes you, perhaps only the extent to which he does. He loves calling you cute pet names, especially if they make you flustered. He loves teasing you, it makes him proud to know that he can have that sort of effect on you.

"You´re so cute when you get flustered. Tell me I´m the only man that gets to see you like this~"

He will truly never let go of you for as long as he lives.

[menlove]

What do you think actually happened between John and Paul that caused John to become so bitter and vindictive towards Paul? If I remember correctly, the prevailing theory of John being rejected by Paul was actually conceived to retroactively 'explain ' John's behavior because otherwise it seems inexplicable why he would turn on so completely on the person who had been arguably his closest friend, if not lover. However, it's evident from Paul's lyrics and interview to Hunter Davies that he is entirely confused and hurt by John's behavior. Like he even complains everyone always looks to him for blame but nobody sees how much he was hurt by John. I'm not trying to take any sides here of course, both John and Paul had their faults and issues which complicated their relationship but genuinely curious to hear what your theory is.

honestly? bpd. like I barely even think of it as a theory, although ofc it is, bc sooooo many people agree that john could have Easily been diagnosed w bpd

like there's a thing called splitting w bpd where you just. like on a Dime you can't stand someone. and this can be very brief (I've split on people and it lasted like an hour) or permanent but it's very common. like you go every quickly from idealization to demonization of a person. or complete apathy (which is my personal kryptonite rip)

not only that but there's quite a few paul quotes where he talks about the fact that john started "slagging him off" as a way to distance himself from paul/the beatles and sort of "prove" to yoko that he was entirely devoted to her. which also makes sense to me as a bpd cunt bc I've unfortunately done that too 😭 and it's not necessarily an act either, it's just like.......... your brain can't make room for the way you feel for a New Person and an Old Person so you start analyzing everything that Old Person did and finding every flaw and magnifying it and blowing it up until you start feeling bitter or angry and suddenly in your mind someone that was once your world is like. some kind of villain out of a storybook.

and this is very very difficult to deal with and he wasn't really........ getting any help or outside people telling him that his view of paul/the beatles was being distorted. yoko was also pretty paranoid & from several sources encouraged his bitterness/paranoia (which isn't a dunk on her- I'm just a firm believer that she was a Complicated Person and villifying OR deifying is just weird and racist). not to Mention the scream therapy stuff, where I'm Pretty sure he himself has even said he was encouraged to pick apart his life and relationships and find Issues.

so you've got someone whose brain is already a goddamn game of mouse trap telling him that if he's not w paul/the beatles anymore he Has to hate him, surrounded by people encouraging that line of thought, and hounded by media asking him about it and pitting him against paul

and with that in mind, I do think it was also a bit exaggerated by the media. it was definitely encouraged, that's for sure. but even if john didn't Hate Paul, that's how it would be portrayed bc it made a more dramatic and interesting story. they'd ask him (and paul) leading questions to get the most material.

I honestly don't find it inexplicable that he'd turn on him without a "reason" so maybe my own mouse trap of a brain is part of why I disagree so much w that dominant narrative of rejection to explain it 😭 bc for me and many other bpd cunts I know it's just. it could Literally be nothing. often it's just a SENSE of rejection that will cause a split. and I'm willing to bet that their growing distance, paul pushing the band harder to work after brian died, paul not really accepting yoko and johnandyoko, the possible dying out of a sexual aspect of their relationship, paul proposing to jane & later getting with/marrying linda, paul Accepting john's ask for a divorce, paul going out and making an album on his own....... well. it's a perfect storm for my fellow bpd bitch to go "well fuck him I never loved him that guy fucking sucks and whatever he does doesn't hurt me anyway bc I don't care At All he's just the absolute worst and I can't stand him"

which of course had to be whiplash for paul. from his pov it was genuinely out of nowhere. but I will say all his comments about it and john needing to put him/the beatles aside for yoko and just..... all his quotes around john's mental health seem to be very VERY aware of all this. he knew john better than anyone & his main confusion seems to be around whether or not john ever actually loved or even liked him. which is an understandable emotional reaction. I think, though, he does show a deep understanding of john when he talks about all of this which makes me soooo :(

[midnight-black2]

prompt 4 for jann?

He and reader both attend gt academy and he has a crush on them. Reader becomes very close with matty which leads to him and jann fighting over them and reader showing jann who they really want^^

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘

pairing : jann mardenborough x reader

synopsis : what the req saysss

disclaimers : sub!jann, dom!reader, palming, jealousy, teasing, etc (NOT FULL SMUT!!)

note : i just now realized that i didn't actually include the prompt quote, but just know that it's obviously still based off of the prompt. also, this is like a lime, so it's not full smut, sorry if you wanted that! if you did, you can request a part two, but i just left it at a makeout sesh that eludes to smut, lol

jann hated matty.

he hated the way matty spoke, all cocky with an edge to every end of a sentence. he hated the way he walked, head held high with such unnecessary confidence. but most of all...

...he hated the way you liked matty so much. always saying things like "he's really quite nice once you get to know him." and as much as jann despised it, he knew he couldnt really stop you. hell, he probably wouldn't even try to. but god did it get under his skin when you and matty would laugh together, looking like you were having the time of your lives.

"no no, i'm serious!" you exclaimed, before leaning back in and whispering something in mattys ear. something secretive. a secret. why could you tell marty secrets? why couldnt jann be in mattys place right now? why did jann have this undeniable stabbing pain in his chest watching the two of you from afar?

"you can't be," matty said, furrowing his brows with a smirk. you shrugged. jann and matty made eye contact, and mattys smirk only grew, it was like he knew what he was doing, which made jann only angrier.

it's not like jann knew what you and matty were talking about, and it might have done him more good if he would have listened. then he would've realized you guys were talking about him. how you had a crush on him, and how you were preparing to tell him. but it was only until jann was standing in front of you, asking just what it is you were whispering in mattys ear and giggling about that he became aware.

"the conversation wasn't much," you replied, absentmindedly. you wanted to wait until the right moment to truly fess up, but he was making it rather difficult.

"it didn't seem like it," he said, under his breath, swallowing hard. he regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. however, there was no going back.

"fine, if you really want to know, i was telling him about how much i like you, jann," you said, with a sigh. sure, you could sense his jealousy from a mile away. you didn't ever think he'd do something about it, though. now, he was proving you wrong. his eyes widened, as he froze. his mouth opened, then closed. he wanted to say something, but he felt like he didn't have the right to.

"Y/N-i... i didn't know i'm sorry i just-" you cut him off with a snort.

"it's all good, jann. i won't hold it against you or anything. but, why were you so annoyed by me hanging out with matty anyway?" you asked, trying to suppress your growing smirk. he looked down, with a hoarse chuckle. the situation was ironic, surely.

"because i like you too," he uttered, anxiously. even though you had already said how you felt, he couldn't help but be exponentially nervous. it was just-- you. no other thoughts apart from you and driving consumed him. those were the two most important things to him. of course you made him nervous. you grinned complacently.

"i know."

"you...do?" he questioned, looking back up and facing you. his brows were furrowed, and you laughed.

"i've known since the start."

"it could not have been that obvious," he said, with a defeated chuckle. he tried defending himself, but to no avail.

"oh trust me, it most definitely was," you answered. "...so now do you believe that it's you that i want?"

"well yeah, i mean you've said it but..." he trailed off. he didn't know how he intended to finish that sentence. he also couldnt find the courage to finish it, anyway.

"let me prove it to you."

"how?" he asked, voice shaky and uncertain. he maybe had a clue of what you were suggesting. maybe.

"follow me, and you'll find out," you said, gesturing for him to do just that. so, he did. he was too curious not to. you both went to the sleeping quarters, which currently were unoccupied since everyone was out training. you urged him to sit down on your bed, and he complied. you then sat down next to him.

"i think it's really ridiculous that you couldnt see how much i do like you, jann," you said, as you intently looked in his eyes, awaiting a response.

"im sorry. i didn't think i could be so dense," he said, with a breathy laugh. his eyes flickered to your lips. it was a split second, but it was noticeable enough. you leaned in slightly, and he felt this sort of magnetic pull to do the same. there was only a breath between you, as your lips grazed against his. you sealed the gap, finally. lips moving in sync, perfectly harmonious with one another.

your hand cupped his cheek, as he rested his hand on your waist. you both started to kiss each other with fervor. when you eventually pulled away, the two of you were breathless. his grasp on your hip tightened as he desperately attempted to ground himself. there was no way this was happening...--no, it was. it was definitely happening. because when you crashed your lips back on his, and slipped your tongue inside his mouth, and lied him down and hovered over top of him, he felt it all crash at him at once, like a big wave. his head was reeling.

"do you want this?" you mumbled against his lips. he nodded eagerly, and you found it entirely amusing. "i need your words, jann."

"please," he begged. that was all you needed, before your hand trailed down his body. you reached the part of him that ached for you. you started palming him over his clothing. he whimpered softly, shifting and writhing beneath you.

well, let's simply say you guys had a lot of fun that day.

╰┈➤ uh oh, cliffhanger! might post a pt.2 sometime, idk

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 © 𝐤𝐲𝐚-𝐢𝐬-𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐥

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐲? 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

[curiositydooropened]

Group Therapy

Steve’s friends encouraged him to attend group therapy, to push past the nightmares and insomnia. In such a small community of sufferers, he didn’t expect to meet you.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x female!Reader

Wordcount: 15,461

Warnings: group therapy, trauma, PTSD, nudity, recreational drug use, minor character death (not canon characters). It's therapy, guys. There's a lot of angst, guilt, speaking of dead loved ones, etc.

This fic is incomplete. This is just part one, but I was dying to get it out, so here it is. There's a bit of a cliffhanger/questions unanswered, but those will be answered in the next part! xo

Navigation • Masterlist

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Joyce suggested group therapy. She knew of a group that met weekly in the old DMV building. Steve wasn’t one to sit in chairs and talk about his feelings (although he pressured the kids to do as much every time he saw them), but he wasn’t one to deny the advice of a woman that cared for him like he hoped a mother would. 

Joyce Byers often surprised him with those sentiments, dragging him from his car by the scruff of his neck to partake in family dinners with the kids or asking about the various dates with various girls she’d seen him on and with around town. She worried over his headaches, offering tried-and-true remedies, and all-but drove him to the optometrist to get his eyes checked. 

Much to his chagrin, he had needed glasses, and much to Robin’s chagrin, he only wore them around Mrs. Byers or the kids, who would tattle on him if he didn’t. 

So, when Joyce cornered him on Labor Day, after watching the skittered reactions of each sound effect the kids made during their weekly DnD game, Steve couldn’t argue with her logic. 

“I found this flyer. I’ve gone a few times, but it’s on Thursdays and Thursdays are difficult with work,” she explained, placing the leaflet into his hand. “But it’s a good group of people, and I’ve seen a few young people go. I do really think it’d be nice to be able to talk to kids your own age, you know?” 

He shrugged and offered a weak smile, and if anyone else had recommended it, he probably would have shrugged it off, crumpled the paper and tossed it into the bin at the end of the McDonald’s drive through. But it was Joyce, and she wouldn’t have mentioned it if she wasn’t genuinely concerned. 

So on Thursday night, when the sad streets of Hawkins cleared of construction workers and the few loyal townsfolk driving home from their 9-to-5s, Steve gripped 10-and-2 and inched his way to the old DMV parking lot. He pulled into the same spot he did when he got his license three years ago, and he was surprised to see the lot littered with vehicles from all sorts of residents from Hawkins and the surrounding county. It took him a shaky breath or two to muster the courage to go inside, but he figured this couldn’t be worse than killing a few inter dimension monsters. 

Before he exited his car, he pulled his glasses from their case in the center console and slipped them up the bridge of his nose, hooking them over his ears, and as the dimly lit concrete building got a little sharper, and his headache began to alleviate, he left the car and walked toward the front doors.

The collection of chairs made a perfect circle in the center of the room, but only two people sat, the rest mingling near a coffee carafe and a giant box of doughnuts. Steve found himself jittery enough, and jelly doughnuts still reminded him too much of the gaping hole in Eddie’s ceiling, so he opted to skip refreshments and find himself a seat in the circle.

His hand shook against the cool metal of the chair, from nerves or excessive damage to his nervous system, he was never quite sure anymore. He clenched his fist to squeeze past the tremor and seat himself, glancing down at the watch on his wrist to avoid the gaze of the others around the circle. He had to check the time three more times before his brain registered what time it actually was, and by then, the others had started to find seats around the circle. 

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and offered a shy smile to the woman who sat beside him. She seemed wary of his presence, but smiled politely in return. And because that exchange felt safe enough, he ventured a glance around the circle. He was surprised to see about twenty people, in various stages of life and dress, mostly cheerful, swapping mumbled greetings and shuffling into their seats to get comfortable. 

The slam of door closing startled everyone to silence though, mood shifting to static as a woman in a tight-fitting skirt suit clacked across the linoleum toward the circle, waving the legal pad in her hand. “Sorry, sorry! Just me.” She explained, finding her seat directly at Steve’s eleven. She glanced up from wire-rimmed glasses, similar to Steve’s and flashed him the brightest smile he’d seen in a long time.

“I see we have a few new faces this evening,” she glanced around to avoid Steve the embarrassment, but he felt heat fan at his face as attention drew his direction. 

“That’s great. Let’s all be sure to welcome them warmly.” She continued. “For those of you who don’t know, this is a group therapy session. We talk about our feelings here. This is a judgement-free zone, and we would really appreciate it if the things shared didn’t leave this room. What happens in group therapy stays in group therapy, right?” 

The group around him let out a chorus of tired agreement, as though they’d heard the spiel week after week. 

“Great. Now I do feel the need to preface that we talk a lot about loss during these sessions. Loss of loved ones, loss of homes, loss of control. If it gets to be too much for anyone, I encourage you bow out. You know your own boundaries better than the rest of us, but we also want you to know that some of us have found a real community here, and we’re here to welcome you with open arms.” This time, she spoke directly to Steve.

He offered a tight-lipped smile, but suddenly found his hands interesting to look at, the crags of scarring across his knuckles, the callouses that littered his palm over the last few months. 

“Let’s start with an ice-breaker, shall we? We’ll go around the circle and share our name and say a hobby we’ve picked up recently! We haven’t done hobbies in a few weeks, right?” A chorus of no’s filtered through the circle. She clapped her hands together. “Perfect. I’ll start. Hi, I’m Cheryl, and a few weeks ago, my friends got me hooked on couponing. Have you heard of that? Where you cut coupons out of the Sunday morning paper? I got my groceries for half the price!” 

“Half the price?” The woman beside Steve startled him. She seemed genuinely intrigued. 

Cheryl grinned, winked. “I’ll tell you all about it after this. Go ahead, dear.” 

And then beside Cheryl, voice raspy yet calm, you spoke your name and Steve’s attention was drawn to you like gravity. Joyce had mentioned people his age, but at first glance around the circle, no one here was younger than their 30s, no one but you. Your hair was shoved under a knit cap, and buttons of your denim jacket clacked against one another as you adjusted in your seat, tucking one sneakered foot up on the chair with you. Steve leaned a little closer on his knees to hear what you had to say. 

“I’ve picked up cooking, mostly out of necessity,” you tucked your chin to your knee and finally ventured a glance Steve’s direction. “Learned how to put out a grease fire on Friday.” Your eyes flared a challenge, a rebellious streak that sent something through Steve as he watched your eyes observe his frame. He sat up a little straighter under your scrutiny, and you turned to hear the comments being made in regards to your answer to the prompt. “I might be able to manage a casserole. Give me a month.” 

And it went that way down the line, various people with boring, small-town names talking about crochet and mountain biking. Steve watched them politely, anxiety curdling his stomach the closer around the circle it got to him. Occasionally, he’d glance your direction, as though you’d offer a lifeline, an out. Cheryl smiled encouragingly and every hobby he’d had flew from his memory. 

“And what’s your name?”

“Uh…” His throat was dry. “Steve. I’m Steve.” 

“Hi, Steve,” the room echoed, led by your conducting arms. The call startled him, and the room was reduced to chuckles at the apparent inside joke. Steve noticed the way you hid your laughs behind a hand, cuff of your sleeve pulled up over your knuckles.

“Ignore them,” Cheryl reprimanded, rolling her eyes. “Tell us one of your hobbies.”

Hobbies, hobbies. He swallowed, glanced around the room, trying to recall the pastimes of the others’. He definitely didn’t cook or coupon. He scratch a particular grading itch at the back of his neck and shrugged. “I swam in high school.” 

“Okay, swimming’s cool,” Cheryl encouraged, smile too bright, blinding. “What about now? Do you still swim?” 

He winced. Swimming and him hadn’t gotten along in recent years, what with Barb and Water Gate. “Yeah, not really.” 

“Well what do you like to do for fun?” 

Joyce hadn’t prepared him for the questions he’d be asked. Once again, head-empty, he wracked for something he did in his free time. Chauffeur little shits to the arcade and back? Watch them play their nerd game? None of those really constituted as fun, and he couldn’t exactly let a group of total strangers know that his most relaxed moments were spent at Hopper’s old cabin sharing a joint between co-trauma-victims.

He licked his lips and considered dates he’d been on recently. Out of habit, his eyes flickered to you. Your head was tilted to one side, expression expectant, and he realized he’d taken too long. 

He blinked and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Um, driving? I really enjoy just going for long drives. Does that count?” 

“Of course it does. Driving is a great way to let off steam.” Cheryl expressed with too bouncy of a nod. 

“Kind of car you got, kid?” A grumpy old man asked off to the right. 

Steve turned to face him. “BMW 733i. It’s an ’83.” 

The man whistled, nodded. “German-mades are good cars.”

“Got a good sound system?” A man asked from the opposite side of the circle.

Steve shrugged, nodded, ran a hand through his hair, nearly knocking his glasses off. He still wasn’t used to them. “It’s pretty good. Bass doesn’t blow me out.”

When that man offered a hum of approval, he felt himself warm a little, like that little hum was the acceptance of the group. He relaxed a bit further into his chair and the woman beside him, Mina, took over, discussing her doll collection at length. 

It continued this way around the circle, people discussing their interests like this wasn’t a group therapy session, like you weren’t all here to discuss what had happened to you or who Vecna had removed from your lives. You were just a circle of humans getting to know one another and talking about your passions, and Steve felt a bit soft about it. He even pitched in the conversation at one point when Carl, the sound system specialist, spoke about building his record collection. Steve offered a signed copy of a Kenny Rogers album he knew his dad wouldn’t miss. Carl seemed elated. Steve felt proud to be useful. 

When he looked away, your gaze caught him, eyes narrowed in suspicion at his gesture, and he felt his face heat and he looked away. He didn’t recognize you, didn’t think he’d seen you before, but that insecurity lingered, the fear that you’d gone to school with him and King Steve had been a total dick to you.

“Alright,” Cheryl clapped her hands together. “That was fun. Shall we talk about the tough stuff now? Who wants to go first?” 

—

No one made him talk, and for that he was grateful. He sat in silence, just soaking up the stories and the heartache, driving that ceaseless guilt a little further. He caught emotion in his throat at one point, during a particularly heartfelt story about Mina missing her niece and nephew for Labor Day, and he had to force himself to think about something else, anything else while he wiped the sting from his nostrils. 

When you all stood, at the end of the session, he had half a mind to bolt, to leave and never return, to never mention it to Joyce. He prayed the rest of you would forget his existence, although he’d never forget all of you, your stories, the waver in voices as stories were passed around. He wanted to run, but Carl stopped him with a sturdy hand clapped to his shoulder, and then Elmer approached and the two men asked him questions about his car, eased him back from the anxiety tightening the collar of his shirt. 

The older men argued about BMW versus Saab, and Steve found his attention straying from the conversation, as it often did when his dad and his uncle got into similar arguments over holiday dinners. He found you, pinching the edge of a glazed doughnut. You seemed unimpressed and unengaged in the conversations starting to pitter out as one-by-one, people started to leave. 

Elmer shook Steve’s hand, excuse himself, and Carl did the same. Steve pulled his keys from his jacket pocket and followed them out, a crisp chill falling over the lot. He breathed fog and glanced upward at a cloudless sky.

“Stars look weird, huh? After all that smoke.” A voice from below startled him, and he looked to find you sidled up next to him, hands shoved into your jacket pockets. 

“Really weird,” he agreed, but he couldn’t turn back to the twinkling night sky, not when you were standing beside him, staring up at the cosmos in wonderment, moonlight painting your skin a pale blue. “I’m sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?” He didn’t feel the sting of familiarity, but he figured the question was good to cover his bases. 

You tilted your head to face his and a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Don’t think so.” You pulled a hand from your pocket to offer it his direction, reintroducing yourself. 

He took your hand, small and warm from the insulation of your jacket. “Steve.” 

“Steve who swam in high school and drives now.” You affirmed with a nod, placing your hand back in your pocket.

He chuckled and nodded. “That’s me.” He gestured to the car.

You offered a whistle to mimic Elmer’s, as though his car was something to marvel at, and that made a laugh bubble from his lips again. He liked the way you smiled at his laugh, as though you were proud you pulled it from him. He thought of Joyce always trying to cheer him up, of her placing the flyer in his hands. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

You quirked an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Shoot.” 

“Is this…” He glanced backward at the building, now void of light, doors locked, quiet. “Is this group therapy thing helping you at all?” 

“Honestly?” You brought a thumb to your lips to chew at the corner of your nail, and you waited for him to nod before you shrugged. “Kind of. It’s nice to have people to talk to. Better than letting it stew.”

He knew what you meant, the guilt that bubbled there, just under the surface. He nodded. Then felt a little braver. “Do you come every week?” 

You shrugged again, nodded. “Nothing better to do.” 

“Except putting out grease fires,” he pointed out, tested the water with a tease, let you know he was listening. He didn’t know why he felt so desperate for your validation now, felt pride when his joked pulled a smile from your lips, your eyes rolling. 

“Uh huh.” You took a few steps away from him. “Have a good night, Steve. See you next week.” 

“See you.” He waited until you were in your car with the ignition on before he pulled out of the lot.

—

The following Thursday took twice the courage. Steve considered dragging Robin along, or even Eddie, but Robin had to work and Eddie still wasn’t widely accepted in the greater Roane County area. So, with a few steady breaths, he entered the little concrete building with a Kenny Rogers album under his arm. Carl stood from the circle to greet him, taking the vinyl to admire it, and Elmer met them near the snacks table to discuss a model BMW he found in his catalog, wanted to know if Steve would like him to buy it with his next order.

The men were much older than Steve, and gruff with their greetings, stiff upper-lip and all that, and Steve felt himself shy under their attention, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, searching the room for a familiar face. Well, if he was being honest, he was searching for you.

“Or not, saves me a few bucks that I could use on a Thunderbird I was looking at,” Elmer grumbled under his breath when Steve hadn’t responded, and the younger boy shook his hair from his eyes.

“No, no. It’d be really cool if you ordered the model for me,” he offered a smile. “I have a friend that paints models.” 

It took ages to be allowed into Erica’s room, only permitted to babysit her from the doorway with crossed arms and a frown, but one day she finally asked for his opinion on a paint job she’d done on a model dragon. Eddie had commissioned her, paid her extra to keep the Big Bad a secret from the boys, but she wasn’t sure about the gold. So when she called him in with an “okay, shithead, you can come in”, Steve made sure to really admire her handiwork. He’d never forget the proud smile etched into her sweet little face.

“It’s a fine art,” he continued. “I’d love to try.” 

Elmer puffed his chest the way Erica did, grumbled in agreement.

 This time, Steve felt brave enough to pour himself a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It thawed his cold fingers and scalded the roof of his mouth. The doughnuts had been swapped for deli sandwiches, but all of the non-veggie ones had been taken by the time he got there. He stuck with the coffee and found his way to his seat, the same as last week, semi-in hopes that you’d find your same seat across from him. 

He’d dressed to impress, after all. A newly purchased green sweater warmed him, hugged his biceps how he liked, and his favorite pair of Levis. Well, not his favorites, those still held a few blood stains, but these were similar and new. He didn’t wear his glasses either, still self-conscious that they made his nose too square and his eyes too round. At least, that’s what Mom said when he showed her. She reprimanded him for not taking her to pick them out. 

He looked around the circle at mostly blurred faces, a few familiar, like Mina beside him, Carl and Elmer. Cheryl clacked her way to her seat at his eleven once more, repeated the spiel from last week. Your chair, along with about five others, remained empty. 

Steve couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the door every few minutes, between ice-breaker introductions. He sputtered “uh… tiger?” for his favorite animal because again, caught in the moment, he couldn’t think of a single other animal save a Demodog or Demobat, and in this crowd, a joke like that wouldn’t go over so well. 

A woman named Dolores, who he recalled from last week, spoke about her struggles at the grocery store this week, staring at her husband’s favorite box of cereal. A man named Jeffrey started to speak about hearing his daughter’s voice everywhere he went, when the door slammed open, startling them all. 

Steve spun in his chair to see you enter, bleary eyed and sniffle nosed. You didn’t flinch to find all eyes on you, just turned your attention to the coffee table and picked up a sandwich to take a bite from. 

“Keep going, Jeffrey,” Cheryl encouraged, and the group turned back around to face the man speaking his tragic tale. 

Steve had lost all focus. He side-eyed you, watch your hand tremble around the carafe handle, ached to stand up and assist you. He glanced to Cheryl to confirm her eyes were on him. She sent him a pointed look and pointed a well-manicured fingernail Jeffrey’s direction, like a school teacher during a guest lecturer.

“And just this morning,” Jeffrey continued, voice wavering, “as I opened up the garage door, I heard her say - “

“Fuck!” Your voice rang out, followed by the ruckus of the carafe and your cup and sandwich crashing to the ground. Coffee and vegetables littered the linoleum, painting the yellowed tiles a deep brown. 

The entire circle flinched. Steve leapt from his seat to help you, but Mina pulled him down by the cuff of his sleeve, which she used to help herself from her seated position. “You sit, honey. I’ll help her.” 

Steve ventured another glance your direction. You were nursing the edge of your hand with your lips, skin likely scalded, and tears were now cascading over your florescent-kissed cheekbones. You sucked in a sob and pulled a fistful of napkins off the table to start to soak up the mess when Mina met you and placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you. She mumbled something, and you nodded, turning to leave. Just before you did, you glanced up at the circle and met Steve’s gaze, and when he found the sorrow there, he realized he’d do anything to will it away, to bring back that half-cocked smile from the week before.

“Keep going, Jeffrey. What did you hear her say when you opened the garage door?” Cheryl pressed on, as though your interruption hadn’t occurred, as though Steve would be able to focus on anything else.

—

The tangy sweet scent of marijuana wafted from the patchwork furniture set all the way through boarded-up rafters. The chill of autumn set in, and Steve’s teeth chattered between each hit of the joint, and he huddled tighter into Robin’s tiny frame under the crochet quilt they pulled from the back of Eddie’s van. He felt tired and cold and hungry, and a mystery substance on the quilt was far too close to his face, but he was too cold to move it. With a groan, he settled further into the poorly stuffed cushions and the warm vanilla of Robin’s perfume. 

“No groaning, man. You’re harshing my mellow,” Eddie swatted at him from the other side of Robin. He was farther gone, one joint in when they got there. Steve was sure the ceiling danced for him, and his leather jacket was probably a whole hell of a lot warmer than Steve’s puffer vest. 

“Steve’s in love,” Robin explained the bad attitude. Ever the linguist, she often translated Steve’s wordless tantrums. She was never right.

He groaned again. “I’m not in love.” He plucked the joint from her ice cold fingers and took another hit, grateful for the deep burn in his chest until it sputtered out of him in a big cloud that rose with the heat through the hole in the roof. 

“Dude, fourteen hot, hot women came into work over the last two days, and you didn’t even say hi. To any of them.” 

He didn’t recall fourteen, maybe one or two. Beside, he was busy stacking shelves and searching the database for all of the Hawkins residents with your name. 

“Jesus,” Eddie giggled. “You are in love. So who’s the broad? Is she hot?” 

Steve groaned and warmed the tip of his nose on Robin’s shoulder, lest it freeze and fall off. Robin squeaked when it brushed her skin, and she sent a punch to his ribs. “Ow, fuck,” he whined, rubbing at the growing bruise, but something about the grin on Robin’s face made him chuckle. 

This made Robin sputter a laugh, and Eddie chimed in with his voracious little giggle, and soon they were a mess of laughter, clutching at their sides to catch their breaths, tears in their eyes, the chill of autumn almost forgotten. 

“I’m hungry,” Eddie sighed, pushing himself up off the couch with minor difficulty. He drug his feet to the cupboards. The cabin hadn’t been properly stocked in months, maybe a year. They ate the last bag of popcorn last time, and Steve forgot to pick up supplies on his way in from work. “Either of you know how to cook?” 

“Steve’s girlfriend’s a chef.” Robin snickered, eyes squeezed tight to avoid the spin of the stars. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Steve huffed. That’s not even what he wanted, not even the point of asking Robin if she knew anyone with your name, anyone that looked like you. He wasn’t interested in dating you. He wanted to make sure you were okay. 

“You met her at a restaurant?” Eddie tried to piece together the story. “Do they deliver?” 

“I met her at group therapy,” Steve ran a tired hand down his face, completely knocking his glasses free. When had he put those on? 

“So she’s a nutter like you then,” Eddie grinned, and Robin burst back into that raspy laugh that would normally send Steve into his own giggle fit if he wasn’t so irritated by the accusation. 

“She’s not a nutter. She’s been through some hard shit. We all fucking have,” he snapped, stirring his attention to a loose strand of red polyester near his sightline on the cushion. 

His smoking buddies quieted their laughs. Robin sunk into him, curling her head into the crook of his neck. She was cuddly high and flirty drunk, and Steve hated the melt of his heart when she did this. She was like a cat, obnoxiously free-willed and too smart for her own damn good. And she knew when to turn on the charm to avoid a confrontation. 

“Hey, Steve,” Eddie called from the kitchen.

Steve hummed a response, annoyance temporarily tampered. 

“Mellow harshed.” Eddie flipped him the bird. 

Robin’s head bobbed under his chin, setting him off, and the three of them started to chuckle again.

—

Week three, Steve arrived early, snatched a maple bar and found his seat, sneaker tapping linoleum subconsciously while he stared at the entrance. Everyone else mingled, and Carl and Elmer offered friendly waves from their place in line for coffee, but Steve was waiting for you. An entire week he spent searching for you. Henderson even made a few fake sales calls from the phone directory, but all searches had come up void. You were like a ghost. And after day six, he thought maybe he had imagined you. 

It would be the next logical step. Head trauma could lead to migraines, tremors, poor eye-sight, bad hearing, why not add hallucinations to the list? If he made you up, his brain did a really good job with the fine details. He could still see the frayed edges at the cuffs of your denim jacket, could still hear the click of metal buttons against one another as you repositioned yourself in your chair.

You cleared your throat, and he realized you’d come and sat across from him, and he was staring. 

He swallowed, nearly choked when he realized he had a bite of doughnut in his mouth. It went down too large, unchewed. He felt it roll down his esophagus into an empty stomach and he winced, coughed. “Hi,” he managed finally, throat dry. 

“Y’okay?” You bit back a laugh, smiling forming at the corners of your lips, wrinkling your eyes, and Steve thought he could fly. It was an excellent improvement from last week. 

He nodded. “Are you?”

You caught the subtext in his question and he watched your expression pinch as you found the frayed edge of your jacket with your fingers. He wanted to stand, to sit beside you, to make you smile again, to laugh. 

But the doors slammed shut and everyone not seated had moseyed to their seats. The room was emptier than last week, and Steve felt a twinge of panic that people were leaving, that they felt healed and no longer needed to come, and he wondered if you felt that way too. Cheryl sat in royal blue and spoke her spiel like she hadn’t rehearsed it, and once again, to her left, you started the ice-breaker round with your name and your favorite book, Peter Pan.

Steve’s heart thumped in his chest at the odd bit of information. A boy who collected kids, who was too pressured by the adults in his life to grow up, a boy at odds with his own shadow, intrigued by a girl from a far-off land. He realized he was staring again when you offered him wide-eyes, mockingly telling him off, but the smile edged on your pink lips again, and he settled into his chair, satisfied once more.

Once the ice-breaker round had finished (Steve muttered something about Sherlock Holmes, running a hand through is hair. He knew the gist, and he thought you seemed impressed, maybe intrigued? You cocked an eyebrow at his answer.), he felt a little less comfortable in his chair. If was being totally honest, he’d hoped you’d open up about last week, about what made you so sad, so helpless. It had been eating him up inside. So, he focused his gaze on you when Cheryl asked who wanted to start, and you kept your eyes on the squeak of your sneakers against the floor. 

“Steve, how about you?”

Steve blinked at the sound of his name, sat at attention. 

“You’re our newest member of the group. How are you feeling about it? Would you like to share maybe what brought you to us?” Cheryl’s voice was the softest he’d heard it, a sweet lull that reminded him achingly of Joyce, like a soft hand brushing hair from his forehead. 

He swallowed, felt all eyes on him, all except yours. He took a deep breath and looked at Cheryl. She offered the most understanding of smiles. He licked his lips. 

“I don’t um… I don’t really know how to start.” His hands were trembling, and he shoved them under his ass, but that caused the chain reaction of his knee bobbing wildly, heel lifted from the ground. 

“How did you find out about the group?” Cheryl asked. 

“Oh, a friend’s mom gave me the flyer. Told me I should check it out.” 

Cheryl nodded. “She was worried about you?” 

It hurt to hear someone else say it. “I guess so.” 

“It was sweet of her to think of you,” she smiled. “What do you think worries her?” 

He thought about it too often, harbored too much guilt for being a burden on Mrs. Byers, on them all. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, probably the doughnut still lodged there somewhere. “I don’t sleep much, and um… I guess I startle too easily.” 

Proving his point, a chorus of agreements from the circle scared him back to reality, and he realized there was a room full of people listening intently, a room full of people that encountered the same problems. 

“What’s keeping you from sleeping?” 

He shifted in his seat again, hands red and creased, pulsing as the blood returned to the tips of his fingers. “Nightmares, mostly. I have this horrible recurring dream.” He shuddered to think of it.

“Tell us about it.” 

He swallowed, ventured a glance your direction. You had your thumbnail to your lips again, but you offered a nod of encouragement. He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, um…” He’d have to censor it. These people knew about the monsters, the horror, but not the specifics. They didn’t know the metallic tang of Demobat blood. They didn’t know the din of a Grandfather clock chiming Max’s death, the downfall of their town. He squeezed his eyes shut to quell the echoing, ground himself in a room that wasn’t shaking from seismic activity. 

“I have dreams about my grandma,” you chimed in, and Steve’s eyes slammed open to watch you pull the attention away. You sat up straight in your seat. “They’re always the same. We’re in her kitchen, and she’s making a beef stew. So I’m cutting the celery for her. And she tells me I’m doing a great job.” Your voice wavers on the last weird, and Steve watches the sorrow slip over your features again. You went somewhere else, far off, somewhere painful, for a split second. 

“But you feel like you’re disappointing her?” Steve braved his question, and to his surprise, and yours, you nodded, wiping a tear from your cheek before it could slip down your soft skin. He nodded. “Mine too. All of my dreams are about my friends, and in all of them, I just…” He shrugged. “Let them down.” 

“I have this dream that I’m dancing with my wife,” Carl pitched in. “We’re swaying to Miles Davis, and she’s laughing. It’s so real, I can smell her perfume. That one’s almost worse than the dreams about monsters.”

The group mutters in agreement. “I have a dream about my niece playing in the back yard,” Mina agrees. 

Steve doesn’t pull his gaze from you as people continue to share their dream stories. You offer a sad smile, and bring your knee up to your chest before turning your attention to the next speaker. He continued to watch you, the soft cough of a laugh, the upturn of your lips. Maybe Robin was right. 

—

Week Four brought on scarves and gloves, the squeak of wet shoes against linoleum. Elmer brought a large box with a model and paints and brushes, which he shoved under Steve’s chair with furrowed brows and gruff instructions. Carl was humming The Gambler. Steve felt warm, and when he shrugged out of his puffy vest, draping it on the back of his chair, the warmth didn’t cease. It was the same warmth he felt on DnD nights, when he sat on the sofa and read the latest issue of Sport’s Illustrated and Dustin shot spitballs at him from across the table. It was the same warmth he felt when Robin got high and tucked herself into the crook of his neck and gushed about Vickie’s perfect face. 

He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to the crooks of his elbows and waited for the rest of the group to file in when a voice from Mina’s chair startled him.

“Hey.” It was you.

He blinked your direction, picking out the lines of your face from this close, a soft twinkle in your eye. You looked flushed, a bit out of breath, and that set a screw loose inside of him somewhere. He could feel it tinkering around, bouncing off his gears. “Hey,” he breathed.

The door slammed closed, eliciting a communal gasp like it did every week, and you straightened yourself beside him, shrugging out of your denim jacket to expose an oversized sweatshirt, forest green with torn cuffs and a screen printed watercolor of a national park, Yellowstone, maybe? He couldn’t make out the scrawl that had been eaten away by the washing machine. Cheryl clacked her way across from you both.

“Listen,” you hissed, catching his attention again. “I need to talk to Cheryl for a second after this is over, but I want to give you something. Will you wait for me?” You spoke under your breath, out of the side of your mouth, like a secret, and Steve couldn’t help the laugh that caught on his tongue. 

“Yeah, I can probably do that.” 

“Good,” again, you didn’t look at him, facing the group, but he watched your front teeth catch on your bottom lip, fighting back a smile. He liked that he could appreciate the details of you from this close, the wisps of hair on your temples, poking out from beneath that same, grey knit cap, the soft blue gems of your earrings, barely noticeable if it weren’t for this angle, the soft gold chain that lay on your neck, its pendant falling somewhere beyond the collar of your shirt.

“Shall we break some ice?” Cheryl clapped her hands together, yanking him out of the daze that was all you. The woman leading the group sent him a knowing look, eyebrow cocked over her glasses, and Steve cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long night.

This session had been the worst of them so far. Carl kicked it off by voicing his frustrations about the aches he felt in his shoulder when the weather got cold. It’d always been bad. He blew his shoulder out when he was much younger, playing baseball. The injury reinstated after his third row of buckshot in the direction of one of those things.

Mina felt it too. She called it a shift in seismic pressure. Her arthritis had never been worse. Along with the nightmares, she suffered severe migraines, not to mention the hospital bills. 

Don’t get Jeffrey started on hospital bills. His daughter was kept on life support for just over a month before she passed. He’d been paying for the rest of his life, which was about four times the life amount of time she got. 

Elmer broke his arm in three places. Colleen busted her ankle tripping over a leyline or rubble, something of the sort. With each talk, Steve felt himself growing more and more anxious. He was hot, too hot, and the guilt he felt for his friends just compacted, knowing his mistakes affected so many more people. So many more than Joyce liked to remind him he saved.

He felt sick, the coffee twisting in a mostly empty stomach. His temple throbbed, eyes winced under the buzz of the florescents. His own body ached, where ribs healed and shoulders popped back into place. His teeth hurt, feeling all of those punches all over again, and he was just a fucking kid. He couldn’t imagine what everyone else felt, was feeling. 

When the meeting ended, he shuffled upright in silence, sliding his vest back on and stuffing the box of paint under one arm to scurry out of there with the rest of the group. He’d tossed the box in the trunk, with the bat, hands itching to round the handle, to poke holes in something meaty and fleshy and horrifying. He slammed the trunk and hopped into the driver’s side to start the ignition and warm himself up. He needed a stiff drink and a hot shower, or maybe he just needed a drive.

He cranked the heater until the windshield fogged and massaged the leather of his steering wheel into the pads of his palms. He popped the clutch in and shifted into reverse, throwing his hand over the headrest of the passenger’s seat until he noticed your car behind him. The lights were off and it sat cold. Shit. He almost forgot. 

He took the car out of gear and tried to relax his shoulders, tried to excite himself about what you could possibly have to talk to him about. He couldn’t imagine past the pain, the guilt. You were probably going to condemn him for the shit he put you through, complain about some stab to the back that would never, could never fully heal. 

He screamed and gripped the steering wheel, shaking it as much as he could in its locked position along the column. Mostly, he shook himself. Just when he thought he was getting better. Fuck.

His lungs felt tight when you exited, Cheryl in tow, locking up behind you. The two of you muttered, making eyes his direction, and Cheryl offered him a wave before walking to her car, and you separated to walk to the passenger side of his car. He leaned over to unlock the door for you, moving his scarf from the seat so you could sit down. 

You sunk into the seat with a sigh, breath fogged, and closed the door behind you. “It’s nice and warm in here,” you shivered, holding small hands to the vents of his heater. 

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, waiting on you.

You glanced at him from under your lashes and shoved your hands into the pockets of your denim jacket. “I thought you ditched me.” 

“I uh…” He swallowed. He couldn’t lie to you, but he didn’t want you to know he forgot. “Nope.” Smooth.

He could just make you out in the reflection of his headlights against the wall, a splash of warm yellow across your features, and you seemed to be watching him the same way he watched you, a bit timid, unsure. 

“So,” you spoke simultaneously, followed by nervous laughter. 

“You go,” Steve gestured, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

You breathed, relaxed into the seat beside him. “Okay, I feel stupid. This is maybe kind of stupid.” 

“What?” He smiled. He could never find you stupid. 

“I just don’t have many friends here that are my age.” You sputtered around the words, taking time with them, but your face scrunched up as though you weren’t pleased with the way the sentence played out. 

“You want to be my friend?” He could have flown. 

“God, no,” you rolled your eyes, but your smile gave away the sarcasm. “I just figured you might be a bigger loser than me and would want to be my friend.” You explained, releasing a dry laugh in case he couldn’t pick up the joking tone. 

“Oooh, I don’t know. Two losers being friends? Isn’t that against the rules?” He teased back.

You scrunched up your nose. “You’re probably right.” 

“Hey, so,” he ran a hand through his hair before stretching it to your headrest. Your knit cap brushed against his thumb as you turned to look at him. “Do you want to hang out sometime?” 

You rolled your eyes and pulled a rolled piece of paper from your pocket. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I wanted to give you this, and now it feels like forty times more lame.”

You handed it to him, and he looked from the paper to you and back before starting to unfurl it from one end. You slapped your hands to his to stop him, yours slender and freezing. 

“Don’t look at it now! For Christ’s sake, wait until I’m in my car!”

Steve laughed at the frantic tone of your voice. You were genuinely embarrassed about whatever this was, and that was beyond endearing. You bit back a smile of your own, and Steve rolled it back into the fist of one hand. 

“Whatever I’m leaving.” You pulled the handle and your door popped open, a gust of cold air fanned Steve’s face. “Oh, and I’m not going to be here next week.”

“What? Why?” He frowned. 

You shrugged, turned away from him and exited the car. “Personal stuff. I’ll talk to you soon though maybe?”

He leaned over to see your waggled fingers, watched you pull your keys from your jacket pocket. “Okay, sure.” 

“Bye, Steve,” you smiled, and he waved before you closed the door.

—

“I thought I was having a stroke,” Steve sighed, passing the note you’d given him to Robin. She unfurled it, eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the scattered page of numbers and letters you’d scrawled between the blue rule of notebook paper. 

“Looks like a pretty standard cypher to me,” Erica pointed out, connecting the dots with her finger to the page. “Letters are numbers, numbers are letters.” 

“Nerd,” Dustin took glee in the nickname, and Erica flipped him the bird. 

“She’s right, Steve. This is low level shit.” Robin pulled the phone along the counter, the ringer dinging over the split in sections. “C’mere.” She tugged at the crook of Steve’s elbow until he stood over her and the note, pointing out exactly how you’d created the cypher. “It’s like the numbers on a phone, see? So B would be 2, K is 5, O is 6, get it?” 

Dustin handed her a pen from the cup near the register, and Robin began to translate all of the letters until she had a seven digit number. “Holy shit, dude. She gave you her number.” Dustin held his hand up for a high-five, and Steve resisted. Though his heart did an odd rhythm against his ribs. 

“Okay, okay, what does the rest of it say?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, knee bouncing as he leaned on the counter. 

“This part says ‘Call Me.’” Erica tilted her head, pointing to a series of numbers in the middle of the page. 2255 63. 

“How the hell did you get that?” Steve felt a headache pulling between his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Context clues, dumbass.” 

“‘The game’s afoot.’” Dustin read in that British accent he was annoyingly good at. 

“What?” Steve sighed, watching Robin scribble in the rest of the code. 

“It’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Steve was starting to get really irritated with their tone. He sighed, so confused, and waited for Robin to finish her scribbling before she stepped out of his way and handed him the receiver to the phone. He frowned, but took it from her and leaned over the counter to read the translated version of your note. 

The game’s afoot. Call me, Sherlock. Followed by your name and number. He blinked down at it a few times before Robin slammed her fingers down on the phone to spark the dial tone loud and clear. Steve felt his mouth go dry, but he held the phone to his ear and started slamming in numbers. 

It rang once, twice, three times. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 5pm. Maybe you were on your way home from work. Should he leave a message? Did they get the numbers right? 

“Hello?” 

He breathed your name. “Hi, it’s Steve.” 

“Steve, oh my God, hey. You solved it that fast, huh? That’s so embarrassing.” The sound of your laughter from the other end made his stomach knot. 

Erica made kissy faces from the other side of the counter, and he shooed her away. Dustin and Robin followed up the kissy faces, and he flipped the three of them off. They backed away with snickers. He turned his back to them and picked up the phone, walking across the check out station for a more private corner. 

“So… now that you’ve called,” you pressed on. He heard bangs from your end, like maybe you were putting away your dishes or groceries, the creak of cupboard hinges. “Are you busy tonight?” 

“Tonight?” He stood up straight, glancing sideways at his friends eavesdropping in a nearby aisle. Robin flashed him a knowing smirk. “I think I’m free tonight.” 

“Great,” he could hear the smile in your voice. “Would you maybe like to go for a drive?” 

“A drive sounds… great.” 

“I’ll give you my address. Got a pen?” 

—

Steve promised Robin a quarter of a week’s pay and that he would ‘get laid’ (which made him incredibly sweaty) to get her to entertain the hooligans for the evening without him. He promised Erica a day’s pay, plus tax, to allow him to bail, and she begrudgingly agreed to paint his model for him. Her eyes lit up when he unveiled the expensive paint and brushes. Dustin didn’t care so much, as long as Steve promised to take care of himself, which always made Steve a little itchy, but he did.

So, with his friends on the back burner for one more evening, he raced in the direction of your house. He recognized the area as you spoke it. You lived off Cherry, very close to where Max lived before her and her mom moved to the trailer park. He always dreaded dropping her home if he saw that blue Camaro looming in the driveway. Billy had left him alone after that night at the Byers, but the sight of him still made Steve a little gun-shy. 

Cherry was dimly lit this time of night, this time of year, a cascade of warmth across a desolate neighborhood. To be fair, most neighborhoods in Hawkins were void of cars or residents anymore, a ghost town. He slipped past Max’s old place, for sale sign still swinging in the yard, and pulled up three doors down at your house. 

It was small, cozy, blue with white trim and the glow of life from inside sheer curtained windows. Steve pulled into a little divot in carved in front of your yard and turned off the ignition. His mom taught him at a young age that it was always polite to pick a girl up at the door. All of the girls he dated seemed impressed so far. 

But for you, when he pitched open the door, you startled him with a “Hello!”, already halfway down the drive. 

“Hey,” Steve smiled over the roof. You hadn’t dressed up for him, which he appreciated, but you no longer wore your knit cap, hair neat and tucked behind your ears. He faltered for a moment, wondering if he should open your door for you, but you were already there and climbing in, so he followed you back into the warmth of his little car. 

“You look nice,” he said. Always good to start with a compliment. 

You flashed a smile and turned to look him over as you buckled your seatbelt. “Thanks, you too. I do like those glasses on you.” 

He felt his smile widen, turning the ignition. “You do?” 

“Yeah, they make you look smart.”

Thank God for that. Steve flipped the headlights back on and pulled himself out of the rut and back onto the road. The pavement was a bit rocky out here, the Earthquake having mixed everything up. Hawkins had prioritized the roadwork through the center of town and less so in the lower income areas. Not that you were lower income. He swallowed. “So, where to?” 

“The Lake?” You asked like he didn’t have a choice, and he felt itchy under the collar. 

“Why the Lake?” He was afraid of your answer.

You shrugged beside him, face illuminated by each passing streetlamp. “I’ve never been.” 

He smiled at that. “It’s a lot nicer in the daytime.” 

“I’m sure it is,” you agreed. “But if we go in the daytime, we’re more likely to get caught.” 

“Get caught?” His adrenaline prickled then. He couldn’t decide if he was more intrigued or terrified, but either way, he stepped on the gas a little harder. 

You ignored his question. “So, Steve who enjoys Sherlock Holmes and driving and Family Ties, tell me about yourself.” You sunk into your chair, lifting your hands to warm on the heater vents like you had the night before. Despite his warmth, Steve leaned to turn up the flow for you. 

“Sounds like you pretty much know it all.” 

You laughed. “Come on, there’s gotta be some dirt in there, right? Everyone has to have at least one fatal flaw.” 

“Sure,” he nodded. “Everyone does. I just don’t. That’s my curse.” 

You threw your head back in a barked laugh this time. He enjoyed the raw sound of it, the curve of your throat under lamplight. 

He shrugged, turned onto the main road, shifting into third. “No, I don’t know. What do you want to know?” 

“What do you really like to do for fun?” You challenged. 

He risked a glance your direction again, and you were turned on the console to watch him, eyes careful, scrutinizing. “Answer for answer?” 

You rolled your eyes and faced front again. “Fine.” 

He slowed down, turned south onto Curly. “I like spending time with my friends. We watch too many movies. Smoke a lot of weed.” 

“Steve, I’m a cop!” You blurted, incredulous, and he might have been alarmed if he didn’t have insider knowledge. You took a moment to gage his reaction before following up with a, “Not intimidated by the 5-0. A bad boy.” 

He snorted. “My friend’s Dad is the Chief of Police.” And the shit he’s seen is way scarier.

“Shit,” you laughed. “You don’t strike me as a stoner, but I’ll accept it as your answer.” 

“Good,” he tutted. “Your turn.” 

“No, no, no. Ask me something new. I don’t want to be the only one coming up with questions here.” 

Steve chuckled at your point and thought for a moment. There were so many things he wanted to ask you. He hoped he’d have all night. He glanced sideways at you, watched you stare out at the trees and fields as they rolled by, truly like you were seeing everything for the first time. Maybe he’d softball you your first one. “What brought you to Hawkins?” 

“Needed a fresh start.” Your tone was a bit clipped, a bit far-off. 

Steve felt the tension twang between you, and tried to alleviate it. “Jesus. Where were you coming from, super max prison?” 

You snorted, quiet for a moment longer before you turned back to face him. “One question at a time. Do you have any pets?”

You two carried on like this for a while. He learned you preferred savory to sweet foods. You didn’t go to college. You had a myriad of pets growing up: dogs, rabbits, lizards. You didn’t play any instruments. You were more of a night owl these days. You didn’t sleep much. 

That, you had in common. Steve slipped into a parking spot a few feet from the boat ramp. This area of the lake was used for campsites in the summer months, boat parties, barbecues. This year had been void of any sort of celebration. No campers pitched tents or parked RVs. And now, nearing November, the shores were sticky with disuse, water bobbing buoys a hundred yards or so in.

“Here she is,” Steve sighed, gripping the steering wheel with clammy palms. His headlights illuminated the dull waves in front of them, cast a warmth on a clear evening. He was thankful not to see past the surface, to the gate below, the tear in dimensions, the gaping maw that swallowed him whole and spat him back out the other side, bruised and bloodied. “Lovers Lake.” 

“Why is it called Lovers Lake?” You asked, your voice more playful than the horrors tickling his spine. He wished he could focus on you, wished he could match your energy. Maybe this was a mistake.

“It’s uh…” He scratched at the base of his neck. “It’s shaped like a heart. From an aerial view.” He made a heart in the air with two pointer fingers, a demonstration in shadows and silhouette. Freddie Mercury crooned softly on the radio. 

“You like to swim, right?” You unclipped your seat belt to get comfortable. 

He shrugged. “I used to. Swim team captain, head lifeguard.” Accolades he used to brag about, still helped him get girls. Now it felt like ash in his mouth. 

“Ever been skinny dipping?” You reached down and were slipping out of your sneakers, your socks. 

“I… wh-what?” He swallowed, suddenly zoned in on your fingers undoing the buttons to your denim jacket. 

“You know… naked, swimming, usually late at night as to not get caught…” You slipped your jacket off your shoulders and made to shuck off your jeans. 

“It’s freezing,” he argued, mouth dry from the curve of your thighs against his car seat.

“You don’t have to join me,” you teased, pulling your sweater over your head. Your hair caught on the wool, creating a static charge. Flyaways stuck up to touch the felted ceiling. 

“You, uh…” He blinked again, tried not to stare at the cups of your bra or the swell of your breasts spilling from it. “You’re going to catch a cold.” 

You shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” You reached behind you to pull at the tab holding your bra together, but as you did so, you leaned fully into his space, warm body against his. He could smell the floral scent of your shampoo. He opened his mouth to ask what you were doing, when you reached past the steering wheel to flick off the headlights, flooding the car and area surround in darkness. 

“No peeking.” You whispered and opened the car door. The dome light turned on, and Steve watched your bra fall to your discarded seat before the door closed and the silhouette of your frame went springing down the ramp toward the water. 

Cursing under his breath, Steve made sure the car was in park and wouldn’t roll, before he got out and followed you. He kept his clothes on, sneakers slipping a little on the ramp, but made his way down a dilapidated wood dock near where he saw the curve of your back disappear into the dark waves. He peered into the water, eyes adjusting to the moonlight cresting too far off, and called your name.

You shushed him from the edge of the dock, fingers holding you afloat, hair slicked back to your head, cheesy smile lighting your features. “This water’s freezing,” your teeth chattered through a laugh.

“I bet,” he winced, remembering the prickle of needles that was ice cold water. “Ever heard of pneumonia?” 

“Ever heard of a rush?” You countered, kicking off from the dock to dunk back under the water and swim a few feet off. He watched the swells of your body as you did so, lumps that rose and fell like waves, soft, unbothered. He wished he had that freedom, wished he didn’t have the knowledge he did, the trauma. 

You popped up a few feet away, gasping for a breath, and Steve felt himself tense. He looked around, wondering how deep it was. If you needed rescuing, he could springboard off the edge of this dock and reach you in seconds. He kicked off the heel of one sneaker.

“Steve!” You called, taking a few breast strokes his direction. “Can I borrow your jacket?” 

He had a blanket tucked into the backseat, which you teased him about. You made him turn around so you could get out of the water, and you let him look again when you’d wrapped yourself in it. You let him swing an arm around you to walk you back to the car, and he cranked the heat. The volume of the vents rivaled the chattering of your teeth, but you laughed louder and went on and on about how great the water felt, how Steve was missing out.

Per your request, Steve drove out of city limits to find a fast food restaurant, somewhere with greasy French fries and a drive-up window, and you pulled a wad of bills from your jacket pocket to buy him a hamburger that he enjoyed on his drive home. You discussed music taste and your lack of involvement in high school clubs or sports, and things remained fairly surface level until you were back on the looping hills of Curly.

“You seemed really upset yesterday,” you started, the softest he’d heard your voice all night.

Steve clenched his jaw around the straw of his Coke, slurped the last syrupy goodness from the icy base. He glanced your direction, your expression of concern cast yellow in lamplight. With a sigh, he placed his cup back into the cupholder. “You could tell, huh?” 

You smiled at that, nodded, hair still damp around your ears. “I’ve got a knack for reading people.” 

“That so?” He felt a smirk tugging as he rounded a particular sharp corner, the one that curved down into Merrill’s. He downshifted a gear. “What am I thinking about now?” 

You didn’t waste a beat. “You’re being flirtatious. Our night’s coming to a close. You saw a boob.” 

He felt warmth lick at his earlobes from the collar of his sweater. He swallowed. “I did not.” He didn’t really. He saw the swell, a curve, under-boob at best, and he knew he’d be thinking about it for days. 

“And,” you interrupted, slender finger prodding at his bicep, “you’re deflecting.”

He deflated a little, mind dragged back to the guilt he’d felt in that room. 

“Hey, I’m not going to make you talk about it, or whatever.” You sounded so casual, like it all rolled off of you, shoving your feet back into socks and shoes. “I just wanted to let you know I picked up on it, and I’m here if you do want to talk.”

Steve licked his lips and waited for a straight-away to watch you, knee to your chest to tie your laces, two bunny ears into a double knot. The pavement sloped downward, into suburbia, and he could already feel you slipping out of his grasp. 

He cleared his throat, turned down Cherry, the long way. “I just feel bad, you know? Guilty. I don’t like seeing all of those nice people hurting.” The honesty felt raw in his throat, like it did every session, like this gas leaking out of him.

You glanced at him then, brows knit in contemplation, and you shrugged. “Everyone hurts sometimes. It’s not your fault.”

“Why are you there?” He asked, tried to sound as casual as you had, but he wanted more, needed more sweet morsels of you to savor for the week ahead. 

You wrapped your fingers tightly around the seatbelt at the center of your chest, thumb playing with a bit of fray there, but your gaze remained on the horizon, on the houses and lights that illuminated your cheekbones in flashes. “I mean, you went because your friend’s mom asked you too, right?” 

Steve shrugged, slowed to a crawl as your little house came into view. 

“Right. And Dolores is there for her husband, and Jeffrey goes for his daughter, and I think maybe we all started going for someone else and ended up showing up for each other.” The way you said it was so resolute, and Steve couldn’t shake off the implication that you were showing up for him. Was he reading too much into that? 

The click of your seatbelt alerted him that he’d stopped, somehow managed to halt just in front of the walkway that led up to your stoop. He scrambled with the buckle of his own belt, ready to walk you up, but paused when he felt a cold hand against his wrist. He looked up to meet your gaze.

“I can walk myself inside.” Again, with the confidence of a different woman, someone he’d only caught glimpses of, out of the conference room and away from metal chairs scraped against linoleum floors.

“When can I see you again?” He was desperate for it, far from calm and collected, missed the grip of your slender fingers when you released him to open the passenger door. The dome light flicked on, bathing you in warmth. He could see a smudge of mascara beneath your eye, the collar of your jacket dipped dark and damp. The corners of your lips turned up into a smile. “Thursday?” 

With one word, your smile was washed away, confidence replaced by timid shoulders, licked lips. You shook your head. “No, I’ll be out Thursday, remember?”

He vaguely remembered, hoped it was a nightmare, some passing fear that you were slipping away from him. “Can I call you?” 

Again, you shook your head, eyebrows folded. “I’ll be out. I’ll call you.” 

He swallowed, that familiar panic crawling up his chest, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he couldn’t wait that long, didn’t want to wait that long. He let out a shaky breath, offered a smile. “Cool.” Smooth.

You chuckled at that, released a breath of a laugh that he wanted to catch and shove into his pocket for safe keeping. You must have noticed his joy at the sound, because your eyes lit with something mischievous, and you rolled them. “God, one look at my tits and you’re like a lost puppy.” 

His face heated, jaw fell open at the mention of them again, and he ran a hand over his face and through his hair, stammering some sort of defense. “I didn’t see them!” He fucking squeaked. 

Your laugh was louder now, back to that groove of comfort and warmth, head thrown back, white teeth sparkling in lamplight. “Goodnight, Steve.” He liked the way his name sounded on your tongue, liked the way your eyes sparkled, the stretch and pout of your lips.

Then you were leaning in, too close, all encompassing. You smelled Earthy, like lake water, and sticky sweet like Coca-Cola, and before Steve had a second to register what was happening, your lips pressed to the corner of his mouth, and you were pulling away. He chased you across the center console, hoping for the sweet taste again, the plush of your lips against his, the warmth of the crook of your elbow, a fingertip, but you were quicker. 

A gust of winter air fanned his face, and he dipped low to see you grinning back from outside the car, fingers waggled his direction. “Thanks for the drive.” 

“I’ll call you,” he promised.

You shook your head, but the smile didn’t falter. “I’ll call you.” You closed the door with a click, dome lamp turning off, and he watched the length of your legs carry you up the walkway to the front porch, light on your feet and bathed in moonlight. 

—

Steve called you the next day, from work, hunched over the counter to hide himself behind a stack of tapes while Robin scrambled to help everyone in the store. You hadn’t answered, voicemail flat and unfriendly. He panicked and hung up before the beep. 

Sunday, Robin convinced him to quit being a stalker, explained that breathing into the receiver was something a serial killer did, and that he didn’t need to come off so clingy, and she was right. So he didn’t try you again.

By Thursday, you still hadn’t called him, and he felt uneasy, like he’d done something entirely wrong. Some stupid Steve Harrington bullshit that had upset you, something he wouldn’t understand until you were in a bathroom, drunk, calling him bullshit. He winced, rolling into the DMV parking lot, headlights sparkling on the thin layer of frost that spread across the grass this week.

The little conference room echoed with chatter, weekly catch-ups, as the smell of burnt coffee coated the air. Steve accepted an M&M cookie from Mina with warmth tickling under his collar. The woman had crumbs on the corner of her lips, but something about her presence reminded him of Joyce and of Claudia, and of all the surrogate mothers that had taken him in when his own was too busy to nurse his wounds and feed him something not cooked in a microwave. 

He considered not showing up, holing himself in his big, empty house, with nothing but the whirring of the microwave. He’d been that way all week, eyes unfocused on the fireplace while his mind grasped to remember the image of your shape in the water, the feel of your lips against his, the sound of your laughter. Your voice echoed around his skull though, the only clarity his mind offered him over the last week. “We all started going for someone else and ended up showing up for each other.”

So, with Carl and Elmer, and even sweet Mina, on the brain, he wrestled into his puffer jacket and grit his teeth past the chill of winter while he scraped the windshield of his car. If he tried, he could imagine them as his friends, adult versions of the little shits that tormented (and enriched) his life, but he wasn’t sure if that would make things easier or harder, especially after the heartache he felt the week before. He slumped into his seat and split his cookie in half, soft and gooey. He’d just have to wait and see how today’s session went. 

Cheryl clacked in with a bright smile, clipboard on her hip like a well-loved toddler, gazing around the group over the rim of her glasses. She poured herself a cup of coffee as the group calmed, though with the look on her face, Steve wasn’t sure she needed more caffeine. “Hello, everyone!” She greeted in a sing-song.

“What’s got you so chipper today, missy?” Dolores asked, her own eyes sparkling behind bejeweled spectacles. 

Cheryl sucked in her smile and took a sip of her coffee before she settled into her seat across from Steve. His heart ached at the blank space beside her. 

“She’s chipper because of that rock on her finger,” Elmer commented. “Jesus Christ, Cheryl, that thing must weigh a ton.” 

Steve’s eyes went to the engagement ring on her finger, hand holding her cup aloft for all to see. The room erupted in a buzz of excitement and congratulations and questions, and even Steve himself felt the corners of his lips tug into a proud smile. 

She just looked so happy, skin flushing, hair bouncing in agreement as she hid smiles behind waved hands, trying to calm the crowd. “Thank you, thank you. I know, very exciting.” She scolded, but the smile could not be swept from her face. “Shush!”

Showing up for each other. Steve glanced once more to your empty seat and wondered how you’d react to the news. A shiver wracked through him at the thought of your own elation, of the smile playing at pink lips while your eyes flashed to his with mischief. 

“Yes, yes, the rumors are true. Thomas finally proposed. And I refuse to waste any more time on the details, so if you’re really interested, ask me after group.” She flashed a timid wink Mina’s direction before setting her coffee on your empty chair and adjusting her knees in her pencil skirt. She wrapped fingernails to her clipboard, pausing to watch the sparkle of her diamond before she clapped her dainty hands together. “I’m glad to see all of you in good spirits today. I know this time of year can be especially difficult, with the holidays coming up.” 

Steve shuffled in his own seat, ventured a bite of cookie. It was soft and sweet, and he nearly choked when he noticed Mina was watching him. He gave her a thumbs up and a smile, and she seemed delighted at the praise. 

“Since we won’t be here next week, let’s practice gratitude. Our ice breaker will be something we’re thankful for.” 

The concept of an ice breaker always sent a bit of anxiety through him, that stutter of a heartbeat that he’d say the wrong thing, something stupid or embarrassing. He couldn’t decide if your absence made it easier or more difficult. On one hand, he couldn’t say anything to deter you, on the other, he couldn’t tell you he was thankful for your presence in this group, for the smiles of encouragement. He couldn’t tell you he was thankful for the night you’d had on Friday. He couldn’t tell you he’d been thinking about you all week. 

His hands clammed up as the answers formed from around the circle, a wide range of gratitude from time spent with Jeffrey’s daughter while she was still alive to the Colts latest season. His brain wracked for an answer of his own, and his mouth felt a little dry.

“Steve, what are you thankful for?” Cheryl offered an encouraging smile. 

He floundered a bit, licking his lips, staring at your open seat. He swallowed, and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off from a stern voice to his left. 

“May I?” Carl was leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Steve nodded, thankful for the distraction. Mina also seemed unbothered by the skip, a knowing smile playing across her lips. 

“I’m thankful for this young man, right here.” Carl pointed, long arms and gnarled finger almost reaching Steve’s chest. 

Steve felt himself blinking, felt his mouth bob open again. 

“Because his bravery showing up to this group every week, with all of us old folks, gave me the courage to talk to my grandson about his feelings with all of this.” He twisted his finger in the air to demonstrate the world around them. “He’s a tough kid, my Joel, but I knew he was taking this really hard. He’s only fourteen, and he lost a few friends. He just started high school, made the basketball team, and I could tell he’s nervous. So I chatted with him, and we had a real good talk.” 

Steve could feel the emotion swell in his chest, that familiar bubble of pride that tightened his ribcage. 

The older man’s jaw was tight, hands clamped into fists, as though he was uncertain of Steve’s response, maybe slightly uncomfortable with all of the attention on him. 

“What position does he play?” 

Carl’s eyes lit at that, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Post.” 

Steve nodded. “Cool. I’m friends with Lucas Sinclair. He’s on the team too. Maybe we could get together and do a pick-up.” 

The old man nodded, released the tension in his shoulders. His chair squeaked as he sat back into it. “I think we’d really like that.” Showing up for each other.

—

Decorative plates clattered on their displays a few feet above Steve’s head. He was elbow deep in sudsy water, and breathless grunting and the whoosh of air had him rutted up against the countertop, soaking the front of his sweater in sink water. He grit his teeth and glanced over his shoulder to see Eddie take a swipe at Dustin, easily dodged, curled hair and red faces everywhere. 

“Will you two quit horsing around?” He snapped, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose and right eyebrow itching only because his hands were coated in bubbles and grease. 

“Yeah, Dustin, quit picking on me. Daddy Steve’s going to ground you,” Eddie grinned, opening the refrigerator to pull a bright red can of Redi Whip from beside a milk carton. He tilted his head backwards, aerosol making a choked sound before Steve watched a dollop of whipped cream spill upwards from between Eddie’s lips.

“Gross, dude,” Steve grumbled, grabbing around for another dish to clean. “This isn’t even your house.” 

“Joyce?” Eddie yelled, mouth full, all of the gumption of a school kid calling for his Mom. Dustin snickered and took the canister from the older boy’s hands. “Is it okay if Dustin and I have some whipped cream?” 

Joyce appeared around the corner with her hands full of serving platters. “Of course, sweetheart.” She offered Steve a knowing smile, blowing dark hair from her eyes before setting the plates near a stack of Tupperware containers ready to be filled. “But when you’re done contaminating my Redi whip, think you guys can head outside and quit horsing around in my kitchen?” 

Dustin coughed on his whipped cream, earning a rough slap on the back before the two boys chuckled their way out of the room to harass Will and El and Max into a game of touch football.

“Sorry about them,” Steve sighed, scrubbing dried gravy and trying not to think about how the sink reminded him of the Upside Down. 

“Boys will be boys,” Joyce chuckled, and not a consonant was mean. He’d seen Joyce mean, hackles up, defending her cubs, defending him. It was terrifying. 

“Joyce,” the name always felt weird on his tongue. He’d been raised to be respectful.

She looked up with that same twinkle in her eye, slopping stuffing into separate containers. 

“I just uh…” The back of his neck itched. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his forearm, splattering soapy water across a lens. He wiped it off to procure a smudge. He sighed. “I just wanted to thank you for suggesting that group therapy thing.” 

“Yeah?” She grinned. 

He shrugged, avoided her gaze by picking cranberry sauce off a plate with his nail. “Yeah, it’s a really nice group of people. I’m actually going to play basketball with one guy and his grandkid.” 

“Oh, Steve, that’s so great!” Joyce cheered, soft-spoken and kind. “I had a feeling you’d get something from it. And what about that girl?” 

His heart stuttered at the mention of you, stomach sinking. It had been two weeks since he heard from you, two weeks since the drive, two weeks since your dip in the lake. You still hadn’t called, and he hadn’t wanted to clog your voicemail. He’d been hung out to dry, clinging to the line in some hopes you didn’t totally hate him. “What about her?” He swallowed.

Joyce shrugged, preoccupied with the mashed potatoes. “She seemed really sweet, and your age. I wondered if you two were friends. She seemed so lonely after losing her husband, and I just really hoped she could find some friends here in Hawkins.”

The plate slid out of Steve’s fingers, crashing against the bottom of the tin sink, and he cursed under his breath, chasing it to pull from the water and check for cracks. It seemed fine. Rinsing it in hot water, he chewed over Joyce’s words. When the plate was safely deposited on the drying rack and the sink stop had been pulled to drain the suds, he turned back to the woman spooning mashed potatoes as though she hadn’t said anything Earth-shattering. 

He said your name to get her attention, asked it, really. “The girl with the denim jacket?” 

Joyce smiled, eyes sparkling with the same mischief he found in your own eyes, and she described you to a T. “Very pretty girl, isn’t she?”

He swallowed, dried his knuckles with a damp hand towel.

—

Carl and Elmer were bickering about the NBA, voices gruff, arms crossed. Steve felt warm, despite the couple of inches of snow Hawkins got in the last few days, coffee in hand, fluorescents flickering a steady beat in the corner. Just over Elmer’s thin shoulder, one of the heavy steel doors popped open, and you slipped inside, shaking snow off your knit cap, and pulling gloves from your fingers, one fingertip at a time. 

Steve’s breath caught in his chest, released only in a wheeze when you met his gaze and he watched every beautiful feature light up, cheeks plump and teeth white. If he wasn’t warm before, he was flooded with it now, collar hot and itchy around his neck. He raked his fingers through his hair, unsure where to put his hands, sneakers squeaked against linoleum as he shifted his stance. 

You waggled your fingers in a greeting and shuffled your shoes against the damp floor mat.

Steve’s mind raced with conflict. On the one hand, you hadn’t called. For three weeks, radio silence on your end. The only comfort he’d gained was from driving past your house late Monday night to find your lights on. You hadn’t answered any of his calls. On the other hand, you were real and alive, and your warm smile drew him like a magnet. He excused himself from the present argument and met you at the snack table.

“Hi,” he managed. Smooth. 

“Hey,” you didn’t look up at him, eyelashes long against your cheeks. You tucked a napkin into one hand and pulled the pen from the sign-up sheet on a clipboard. “Can you do me a favor and please give me your number?” 

Steve felt his entire body heat from embarrassment. Of course you hadn’t called. You didn’t have his fucking number. “I’m such an idiot.” He sputtered, pulling the utensil from your hand to scribble his digits on the soft ply of a napkin. 

“No, I’m an idiot,” you assured, squeezing his bicep with slender fingers. “I’m the one who promised to call without even asking for your number. You probably thought I hated you.” 

Steve smiled, shrugged. “I was overthinking everything I said.” The confession spilled out before he could stop it, and he hoped it sounded a lot more suave, sarcastic, flirtatious. But then he froze, immediately question whether or not you wanted him to flirt. You had said you wanted more friends, and if Joyce was right, and you’d recently lost your husband, maybe Steve was in over his head. “I mean…” He stammered, carding his hand through his hair again. 

But you smiled, eyes still cast downward as you poured coffee from the carafe into a styrofoam cup. He thought back to the time you’d spilled, the time you’d come in entirely too distraught. He wondered if it was somehow related to your Husband’s death. He swallowed. 

“On second thought, maybe it was your fault.” You glanced up then, eyes sparkling. He bristled. “You never told me your parents’ names. Are you related to every Harrington in the phone book?” You took a sip, glancing around the room. Your energy was a bit frenetic, flitting back and forth over the faces of your group, an unease tensing your shoulders.

Whereas he relaxed, endeared that you’d thumbed through the white pages to find him. “John and Linda,” he offered, tipping the rim of his cup to yours to bring your attention back to him.

You took another sip, but held his gaze, holding the coffee in the pockets of your cheeks for a moment, chewing a thought before the corners of your lips turned up into that world-ending smile. “Steven John Harrington?” 

He felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. Though maybe, if he had been named after his dad, the old man might have taken him more seriously. He shook his head. “Francis. After my mom’s dad.”

You ignited at that, that spark he yearned to spill out of you. He wanted to bathe in it. He could feel the rumble of your chuckle in your throat, the tease he’d been used to since childhood, but felt sticky sweet from you, if only he could push you over-the-edge, procure a full-out laugh.

The closing of heavy double doors broke the spell. You looked away first, to Cheryl, and Steve watched the smile and cheer wipe from your features and replace with creased concern. He followed your gaze to the slender woman, hair perfectly coifed and eyes red beneath her spectacles. 

“Can I have everyone sit please?” She croaked, almost a whisper, the softest Steve had ever witnessed. A chill settled at the base of his skull. 

Chatter turned to grumbled concern as everyone made their way to their seats. Steve felt your hand grip his tightly, just for a moment, before you left him to sit at his twelve, your frame curved at attention toward Cheryl. You pulled a leg up, rested your head on your knee, a defense mechanism, he supposed, body-armor. He glanced sideways to offer Mina a reassuring smile, and she returned it, tight-lipped. 

“Hello, everyone. I come bearing grave news.” Cheryl wrung her fingers against the top of her clipboard, diamond sparkling beneath the fluorescents. She glanced upward, making eye contact with each person in the circle. Almost a full group, Steve noted. “I just learned that Jeffrey passed away over Thanksgiving.”

A flutter of gasps circulated, and everyone’s eyes settled on that empty chair, a little cock-eyed, cast in shadow at an awkward post between two banks of lights. Steve’s heart sank. He wracked his brain for every fact he knew about the man with red hair and mousy eyes, who spoke so highly of the daughter he missed so dearly. 

He felt his hand start to tremble, knee bouncing with anxiety. Glancing across the circle, he noticed you’d pulled your other leg up, barricaded, eyes glazed over, chin trembling just beyond your fingertips.

“I just want to reiterate to you all how important this group is, and how much you all mean to me, and to each other,” Cheryl spoke, slow and self-assured, almost stern. “I understand how this might be too much for some of you, and if you wish to go, by all means, do what you think is best for you, but I do encourage you to push through, to stay, for your fellow group members. Some of us have no one to lean on but each other.” 

Steve watched your shoulders slump, and you stared directly at the ground, arms coming to link around your knees. 

—

Steve’s throat burned, raw, and his eyes stung, and his God damn hand wouldn’t stop trembling. He wanted to pulverize something, to build up the callouses in his palms and wind up to swing his bat through something fleshy and disgusting. He said polite goodbyes with gritted teeth and a clenched fists, held in his emotion to give Carl and Elmer manly smiles and nods. He tossed battered styrofoam into a bin and tore out of there to suck in fresh, frigid air.

Ice cold hit his face like a ton of bricks, stinging at his nostrils and catching the air in his lungs, but it felt so refreshing. It was so much better than the muggy, stale air of a conference room filled with so much grief, so much loss, so much pain.

“Steve!” Your voice called, reeling him back to reality, and he turned to see you. You were bleary eyed, red-nosed, pulling your gloves from your pockets. 

He took a calming breath, nodded for you to follow him around the corner and out of earshot. When he got you close enough to feel the warmth of your knit hat, he mumbled. “How are you holding up?” As though it weren’t obvious, as though everyone wasn’t a wreck.

You looked up from your gloves, face half-shadowed in exterior lamplight. Your breath fogged at the bottom of his lenses, and your bottom lip trembled with a swallow. “I just…” You glanced around the parking lot before tucking your hand into his own. Your gloves were scratchy, but warm. “I just don’t want to be alone.” 

He gave a curt nod and tugged you toward his car. When you got in, closed the door, he threw his arm over the back of your seat and got the Hell out of there, away from the sadness, away from the memories.

You didn’t ask, didn’t say a thing, just buckled and sat with your hands in your lap, tears staining your cheeks as the lights from Suburbia rolled by. 

Instinct carried him to the junkyard, a lead foot on the accelerator and this itching under his skin to hit something. You didn’t question it when he pulled in between the bodies and engines. He pulled right up beside Hargrove’s Camaro, blue-paint charred and covered in snow. “Wait here?” It wasn’t a question. He set his glasses on the dash.

He left the car running to keep you warm, and bitter wind nipped at his ears and his cheeks. He rounded to the trunk to pull out his bat. The handle was warm and chipped in places. The nails were rusted and stained with the blood of monsters, the blood of civilians. He slammed the trunk closed and steadied his grip.

His shoulders were hunched, but he rolled them. Hargrove’s car still held a side-mirror, mirror long shattered, remnants of glass frozen over, but the appendage remained attached to the body, and with a guttural growl and a swing, it was gone. 

That’s all it took, one hit and Steve was no longer in the junkyard, but on the battle field. He was surrounded by bats and demo-creatures and Vecna himself, and he was swinging and screaming, metal dragging against metal, throat raw, until his palms tore and he stumbled to his knees. 

Eyes slammed shut, shallow breaths dragging from between his lips, he tried to wane the dizziness, tried to pull himself back to reality, back to a place where he was forgiven for his sins, for unleashing those creatures on his Home, his People. 

“Steve?” 

Everything flooded back with pounding in his ears at the sound of your voice, the soft warmth of your hand to his cheek. Your face was blurred from tears he wasn’t aware he’d shed, and he ducked himself into your lithe touch. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked. 

“Come on,” you tugged at his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up.”

His teeth were chattering. His shoulders wracked with a shiver. He let you pull him upright, let you set him into the backseat, let you pulled the spare blanket up and over his shoulders. The heater whooshed in his ears, and he heard the slam of the trunk before you were crawling in the other side, sidling up beside him, all warm hands and body tucked into his side. 

“What day is it?” 

Steve blinked at the headrest in front of him, tried to process your words. “Wh-what?” 

“Tell me the day of the week, Steve.” Your voice was so calm, so self-assured, wise beyond your years. 

He swallowed. “Thursday.” 

“Good. And what’s my name?” 

He tried to take a few deep breaths, noticed the pressure of your palm against his sternum, focused on it. 

“Say my name, baby,” you cooed, and when Steve’s eyes slammed open, you were over him, all encompassing, hand to his chest, nose brushing his nose. 

He released your name in a breath, like a prayer, and at once, you were swallowing it, warm lips pressed to his own, cupping his cheek, climbing onto his lap. Steve groaned at the weight of you, perfect, grounding, and gripped both of your hips, worshiped your thighs, dragged you into him until no part of his middle had room for the breeze.

“Say it again,” you rasped, head turned skyward. He murmured it into the heat of your throat, vowels meeting your pulse like pressed-palms, but the sound it pulled from your lips was sinful.��

He thought of your curves, cast in moonlight, and now he felt them, desperately digging beneath denim and jersey until frigid fingers met scorching skin. 

You yelped at the touch, but it pulled that throaty laugh from you and Steve realized nothing could ever be wrong again. 

He spoke your name into the junction of you shoulder, where your clavicle dipped, and back to steal your breath from your plump lips. Kissing you was a balm, slow and sweet and soothing, chamomile and honey, a lullaby. 

Your body was a weapon, the steady roll of your hips had him seeing stars. Nimble fingers worked the knots in his shoulders. Your back arched beneath his hand. You seethed his name, nipped at his lips, spread saliva down his throat with expert bites. 

And then your hands found the hem of his shirt, crawled upward to trace puckered flesh, and he felt himself seize up, all at once slammed back into reality. Leather squeaked beneath him. He removed you to favor the seat behind you, squirmed under you, suffocated. 

“It’s okay,” you placated against his earlobe, removed your hands from his shirt to place on his chest once more. 

“No,” he struggled, throat aching, and he gripped your biceps until you released him, pulling back to look at him, pupils blown, brows knit in confusion. He ran a hand through his hair, winced at the sweat that had gathered on his neck. He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” you swallowed, slid off his lap, the space between you was stale and hot, windows fogged.

“No, I just mean - fuck,” he gasped for air, cranked the window down an inch to alleviate some of the warmth, pressed his skull to the glass. He took a moment to catch his breath before turning back to face you. 

You were adjusting your shirt, your jacket, staring out the windshield, glazed over.

“Hey,” he trailed his fingers across the bench seat to find your own. Yours were too warm, clammy. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine, really,” the corners of your lips turned up, but you weren’t there, weren’t facing him. “I shouldn’t have assumed…” 

“No, God, no,” Steve jumped to remedy the miscommunication. “No, I want this. I want you. Really. I’m like… it scares me how much I’m into you.” He ducked into your line of vision.

Still, you shied. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “That’s why I want to take this slow.” He hoped you heard the subtext. Not here, not tonight, not after today. “Okay?” 

You looked up at him then, that far-off look in your eye, but you managed a shy smile, tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, and you nodded. 

---

A/N: End of part one! Like I said, I've been working on this for absolute ages, and I just wanted to get it out, so I'm splitting it into several parts! It's an angsty one, but I hope you've enjoyed part one. Thanks so much for reading xo xo xo -Amanda

[octuscle]

Condemned

Mario's life was actually going quite well right now. He had successfully completed his university studies. He had gotten a well-paid and challenging job. And he had even found an affordable apartment just three subway stops away from his office. The only thing that bothered him was that he hardly ever got any exercise. In college, he had had an athletic body. Now he had lost a bit of muscle mass. What he would give to get back in shape, he thought to himself as he climbed the stairs from the subway.

At the top of the sidewalk, unmistakably squeezed into bright red skin-tight compression garments, stood a simply stunningly handsome young man at a promotional booth. He held out a drinking cup to Mario. "The ultimate way to get in shape quickly and sustainably," he said, smiling the brightest smile imaginable. Mario took the cup, smiled back and kept walking. Wait, had the young man's eyes just lit up red? Mario turned around. There was no more booth. "I really need a vacation," Mario thought to himself.

When he arrived at the office, it was meeting after meeting. Mario had already forgotten about the cup he had left on his desk. He only remembered it when he was packing up his things after a long day. He took a closer look at the cup. It was a cup like the one he had used in the gym. He unscrewed the lid. Inside were several small pouches containing a powder. An accompanying note that recommended taking one sachet in the evening with water instead of dinner, and consuming one sachet during each workout. And a gift certificate to a gym in the middle of nowhere in New Jersey. It was too late for dinner now anyway. So Mario filled the cup, poured the contents of a pouch into the cup, screwed it shut and shook. The cup glowed red for a moment. Mario took a first sip. The taste was no different from most energy drinks. On the way to the subway, Mario drank the cup down. And at home, he took the stairs to the tenth floor. Fuck, yes, this stuff gave energy.

At 04:00, Mario was wide awake. If he wanted to work out before the office, he had to leave now. It took him an hour to get to the gym, an hour back. And he wanted to lift iron for at least two hours. On the subway, he realized he didn't have anything with him except his laptop bag. Was that normal? It felt normal… When he entered the gym at 05:00, Steve grinned at him at the front desk and greeted him with a fistbump. "If I had to bet on who would come first today, I would have bet on you," he said. Mario grinned back and replied that nothing comes from nothing. As he walked remotely into the locker room, he wondered if he had really been here before… He walked to his locker and opened the padlock, just as he had done it felt hundreds of times before. He undressed, hung his suit, shirt and tie in the locker and took his training clothes. All still damp from the last workout. No matter, he would have been soaking wet again in fifteen minutes anyway. Mario took his cup, filled it with a portion of the powder and refilled it with water from the dispenser. And then he went to work out.

Shit, when he pushed the dumbbells off him with the last of his strength after the last set, it was already 07:30. Shaving after showering had to be cancelled. With a lot of luck he had managed to be in the office at 09:00. The lady at the reception smiled painedly that he probably still had to get used to the dress code. Yes, he had probably forgotten his shirt and tie at home this morning. But the T-shirt looked great under the suit. Mario felt that way. His boss looked at him reproachfully when he arrived at the customer meeting a few minutes late. Mario found it very difficult to concentrate. He was relieved when it was time for the lunch break. Customers and colleagues looked at him questioningly when he ordered the 500-gram steak with green salad without dressing. "Mass phase," he said apologetically. And started talking about his diet plan. After the customers said goodbye, he was called into his boss's office. He gave him a lecture the likes of which Mario had never heard in his life. Even though it was hard for him, he pulled himself together to try to work through his to-do list. It was getting late when he left the office. But basically, he had been primarily surfing the Internet.

The next morning, Mario didn't arrive at the office until 09:45. At least he had remembered to wear a shirt today. Even if it stretched dangerously across his chest. The meetings today were even more exhausting than usual. His goal was not to fall asleep. He didn't want to stay longer than 5:00 p.m. anyway. Tonight he wanted to work out one more round of chest. Somehow he managed to get through the day. But the fact that he was doing dips on the countertop in the coffee kitchen and squats while waiting in front of the elevator led to more than one questioning look from his colleagues. But all he could think about was working out. And maybe sex.

Fuck, that had been a killer workout. Once home, he wondered if he should have another pouch, even though he'd already had one for both workouts today. A lot helps a lot, he thought to himself. And fell into bed exhausted after drinking.

The fact that he showed up at the office the next day at 10:30 a.m., unshowered and wearing a tracksuit, might not have been enough of a reason to quit. But the fact that he first had to jerk off in the restroom while his boss was standing next to him was reason enough. Security escorted him to the door. And said goodbye with a pithy handshake. It would be a shame to lose a beefcake like Mario on the team. And gave him the business card of the security service he worked for. They could always use a fella with an imposing body.

Mario had been living rent-free in the basement of the gym for two months. In exchange, he worked as a janitor and factotum. Only a few hours a day, the rest was spent preparing for the next competition. There was always a next competition. And it was only half a year until Mr. Olympia. He took a sip from his cup. He was condemned to success!

I'm glad you condemned me to this story, @rapids0!

[lixenn]

BUSTING INTO UR ASKBOX WHILE READING THRU DAVE'S PROFILE!! Lix!! Dave and Yui's bdays are one day apart sjvfhsvfsvf this coincidence is so funny 🤣🤣

Since he likes sunsets, I wonder if he likes the sea too? The sunsets are very beautiful when viewing it from the beach (asked by someone who just got back from a trip to the beach)

Because he has a lot of piercings, I wonder if he's interested in getting tattoo too?

Not a question, but reading this --- Dave simply turned up at Varia’s front door with a cheerful: “Heard you were hiring?” --- made me laugh, because I remember the snippet that you wrote about how Dan met Dave and it still makes me laugh a lot 😆😆 (PLUS !!! “I can use this guy to avoid talking to people!” DAN IS SO REAL FOR THIS!!! HE'S SO BASED UR HONOR!!)

Is there any latest hot boiling tea that Davey-boy can share with us in the class right now?

Mammon knows a lot about people huh. I wonder what Dave's relationship with Mammon is like? How does Dave interact with Mammon, knowing (if he knows) that Mammon knows background info that he hides?

Would he dye his hair as rainbow-colored for Pride Month---

EIN! BELOVED! Thank you for visiting my humble abode, always lovely to have you here 💕✨

I have managed to get this ready for Dave's birthday!

Happy birthday Davey-boy! Hope you and everyone else likes some more Dave info hehehehe

Sunset and sea

As someone whose life has been grey and dull for a long time, Dave adors colours in all shape or form, so yes he loves the sea, loves how it can glitter and reflect. The different shades of blue also appeal to him. Just colours my friend. It's a small joy for him but a joy nonetheless.

Tattoos

Is Dave interested in tattoos? Yes. Does he trust anyone enough to actually give him one? Not really. Dave has done most of his piercings by himself (which Davey-boy... no...) but tattooing himself is certainly more difficult then simply stabbing a sanitised needle through his ear. He loves the idea of body art though and he keeps drawing tattoo ideas on his paperwork (much to Chief's chargin).

Also since we are at the topic of tattoos, I'm just going to sneakily mention this for the people who aren't in the discord or haven't read my Chief/Squalo sparring snippet:

Chief has tattoos! And he actually has a lot of ink. All of it is nature based and all of it is hidden under his clothing, so at the moment in the Varia only Luss (who is his doctor) and Mammon (because Mammon knows all) know about the tats. Dave is in for a surprise when he finds out hehe. (Dave already thinks that Chief is super cool, but now he has tattoos??? No fair~ He will need to increase his mischief factor by one hundred to balance it out.)

Dan the introvert

Dan knows what's up lol. While Dani-boy can talk to people when necessary he tries to avoid it as much as possible because it sucks his energy like nothing else and he already doesn't have much energy to begin with. Also Dan might be quite observant but he sometimes doesn't get subtext and takes sometimes a bit to literal, which can lead to much frustration and hilarity. So he prefers leaving the people thing to Dave who's a social butterfly and thrives under attention.

Mammon and Dave

Dave doesn't like Mammon, at all. Honestly, it's more fear than dislike that's bothering him, because Dave knows how much power information can hold, it's one of his specialites after all. So while Dave is aware that Mammon won't reveal anything about his past unless someone goes looking for it and is willing to pay an obscene amount of money for the info, he still treats Mammon with a healthy dose of respect. He actually tries his best to avoid dealing with him and Mammon is one of the few people he tries not to prank directly.

Rainbow hair

Dave would definitely dye his hair rainbow coloured for pride month. He would burst into Luss' room on the first of June (probably when the clock rings midnight lol) and demand that his hair needs to be taken care of now.

The Tea

Now, the tea is the reason why answering this took so long, because dear Ein, once again, I have written a snippet! Rejoice! (Thanks so much to @unwrathful @childe-of-saulot for helping me brainstorm and also thanks to my dear buddy @myrmyrtheorca for solving my naming problems 🫡💕✨)

---

Dave kicks Vlasta's door open with cheerful aplomb. "Have you heard?!"

His friend doesn’t even have the decency to look up from cleaning their knives at his fabulous entrance. "You violating my privacy? Sure did."

"Like you even know the definition of that word. You were literally fucking someone in bright daylight yesterday."

"It's the principle of the matter, D." They finally put away their collection of all things sharp and pointy just to grace him with a simple blink. “Now, what’s the tea and where the hell are the snacks?”

A grin creeps on his face as he presents the chocolate covered strawberries he stole from the kitchen like they are a tribute to the gods. “I came prepared.”

The offering is scrutinized for a moment before Vlasta nods in acceptance. “You pass, but you are on thin ice.”

Dave fully skips into their domain and is greeted with the full force of the tantalizing scent of plum and cherry hiding the metallic taint of blood that has etched itself into the foundation of the walls ever since Vlasta claimed this room as their own. He places the strawberries on the nightstand next to the candles and bones, then bounces onto the four-poster bed that wouldn’t have been out of place in a film set of a dark historical drama which features witches, blood sacrifices and ritual sex. The dark red satin sheets flow smooth and cool over his skin, a stark contrast from the humid summer heat.

Dave hums lazily. “You always had great taste in decor. Less so with your partners though.”

His words are met with a pointed kick to the ribs. “Fucking- OW! What was that for?” He quickly scoots out of kicking range, rubbing the sore spot on his side. “This is abuse! Mistreatment! Bullying!”

“Talk shit, get shot,” Vlasta smirks, plucking a strawberry from the container. “Count yourself lucky that I put my knives away or this could have ended in a bloodbath.”

“But you like bloodbaths!”

“Not on my good bedsheets, idiot.” Vlasta plops the fruit into their mouth and moans in a way that would turn a porn star green with envy. “Now spill the tea before the day’s over. Chop chop.”

Dave brightens. “Okay, so I was staking out make out closet, as one does.” Vlasta nods along like this is a reasonable way to spend one’s free time. There’s a reason why they are best friends. “And guess who walked out of there?

Vlasta indulges his theatrics. “Who?”

“Sofia!”

“Sofia Nardi?” His friend tilts their head like a curious bird. “Douchbag’s girlfriend Sofia? That Sofia?“

“Yup! And she wasn’t alone.” Dave waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Ollie followed soon after.”

Vlasta perks up, finally gifting him the entire weight of their attention and he basks in it. Yes, he always has the best gossip, thank you very much.

Another strawberry disappears between black tainted lips. “Sofia and ol’ Ollie. They fucked?“

“Oh, totally.”

“Huh,” a slow blink, followed by a sadistic smile, “good for her. Does the Douchebag know?“

“Nope,” Dave answers, popping the p for maximum obnoxious effect. “Completely in the dark”

The smile turns into a full-blown smirk. “Excellent.”

Dave‘s expression mimics the grin on his best friend’s face, vindictiveness filling him by proxy.  Sofia’s (ex?) boyfriend Alberico Ordelaffi commonly known as the Douchebag is what one could call a traditionalist. In short: he’s strictly religious, massively sexist and completely full of himself. The only time he stops sucking his own cock is when he’s bragging about his prestigious lineage or insulting your lack thereof. Vlasta with all their… Vlastaness is naturally offending Douchebag’s delicate sensibilities which results in a largely one-sided rivalry that involves a lot of holy water and failed exorcisms. So, any misfortune falling upon him needs to be fully savoured and sampled.

Speaking of savouring, Vlasta already decimated the strawberry offering during his retelling leaving nothing left for him which ... yeah, that tracks. But he still wanted a taste! His friend can be so stingy sometimes.

Well, there are other ways to be fed...

“Now,” Dave risks edging a tiny bit closer to them. “Since I delivered you both juicy strawberries and gossip, I deserve a reward, yes?”

Vlasta doesn’t even hesitate in shooting him down. “I’m not telling you what Chief and I discuss when we’re alone.”

“Oh c’mon! What more could you possibly want?”

The stare he is given runs shivers down his spine. Vlasta has a way of looking right into your soul, dissecting you with a simple gaze. People often fear them because of their appearance, their fondness of blood and flesh but Dave fears their ability to stand back and watch far more. They pick up the smallest of hints that let’s them solve humans like puzzles and the only reason why Dave ever let them close is because he can recognize his people, see the same cracks that plague him day in and day out. It doesn’t change the fact that he’d prefer not being perceived and now he gave them an opening.

“Well, my dear friend.” Their voice was raspy, a near seductive purr. “How about your name?”

Dave freezes. Nobody asks after his name. The scars are questioned more often than he could count. Same for his family and body count. But his name? Nobody bothers asking after names in the Varia. Not with how the organisation collects weirdos like the most fucked up circus. You might snoop behind somebody’s back, but you don’t talk about it in person. It just wasn’t done.

Leave it to Vlasta to not give a single fuck about etiquette and social norms.

Dave sighs. “I’d rather not.”

The predatory aura persists for one more second until his friend simply shrugs like they were asking after the weather rather than one of his close kept secrets. “Shame. Names hold a lot of power. But no name, no deal, Davey-boy. Them’s the rules.”

The mood brightens considerably at the nickname. Teasing and banter, he can do. Way better than digging up pieces of his past best left forgotten.

Time to turn the brattiness to the max.

“But I wanna knoooow.” Dave gives them his best rendition of a kicked puppy.  “How can you just hoard the Chief insider info? The inhumanity! The cruelty!” He adds crocodile tears for dramatic effect. “Share the goods, V. I need all the dets. Well actually, I need to study Chief under a microscope, but I will accept second hand knowledge for now.”

Unsurprisingly, Vlasta isn’t moved by his act in the slightest, in fact they don’t budge an inch. "Your obsession with our boss is fascinating. Have you considered fucking him to get it out of your system?”

He pouts: "I offered! Well, Luss and I offered but he refused."

"Skill issue."

"Oh fuck off, how often did he reject you? Five times? Six?" He leans into Vlasta’s personal space, leering and teasingly poking their cheek. “Losing your touch V?”

“You’re about to lose a finger if you don’t remove it from my person, dickhead.” Their eyes gleam red and Dave immediately backs off.

Fuck. Pushed too much.

Touch and Vlasta can be ... tricky at times. Initiating contact always involves some risk. It's like a gamble where the odds change at a whim and clearly Dave lost this time around.

He scrambles off the bed, holding his hands up in surrender. He tries for a smile but it came out as an awkward grimace instead. "Sorry 'bout that."

The red in their eyes dims but doesn't disappear. Vlasta nods, accepting the apology but not stating forgiveness.

Yeah, this calls for a strategic retreat.

He tiptoes closer and closer to the door. "I'll see you around?" The confidence leaves him at the last minute turning his statement into a question.

Vlasta licks off the chocolate on one of their fingers, steadily holding eye contact because they are a fucking weirdo. "Until next time."

Oh, thank god. Friendship saved.

---

Ngl not totally satisfied with the ending but it will do >.< this got so long and surprisingly deep but I like how it protrays Dave's and Vlasta's realtionship.

[lyrakanefanatic]

MY THE GRANDEST GAME PREDICTIONS PART 4!!!

——————————————————————————

4: brady daniels

closest to in the game: knox landry, odette morales

love interest: odette morales

person he dislikes the most in the game: savannah grayson

personality traits: kind, outgoing, loyal, loud, intelligent, interesting, strong, cheerful, warm, charismatic, and talented

negative personality traits: incredibly insecure, impatient, needy, jealous, irritable, and desperate. he spends a lot of time building up his charisma so people don’t see past it to what lies underneath.

HIS CHARACTER OVERALL HEADCANONS:

• he’s really tall. like, 6’4 tall.

• he has sandy blond/dirty blond hair and tan skin, (he defo gets really dark during the summer) and he’s 22 years old.

• he has a golden retriever personality

• he was definitely that one golden boy at school. did well in class, was popular, and got into many school programs that were extremely difficult to get into as well.

• although he was bullied when he was younger a lot because he had crooked teeth and went through puberty late. he used to go home early every day from ages 8-11 because of stress stomach aches. (if yk how those feel ☹️)

• a lot of kids that knew him at those times always get shocked whenever they realize it’s him because he has straight teeth now and changed himself completely to fit in

• he’s AMAZING at cooking. you best believe he can gordon ramsey up any dish and makes people shed literal tears at how good it is.

• him and libby grow a special bond over it, so sometimes brady cooks dinner and she bakes desserts

• is anazing at math too, and solving questions in his head

• he’s an only child

• he’s actually very strong, but doesn’t really know what to do with the muscle as he can’t fight that well 💀 (although he will if somebody talks crap about the people close to him)

• he does his best to defend his friends and family no matter what and will always speak up for them, even though sometimes it makes him uncomfortable

• forced to listen to kanye west born to listen to taylor swift

• he had a phase where he would get bad grades in school on purpose to fit in. he ended up eventually realizing that it wasn’t worth it so he got his act back together and started getting 100’s again

• he has the bluest eyes you will ever see

• he’s great with parents and can immediately make good first impressions

• he is not great with people if he feels uncomfortable with them, and usually ends up finding an excuse to leave 2 minutes into the conversation (although he tries his best to leave good first impressions with people no matter what)

HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH THE OTHER CONTESTANTS:

• lyra kane: him and lyra actually end up being really close, although brady knew that she distanced herself away from him quite a bit due to the fact that he was close with knox. (and we all know the deal with lyra and knox 🙄) once they do get closer though, they end up being besties. brady always makes fun of her for being short, but never takes it too far bc although he’s a foot taller, she can still beat him up. example:

• “hey i think we finally found the answer to this riddle! it’s: ___!”

• “oh hey we did!”

• “up top!” *brady reaches his hand way over his and lyra’s head, grinning*

• “fuck you.”

he ends up asking her for advice on how to ask out odette bc her and odette are besties, and lyra is always happy to help (as long as brady doesn’t ever hurt her. if he does, she will reach her hand down his throat and rip his skeleton out. 😊)

• knox landry: him and landry are best friends and spend a lot of time in the game hanging out with each other. although there is a significant height difference, (since brady is 6’4 and knox is 5’10) that’s never stopped knox from kicking his ass in boxing. they spend a lot of time going over clues together, and during these times brady accidentally spills about his crush for odette. knox instantly makes fun of him, but also finds it cute and tries his best to create moments where they can be alone together for brady. brady usually has to drag him out of fights and tries to be the “peacemaker” one in the scenario bc knox will beat anybody up bc he has no chill LMAO

• odette morales: ever since he saw odette, he immediately found her interesting and beautiful. he loves how she can be so quiet and soft spoken and yet still draw people in and make them listen. he also loves how easily he can make her blush. although she only ever has a faint blush, brady can tell when she’s nervous. she darts her eyes away, everytime she smiles it’s a downward smile, and she looks for an opening to leave the room quickly. he finds it’s so adorable but doesn’t do it too often because he wants her to stick around so he can talk to her. i like to think of their relationship as being similar to nick and bree’s from legend born, except nick and brady are the same people and bree and odette couldnt be more different LOL. he loves to call her “smart girl” and has never undermined what she’s been able to do. plus, she gets him to open up his music taste and now he likes SO. MANY. different artists it’s not even funny. odette is semi tall at 5’8, but even then brady towers over her and honestly it’s so new to odette because she’s been taller than, or the same height as, almost everybody in her life.

• savannah grayson: brady and savannah aren’t that close due to the fact that their personalities are way different, but they’re still friends. brady does kind of feel threatened by the fact that grayson is her brother and feels like she might get special privileges from that, but like knox, tries not to hold it against her because she’s like 4 years younger 😭😭 brady grew up playing tons of sports, so they usually find each other in the gym (if there’s one at the house they’ll be staying in on the island) late at night. at those times, they usually 1v1 in basketball, but brady has gotten her to try other sports. although they aren’t that close, they’re still good friends. (even though brady felt the most threatened by her in the beginning)

• gigi grayson: brady definitely got bored one day when it was super slow at the house on the island, and slipped her coffee, and ever since then gigi declared that they were best friends. he also is very much taller than her, although he could not manage her crazy self if he tried. he always tries to cheer her up when he sees that she’s under the weather (like if she can’t figure out a riddle or sum) and makes sure she’s okay. they have done so many karaokes together it’s not even funny, and brady sometimes gets scared of how extroverted he is. AND HE GREW UP BEING THE POPULAR EXTROVERTED KID!! 😪😪

• rohan: he finds rohans quick comments and comebacks funny, but also gets a bit envious at times of his never ending confidence. he felt the same way about rohan as he did about savannah at the beginning of the game, but as they got closer, he started warming up to rohan more. although rohan wins significantly more when it comes to casino games and whatnot, brady still wins the other half of the time because he uses gambling mathematics to win (and whenever he does, rohan calls himself a nerd.) brady has made fun of rohans accent so many times, but stopped when rohan started threatening to beat him up. ☠️

——————————————————————————

OKAY SINCE ALL THE NEW CHARACTERS ARE DONE, THE NEXT ONE IS GOING TO BE ABOUT THE CONTESTANTS WE ALR KNOW

IM THINKING OF DOING GIGI OR SAVANNAH FIRST. WHICH ONE DO U GUYS WANT??

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XIV): State of Grace.

Imagine you find the love of your life on Tinder. But there’s a lot going on before you and him realize that.

Warnings 1: fluff, light reading, some drama, light smut.

***

• (I)

I'm walking fast through the traffic lights. Busy streets and busy lives and all we know is touch and go. We are alone with our changing minds. We fall in love 'til it hurts or bleeds, or fades in time…

You stare at the Tinder app you’ve just downloaded. Motivations cannot be concealed of why you are doing it. Loneliness is why it’s suddenly opened, leading you to interact with strangers under the pretense you are about to fall in love with the man of your life.

Ridiculous are such romantic notions, and you have no one to blame for nurturing them but yourself. That is why you open it and sliding these male pictures like they are part of an odd menu, you think you are very demanding when you see his picture on your screen.

His profile reads:

Aemond T, 28 years old. “Live fast. Die young. No idea what the fuck I’m doing here, but it is what it is.”

You think those lines are quite amusing and you press the “like” button, a part of you doubting he’s liking you back. Especially when your profile reads:

Y/N, 28 years old. “I talk a lot and make bad jokes. If you are here to be monosyllabic, please get out.”

To your disconcert, he likes you back.

“Well, let’s see how this one goes”, you tell yourself, somewhere between self pity and skepticism.

*

Aemond Targaryen has arrived home in the first rays of morning. Ran on the streets, crossing red lights, a color he dresses and lives for, hardly respecting it at times when he finds convenient.

Living at the upper east side of King’s Landing, he’s slightly drunk when he gets at the apartment he shares with the only tolerable member of his family: his sister, Laena, who’s sleeping by now.

Opening Tinder because, since he left Alys, he feels the need of one night stand, he finds himself quite impatient before such pursuit. When he sees Y/N on his screen, he knows this is not the kind of woman he usually hangs out with.

In fact, this bad boy hardly looks for good girls—Alys once accused him of mother issues for dating older women who somewhat resemble his mother and this kind of traumatized him. No one knows, but he’s doing therapy to fix this issue.

But you are not older, hardly look like his mother, Mrs Alicent Hightower, and… well, you look beautiful with vivid y/c eyes, smooth y/c skin and y/c hair tossed against the wind.

As soon as he sees he’s corresponded, he sends a message, almost falling asleep because it’s 5 am but he’s surprised when you promptly reply.

“What’s up?”, Aemond writes, half drunk, half asleep.

“All good. And you? Where do you speak from?”, you write back.

“Upper east side, you?”

“Not the richest part of the town for sure.”

When reading these acid lines, Aemond laughs, though something about them annoys him in the same measure.

“What do you know about that?”

“Enough to know this is not a place I frequent.”

“So where do you come from?”

“I recently left High Garden and am temporarily living at the capital. In that neighborhood called Y/C.”

“That’s a good neighborhood. Despite your prejudice, I actually go there at times.”

“My prejudice? Do you suppose I hate rich people now?”

Aemond is not sure how the hell this is going. Shouldn’t a one night stand be this difficult to find, for sure.

“Sorry. I’m drunk.”

He’s about to throw the phone away and touch himself instead. This appears to be a better option. Besides, calling Alys is not fucking considered.

“Apologies accepted. I admit I did not express myself well”, you write. “Should we start again?”

Aemond, between horny and impatient, finds himself compelled not to throw away his phone, after all.

“Sure, why not? What are you doing at 5 am? I mean… I have the excuse of being drunk after a fantastic party at the port, but you?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts over my head, I think, but this is not a conversation for Tinder.”

Now Aemond is wide awake. You don’t look like any superficial woman he’d been talking these days.

“Why, tell me about it. I am an expert when it’s about anxiety and other things. Besides, who do you take me for? I like deep conversations.”

“Send me a text message and we can keep this going.” And you write your number down.

The silver haired male raises an eyebrow. Despite the poor starter, you are more interesting than he’d formerly judged.

I wonder what lies behind these photographed vivid eyes, Y/N.

***

You exchange messages with Aemond for three days. A date is set, and before you know expectations rise. Then you start to sabotage yourself.

You begin to look for excuses when it comes to meet this strange, handsome rich man. Old traumas remind you of past failures, but your mind is briefly distracted when he sends you a message:

“Hey, Y/N. How’s it going? Didn’t hear from you today.”

It’s mid-week, and due to your work as y/c you occupied yourself enough to avoid his name or the fact that in three days you might meet him.

Part of you wonders what could possibly go wrong whilst another makes a power point presentation with lists of why it could go worse than expected.

“All good”, you eventually answer. “Sorry for not answering straight away. I’ve been working.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t take long to answer you back.

“How’s work so far?”

You know Aemond works as humanities professor at Westeros University, but that he’s also part of that (rather infamous) Targaryen family.

“Good so far. Just busy. How’s yours?”

“One needs patience to deal with young adults that still think they are teenagers. By the way, apologies for the swift change of subjects, but how’s our Saturday going? Still standing, I hope?”

You hesitate, panicking before the idea of seeing someone. Part of you tries to find motives to avoid him, but another, more reasonable, reminds you this is living: hurting, yes, but embracing the joys life may offer. Shielding oneself against disappointment will not stop them happening, so what is the point of hiding in shadows under the pretense of impeding suffering?

“Is 10 o’clock good?”

“It works fine for me. I’ll see you there!”

It’s set. Your first date in three years…

• (II)

You come around and the armor falls. Pierce the room like a cannonball. Now all we know is don't let go. We are alone, just you and me…

Aemond is not romantic, but practical like his ex used to mock. He is not the kind of man who opens easily, rather being a man of actions.

How unusual, or perhaps following an advice of his sister dear, that he opts as first date with a girl he’d never seen before a picnic at the Aegon’s Hill.

Dressed like someone who could easily be mistaken as a motorcycle rider man, he’s wearing a pair of sunglasses and threw over his shoulder a black jacket, wearing a simple white shirt and black pants.

He checks his phone once a while, but why is he feeling dizzy at this first encounter with a stranger?

It’s when he spots you dressed in a flower dress, medium y/c hair blowing against the wind, wearing a pair of blue sandals on your feet.

A funny contrast you two are, like sun and moon when they meet, resulting in an eclipse. But as Aemond watches you come, shy and insecure about him, he wonders where this will go.

Taking off his sunglasses, he stands and smiles:

“Y/N? It’s me, Aemond.”

“Oh”, you barely blink when spotting those purple eyes. “You are taller than I had assumed.”

He chuckles at your remark.

“In my family this is a remarkable trait, some would say.” Aemond offers you a seat and you soon take it.

You see the picnic is already set, the cloth already spread over the green grass on a spot that has some shadows thanks to a large tree that there stands.

There are fruits, cakes, cereals and breads, but also juice, water and coffee. You are positively impressed by the effort he paid to this. Aemond side smirks at your reaction.

“What? Did you like it?”

“I loved it”, you smile the brightest at him. “Thank you, Aemond. I’ve never done picnics before.”

“No?”, he inquires, watching you with interest. “How come? I thought this was a common thing at High Garden?”

You laugh heartily and Aemond decides that he likes the sound.

“I am not a noblewoman, my dear. It may be a tradition amidst the local elite. You must certainly have heard of a beauty named Margaery Tyrell. She does promote these events there, but like I said, I’ve moved to Kings Landing a few years ago.”

“The name may hint something, but I don’t care about elites and their gatherings”, says Aemond, serving himself some water whilst you opt for some juice. “My father loves throwing fanciful parties, but I don’t fit them, so I stopped going.”

As you study him, your gaze and his linger for one small, but significant moment before you say:

“So I get you are not very close to your family?”

“Not really, no. But you wouldn’t be if your father favored one child over the other and expected gratitude in return”, he smiles despite the poisonous words.

You raise your eyebrows.

“Is it that bad then?”

“You have no idea.”

You tilt your head.

“I cannot believe I relate to you, Aemond Targaryen.”

For some reason, this brings you both to delightful laughters in that first date…

***

• (III)

And I never saw you coming. And I'll never be the same…

It’s been two weeks. What was supposed to be a chasing after one night stand it has become new discoveries giving space to new sensations.

Aemond likes to kiss your lips in his car, to make you laugh at his bad jokes or listen when you tell about your day.

You like to listen to him too, not only about his days, but his past experiences, open wounds that mirror yours. And when he kisses you it is as if the world stops spinning and everything takes in a slower rhythm.

His kiss makes you feel unspeakable things, but that you never felt encouraged in doing them, transferring to reality what has only been a fantasy of your dreams.

Nonetheless, you are still reluctant in pushing affairs forward and Aemond respects you that. He reads you like an open book, always observant about your mannerisms.

This day, for example, you two are at a coffeehouse that is located within a bookshop. There, you read a book of poems all the whilst he drinks coffee. It’s a comfortable silence and it gives him such a peace, one of the kind he’s unused to it.

“What are you looking at?”, you ask upon sensing his stare, which makes you blush.

He chuckles, finding adorable how easily he makes you shy.

“You”, says he directly. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful like you, reading so concentrated.”

You giggle like a silly girl, finally putting the book aside to take his long hand in yours, enjoying how smooth it is when your fingers are locked with his.

“Stop it”, you shoot him an embarrassed look. “You know it’s untrue.”

Aemond laughs quietly. He then makes sure you are now sitting on his lap, disregarding the fact you two are at a public place.

“I mean every word I say”, he looks deep into your eyes, holding your hips as he rests his chin over your shoulder. “How come I feel more alive when I’m with you, dearest Y/Nickname? My heart races when you look at me like that.”

You lean closer to him, a smile spreading big on your lips before cupping his face with your hands.

In your mind you cry out a big “I love you”, but these words don’t reach your tongue yet. You thus kiss his lips instead and there you stay, at your private paradise.

*

Later, he drives you to his home. His sister isn’t there and Aemond wants to show you his place properly. This is the first time you are there since you and him started dating—though no label has come out of either mouths yet.

Once inside, you are given a tour at the apartment. It’s bigger than you’d expect, but cozy and nice to look at with a huge view at his living room to the sea.

“Look at this view!”, you exclaim in awe as you see green hills mixing with different modern buildings that are combined with the blue of the oceans, reflecting the same shade of the color that paints the skies. “I wish I was this privileged! But then I remember I already am.”

And saying so, you look at him, transmitting more than you’d expect. But even so… when Aemond meets your gaze, he sees it through you. What is curious is that, somewhere in his past, he’d flee, panic or fight it in his way by sabotaging the process.

He still has his scars, and these are eventually coming to surface, but this silver haired male has no space in his mind that is not you. Thus, he comes to stay behind you and says:

“You know what, Y/N? Be with me. Be my girlfriend.”

You turn your head at him. It is easy to be involved by sweet words and empty promises, but this is not what you feel when your wide-eyed gaze meets his intense one.

Souls speak in silence when desires, sentiments and thoughts are aligned in one purpose. Could it be any different? Perhaps yes, but neither you nor Aemond conceive otherwise.

"Yes, my dearest."

You turn and wrap your hands around his neck. Proximity is shortened as his long, callous hands tight the grip around your waist and his forehead once again rests against yours and a kiss comes as a result.

Though he is not yet ready to speak these three words that at times can be seen behind his dazzling purple eyes, Aemon is more than ready in building a new, more optimistic future with you by his side.

A sentiment and perception that you share as your togue snakes in his and together dance in one slow syncronized rhythm. Silence remains undefeated in the surroundings... but for how long?

His is the fireous pursuit and you, like a timber prompted to burn. Soon, you are pressed against the wall with his lips still locked with yours, but his hands move to your hips, there staying, there caressing your bum before rising to your waist and slowly transferring his gentle, warming touch to your back, underneath the blouse you wear.

It does not help that, after biting your bottom lip, he breaks the kiss so he gradually grows bold in his teasings. You like how your boyfriend--and the word brings a smile to your redish lips--takes his time to get to know you and your pace even if you suspect he's a dragon like the standard of the symbol of his famous family.

You play with his long locks, wrapping them around your fingers, sighing quietly as his tongue takes its time to get familiar with your neck. You giggle softly, however, when his hands rest subtly on your belly.

"Yes, babe?", he raises his eyes to meet yours and in them you see mischief. "Is it good for my lady?"

Your knees often weaken and your body gets instantly warm at whenever he is gallant with you. Aemond, a good observer, knows it well. No wonder why he smirks at you.

"It is more than good, I fear to say", you chuckle, struggling not to rub one leg to the other, especially when he looks at you like that. And you find yourself restless, prompted to let your fingertips vaguerously move from his arms to his chest, thus helping him remove his shirt.

"Is it so?", Aemond laughs quietly, letting you take the reins of the moment. "Your innocent gaze makes me no fool, young lady".

Saying so he presses you one more time against the wall, biting your neck all the whilst your hands eagerly move to his pants.

"You are my doom", you whimper impatiently.

The spark is about to explode...

***

(IV)

So you were never a saint and I've loved in shades of wrong We learn to live with the pain, Mosaic broken hearts. But this love is brave and wild

Even sun sets in paradise. In due time, his obscurity comes to surface as well as your vices. Jealousy is a trait you dislike in yourself, reflecting the insecurity within due to bad experiences in former relationships.

His self entitled taste for liberty awakes this beast, coming to test your relationship in the famous “three months crisis”.

“Don’t give me the silent treatment”, says Aemond, troubled by your silence as he drives you home.

The cause of disagreement rests in the unwelcoming presence of Alys Rivers. Two days after Aemond’s birthday party, she, who remained a close friend to his brother Aegon—even if his entire family hates her for reasons you have not yet figured out—paid him a visit and you were not told about this.

But he eventually tells you like it is not relevant for your relationship. You, proud where sentiments are concerned, think that if he cannot see how wrong this all is, certainly will not find out by you.

“I am not giving any silent treatment”, your words cry a wound open in your ego, your voice betrays your pride.

Aemond sighs and stops the car somewhere random.

“Come now, don’t be like this, Y/N”, he looks at you with confused eyes. “We have always talked about everything, haven’t we?”

Your therapist usually tells you that, regardless of how uncomfortable it is to speak out, you must not swallow your sentiments nor bury them by turning into a burden that should be forgotten. Or else your body would feel the results, which in turn were not nice.

Aemond can see you are struggling against yourself, aware that underneath you there lies old scars that still do you harm. He puts a hand around your shoulders, patient.

“Take your time”, he says with his usual soothing voice.

In other circumstances, he’d not be patient. But this is someone whom he cares deeply, having grown to love sincerely. Only another woman holds his patient affection and it’s his sister, Helaena.

Eventually you burst into tears, letting yourself exposed before this man you love. You’d think he is the kind of guy who likes strong women so you’d never let be seen so fragile, so open.

Aemond somehow comprehends it, then he lifts your face so you can meet his gaze and see there’s no judgement behind his eyes. Wiping away your tears, he suddenly realizes, after examining his conscience, the probable cause of your hurting.

“What did I do, lass? There is no need to push me away. We must speak. What is troubling you, my love?”

“I… I…” you take a deep breath, confident you can battle your demons. “You welcomed her, the woman who you told me you loved fiercely for many years. You welcomed her at your house and tell me as if this is no big deal? She may remain friends with your brother, but then what about us? What about me? Do you care so little about my feelings that you simply receive her, a woman I cannot equal in many ways?”

Oh, the thought comes too late. So this is what it’s about.

Aemond doesn’t know how to respond straight away. Sticking to his early encouragement, he is not running away from himself.

There is embarrassment, there is shame. His thoughts are a mess, but only after you stop sobbing that he turns at you.

“I’m sorry, Y/Nickname. That was imprudent of me.”

“I am not that kind of girl who is possessive of her boyfriend. Who you hang out with is your problem, we all have friends and it’s completely understandable to be friends with one’s ex but…”

“Wait”, he frowns. “Are you friends with your exes?”

You ignore his remark.

“…to welcome her like that without even telling me, and at your own house with no one else. How can I feel comfortable with that?”

“Aegon was there”, Aemond mumbles. “This doesn’t excuse, I know. I’m sorry, darling. And I had no idea you compared with her. For the love of God, I am your boyfriend, not hers. If I wanted to relive the past, I would be a historian or a museologist.”

Pleased to make you chuckle, Aemond smiles at you, pressing a soft kiss against your temple.

“Are we good?”

“Yes, my love, we are.”

And you two stay silent, appreciating each other’s company with only the stars and the poorly illuminated posts as witnesses.

*

A few months later, a graver disagreement comes like an earthquake to shake the stability between you two.

Aemond is a possessive man, so he is not exactly a man of sharing. This flaw comes particularly when he feels threatened by others. One of these is his nephew, Jacaerys Velaryon.

He thought this rascal man was being friendlier to you than you deserved. You two had a fervent argument after that.

Or when you accused him of running away of his commitment to you by not introducing you to his family.

As you can see, it’s been a hell of a ride.

But twelve months later and insecurities are overcome, with you finally settled with each other’s demons.

***

• (V)

This is a state of grace. This is the worthwhile fight. Love is a ruthless game unless you play it good and right. These are the hands of fate. You're my Achilles heel. This is the golden age of something good and right and real…

You mount on him, ready to another drive. It feels so damn good to have his cock twitching hard, thrusting inside you as you two move slowly.

“This is so damn good”, you moan, eyes closed.

“Do not be loud, my dear”, Aemond smirks, adjusting to you, taking a seat without letting you fall.

Curtain is open, giving path to moonlight spark in his bedroom. You are at his apartment, having recently moved together.

But dear Helaena’s birthday is coming soon and some of the family is spending time there.

“I am trying to, but you make it difficult”, you whimper when he takes your breast to his mouth all the while fingering you concomitantly to his moves.

And then he rolls you to his bed, fastening his pace and kissing you passionately.

Not too long after that and you both come together in the same climax. When cuddling you, Aemond says.

“I corrupted you, didn’t I?”

You cast him an amused glance.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve become more naughty since we’ve met”, Aemond chuckles, kissing your neck. “Not that I am complaining.”

“What can I do if the makeup sex is really good?”, you laugh quietly.

Interlocking fingers, you two stay like this for a moment, staring into the nude dark sky able to spot from his bed.

“I was thinking…”

“Yes?”

You look at him, admiring his beauty, the paled, smooth skin, the well built muscles perfectly drawn in his shaped body, his long hands that mould so well with yours… Even his wrongs, his flaws, his vices… make you love him ardently.

Sensing your gaze, Aemond begins to flush.

“I am no romantic”, he whispers in his usual quiet tone. “But you know how I’ve grown to overcome my disability in expressing my thoughts and sentiments.”

“I’ve always judged you did this better than me”, you muse partially joking, pleased to make him smile.

“I…”

Now on your elbows, you take his face with your hands.

“What’s it my dear?”

Avoiding your inquisitive gaze, Aemond is silent before bursting it soon:

“Be my wife.”

You barely blink, a small, silly smile, coming to form on your lips.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me”, he blushes.

You laugh at his lack of sensibility. Throwing yourself at him gives the peace his rioting heart requires.

“Is this a… yes?”, Aemond asks, unsure. “I should have done it better, I’m so…”

You shush him by kissing his lips, then saying:

“Of course this is a yes! You are my state of grace, Aemond Targaryen! I could have not asked for a better husband.”

When contemplating the genuine joy stamped in your features, he, stroking your cheek, then says:

“You are the love of my life, Y/N Y/LN.”

Without waiting for any response, he holds you against his chest, rocking you in his arms as you share a kiss.

It’s the first chapter of your happily ever after…

[fangirlwriting-stories]

You Had to Be There to Get It

Summay: Thomas knows that he sometimes relates to different sides for different reasons, but this situation is a new one.

...

Fine, Thomas would admit it.  Therapy was a good idea that he definitely should have tried sooner.  Sure, it was uncomfortable at first, when they were getting to know each other, but Emile was an excellent choice and Thomas clicked with him really well, and he started realizing some things as they talked.

He probably was too hard on himself, for one.  He needed to sit and let himself be sometimes instead of constantly trying to be the best person he possibly could.  He definitely had some issues with trying to make creative ideas too perfect and good and pure (Thomas could still feel Roman’s cathartic ache from that realization, and Remus’ vindication).  He was really bad at not knowing, and sometimes he had to sit in the uncertainty (Logan hadn’t liked that one, but he’d felt Patton’s relief).  And a recent realization as to how much growing up where and how he did had actually affected him.  Turns out being a gay catholic kid growing up in Florida in the 90s can have a tendency to make a kid feel a bit unwanted.  Who knew?

Thomas had a feeling he was going to be unpacking his feelings around that one for a while, especially considering it even started in a surprising place.

“I don’t understand,” Logan said as they walked back into Thomas’ apartment.  He had been talking about it the entire way home, and Thomas honestly didn’t quite understand why.  He thought the issue had been pretty settled in therapy, and for once, he didn’t quite get where Logan was coming from.

“That time of your life was so long ago,” Logan said.  “You have supportive friends and family now, you have a relatively stable career, you’re comfortable with who you are.  Why would that still be having such an impact on you?”

“It’s childhood, Lo,” Virgil mumbled, though for some reason he wasn’t meeting Logan’s eyes.  “It kind of affects you for the rest of your life, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I’m kind of with Teach on this one,” Roman said.  “As much as I loathe to admit it.  Yes, Thomas was a very repressed kid, but aren’t we past that now?  I mean, you’re not closeted anymore.  You can’t be trying to tell me you want to be.”

“No,” Thomas said, closing and locking the door behind him.  “But Roman, it was— it was very hard for me.  Okay?  You know that, don’t you?  You were there.”

“Yes, obviously it was,” Roman said.  “But still.  That was a long time ago.”

“It was,” Patton agreed.  “But that doesn’t mean Thomas can’t still be upset about it, even if it doesn’t seem to make sense.  Besides, repressing our feelings hasn’t really gone well in the past, remember?”

“But these feelings don’t make any sense,” Logan sighed, adjusting his glasses.  “Yes, Thomas had a difficult time feeling unwanted as a child.  We all know this, we were all there.  But we’ve moved past that now.  And honestly, it wasn’t really that bad, was it?”

“Easy for you all to say,” Virgil snapped suddenly, glaring over at all of them.  They gave him a surprised look back, and Thomas, despite himself, did the same.

“Virge?” he said.  “You okay?”

Virgil glared away and grumbled something.

“What was that?” Thomas asked.

“I said they don’t get it,” Virgil said, glaring back at him.  “It’s not— oh, nevermind.  They still won’t get it.”

“What are you talking about?” Roman said.  “Of course we get it.  We were there?”

“No you weren’t,” Virgil said, crossing his arms.  “He was.”  He nods at Thomas.

All of them looked at Virgil for a second, and Thomas found himself doing the same, not quite sure what Virgil was getting at.

“Virgil,” Logan said, giving him a baffled look.  “We are all part of him.  Have you somehow forgotten this?”

Virgil, however, just looked at Thomas.  “See?” he said, like they were both in on something.  “Told you they wouldn’t get it.”

Thomas blinked at him.  “I… I don’t get it either, Virgil,” he admitted hesitantly.

“Virgey’s tryin’ to say,” came a sudden voice, and Thomas felt elbows suddenly leaning on his forehead before Remus leaned upside down into his face.  “That they’ve never been unwanted.”

“Did you miss the part where I just explained that we’re all part of Thomas?” Logan said with a sigh.

“Yes, but Thomas isn’t part of Thomas,” came Janus’ voice, and all of them looked over to find him on the couch.

Remus brightened at his appearance, and bounded over to flop back on top of him instead, which at least freed Thomas’ head from his elbows.

Logan threw his hands up.  “And you people wonder why I find it difficult to speak with you,” he said.  “‘Thomas isn’t part of Thomas?’  What in the world does that even mean?”

“He means,” Virgil snapped, and Thomas turned to him again, more than a little surprised to find Virgil defending Janus.  “That Thomas always wanted you.  So no, Logan, none of you get what it feels like to be an outcast.”

Thomas’ eyes widened as it finally clicked what Virgil was saying, and he looked between him and Remus and Janus.  Janus was currently in the process of moving Remus off of his lap, but Remus was looking right at Thomas, surprisingly not smiling.

“That’s ridiculous,” Roman scoffed.  “We all have Thomas’ experience.  We remembered what happened.  We know what it’s like.”

“Oh you know what it’s like?” Remus said, sitting up off of Janus himself, though he still flopped back on the couch as he crossed his arms.  “You ever sit up at night wondering why no one seems to like you, why you don’t have any friends?  You ever wonder why the things you do seem to be just a little too weird, just a little too off for them to be acceptable?  You ever look around at everyone else going on with their happy childhoods, knowing with certainty they’re cared for by the people around them, and wonder what you’re doing wrong?  Why don’t you get to have that?  What’s different about you?  Why is it fair that they don’t want you around?  You know what, you say to yourself, if they don’t want you, you don’t want them either.  What’s so great about them?  You’re going to be weird and own it!  Maybe you decide to join a counterculture, have an emo phase,” he gestured at Virgil who glared at him but then looked away without denying it, “try and go where all the other misfits are, because clearly you’re not wanted anywhere else.  You ever feel that overwhelming relief when you finally find someone who likes you for you, wants you because you’re weird?  Ever have to fight the instinct to hang on to that person for dear life, because you don’t know if they want you as badly as you want them, and if they don’t and you drive them away by being desperate you’re going to hate yourself because then you will have nothing and no one and this time it will be all your fault?  Ever have to spend time after time after time reassuring yourself that this time it’s real, that these people want you around, and still not be sure, even after, say, a decade and a half of being an adult and actually having friends that want you?”

Remus spread his arms with a wide grin as all of them stared at him.  “Because I have!” he said.  “And Janus has and Virgil has!”  Then he pointed over at Thomas, who was pretty sure he was breaking a little inside.  “And Thomas has,” he said.  “Have you?  Mr. Golden Boy?  Mr. Suburban Dad?  Mr. Respectable Teacher?”

“I,” Thomas said, before any of the others could say something.  Remus and Janus and Virgil all turned to look at him.

“I really made you guys feel like that too?” he asked, because Remus had just hit the emotion that he’d been feeling and that none of his core sides had been able to articulate square on the head.

“It’s okay, Thomas,” Janus said instantly, sitting up.

“Says my Deceit,” Thomas said, looking at him, and Janus swallowed but didn’t say anything else.

Thomas reached out and took Virgil gently by the arm, and then pulled him over towards the couch, where he sat down on the other side of Remus and pulled all three of them into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, looking around at all of them.

There was a moment where none of them said anything.

“S’okay,” Remus said finally, and Thomas got the sense that he was closer to meaning it.  “Wouldn’t want to be anyone else.”

Thomas gave him a small smile.  “Me too,” he said, and Remus beamed at him.

“Good,” Remus said.  “‘Cause I’ve been trying to get you to give less fucks for years.  It’s not so bad, remember?”

Thomas smiled a little wider.  “Yeah,” he said, because even though Logan had said the same thing, Remus clearly meant it from a very different place, and Thomas liked that place better.

“The world fucks everyone up,” Virgil muttered, and Thomas glanced down at him.  “Either you’re never wanted or you’re terrified of losing it when you are or you’re an entitled prick that makes people feel unwanted in the first place.”

“Yes, those are in fact the only three options,” Janus said, rolling his eyes.

“They are when you’re a gay Catholic kid growing up in Florida in the 90s,” Virgil said.

Janus smiled a little.  “Or the repressed survival instincts of a person’s subconscious,” he said.

“I’d rather make a new option,” Thomas said, and Janus looked back over at him.  “Wanna help?”

Janus smiled a little wider.  “Sounds dreadful,” he said.

The four of them sat there for another minute, and then Thomas glanced up at Patton Roman and Logan, all of whom were standing across the room looking a little lost.

“It’s okay if you want to join the hug anyway,” Thomas said.  “You don’t have to get it.”

Another second passed, and then Patton smiled a little and walked forward to sit on Janus’ other side, followed hesitantly by Roman, who took Virgil’s other side, and Logan, who walked over and stood nearby until Roman pulled him down.

Thomas stayed in between Virgil and Remus and Janus, however, because he was pretty sure the three of them did understand when something wasn’t for them for the moment, and Thomas wanted to get as close as he could to hugging his inner child, that lost little kid version of himself.

And maybe it was high time he gave that same inner child a little more grace.

[bella-rose29]

episode 2 commentary - Let Go of Me

major spoilers for show and books, swearing, me obsessing over lockwood's hands probably (edit: definitely, and George's)

why did I immediately think jellyfish

omg the flowers

Luce you really shouldn't have taken that

just like @demigoddess-of-ghosts said, why tf are deprac asking if there's anyone else there when Lucy is quite literally screaming 'lockwood'

"miss lockwood" and "lockwood's my partner" 🤭

"we called your mother" ok well her mother is a Bitch so that wasn't a good idea

"rest up until he's given you the all-clear" like fuck she's gonna do that

omg the flowers!!!

ooo spooky green lighting

omg the ghost lock victims ward 🥲

I would love to know what they were planning on doing with this scene actually bc I feel like it sets up some sort of ghost lock victim storyline for the future - maybe using them for science? idk I'd just love to know

oof lockwood's hands

just this whole scene of lockwood

hands

barnes is not fucking around lol

HANDS

HANDS

the way he sits back in the chair has me WEAK

THE JAW MOVEMENT

can you tell I'm going feral

George's lil run omg

George is so neurospicy I love it

George your posture needs sorting out my love 😭

"You're meant to say no, Lucy" well it's difficult to say no to lockwood when he looks at you with his beautiful eyes and smile and-

"I'd say like a house on fire" 😭

my poor baby looks so tired :( and he definitely needs a shower oh dear

I didn't think I would hear lockwood with his queen's English call someone 'mate'

I love that George just says straight up facts

"posh one who thinks he's god's gift" sounds about right

"his weird mate with zero social skills" also sounds about right

I love that they included the tapes for norrie bc actually it's a great way of adding to the narrative (bc we don't have any voice overs) and we get lucy's view on stuff

and we see her survivor's guilt too - "like how I should have helped you" omg 🥲 (excuse me while I go cry in a corner)

ruby stokes the woman you are

"no it doesn't, it looks like I cooked it in an active volcano" pfffft George I love you

"Andrew lockwood"

"girls are funny about baths" he's trying goddammit

HIS SMILE

"she's not unhinged" "you're hardly the best judge of these things" "you need normal people around you" "you really think you're normal?" your honour I love their friendship

"the world's mad, and normal never fixed anything" gonna make it my motto

"let me... sleep on it" BOY YOU DON'T EVER SLEEP

oh Luce

okay but these special effects are so fucking cool

hang on why the hell did Lucy go to sleep holding the ring

Jesus Christ that scared the shit out of me

ooo green lighting!!!

pfft goes to hold his hand to wake him up

HIS FACE WHEN HE WAKES UP OMG 😭😂

also: NECK and THE FACT HE SLEEPS WITHOUT A SHIRT

I love the disgruntlement of george

WHITE T-SHIRT LOCKWOOD

"trousers are for wimps" ICONIC

omg I love that we get to see George's Touch!!! also his hand??? brb gonna go melt

LOCKWOOD'S HANDS AND FOREARMS WITH THE CHAINS

FOREARMS

omg Georgie it's not a wasp I'm sorry

ARMS

I am dying how the hell did Ali manage to make his voice say "oh shit" like that

LOCKWOOD HAS A RAPIER I'm gonna faint

"I can't believe you stole a Source" GEORGE YOU ARE ONE TO TALK

yeah Luce call him out

"we need to destroy her source and move on. let her go" I have so much to say about this omgggg bc on the one hand the episode is called Let Go of Me and rn I'm 1/3 of the way through this episode and they've repeated those words in different ways so many times it's unreal. and then on the other hand (spoilers for the books) there's the way that Lockwood isn't doing this himself, because he hasn't destroyed the source in his house and let his own ghosts go 😭

omg George loves an experiment you can hear the joy in his voice

NOT THE WAY HE PHYSICALLY MOVES TO PROVE HE'S ON LUCY'S SIDE omg they're becoming friends even if they don't know it yet

ARMS

OH LORD THE HOODIE??? I wanna steal it

NOT THE WAY HE HANDS HER THE RING AND LETS HIS TOUCH LINGER AND LUCY DOES THE SAME OMGGGG

THEY LITERALLY JUST STROKE EACH OTHER'S HANDS I CAN'T TAKE THIS

his smile omg

ruby stokes the woman you are omg

lockwood's face omg he's so conflicted bc on the one hand he's worried but on the other he's trying to not say yes when she goes 'you love me don't you?'

lockwood immediately pushing her aside

HANDS

HANDS

lockwood you need to stop taking sole responsibility for things

the sadness in his voice when he says 'this place is all that's left of my parents' omg

"Jesus, lockwood, we're screwed!" yep (also the way George says it is so funny help)

HANDS AND RING

barnes isn't taking any shit omg

such an ominous phone call

George's prison outfit (I can't remember who called it that)

omg I want lucy's playsuit

PINK SOCKS

also lockwood get your shoes off the table you heathen

no bc I actually want her playsuit

HANDS

HANDS AND RING AAAAA

:3

HANDSSSSS

"not a braying gallery for bellends" George I love you

BOBBY!!!

Lucy going straight in with the hard facts I love her

omg the scoff

THE SIDE PROFILE OF LOCKWOOD IS KILLING ME

kipps is such an arse

THE STANCE HE TAKES WITH THE SPARE HAND AND UGH

AND YOU NEED A LADDER

the way he says "yes you do" has me in a chokehold

the sMIRK

"irrelevant prick" love it

when the mutual friend leaves and you're left with the one you don't get on with

George you might be a weirdo but I love you for it

Lucy getting the juicy gossip and immediately becoming besties with george

ok well your mum is a bitch

oh lockwood wtf are you doing

"he's a little shit sir"

lockwood why

he looks so proud of himself I can't help it

"you're our biggest asset" oh boy

the regret on his face oops

"my judgement's been a little off recently" yeah bc you just met the love of your life

ok but women with swords 👀 bonus points if they're angry

HANDS

pink socks again

barnes once again not taking shit

she is a child sir you can't just spring that on her

omg Lucy :((((((

"let me go" - is that another reference to the episode title I see?

"lockwood's a charlatan" pfft

DONT YOU TALK ABOUT MY LOCKWOOD LIKE THAT

"they always make the most boring, unimaginative moves possible, don't they" - it's giving Cameron saying that everything is basic

lockwood read the room (cab)

"You were brilliant" boy's in love

"can we talk about this in the car" *taxi drives away*

"you might be able to turn your feelings on and off like a tap, but I am drowning here, lockwood" 😭

"You know sometimes I just... I just think I'd be better off dead" oh Luce 😢

also lockwood's reaction to that omg he pauses for a while and is all glassy eyed and then: "I understand that"

never mind them I am drowning here (in my tears)

"We need you, and it's not because you're an asset" "why then?" "because... because you're..." *looks away and clenches jaw* "Lucy Carlyle" *smiles really widely (I feel like he was considering telling her his feelings)

"we can't let you go" ANOTHER REFERENCE TO THE EPISODE TITLE

"that's why I went on tv, silly" WHERE IS MY BUCKET??? I DONT KNOW WHY HIM SAYING 'SILLY' LIKE THAT PAIRED WITH HOW HE WALKS TOWARDS HER MEANS I NEED MY BUCKET BUT I HAD TO PAUSE THE EPISODE TO MELT A LITTLE

"We're lockwood and co. you, me, and George" FUCK YEAH YOU ARE

"please stay" 🥺 (anything for you my love)

"so you'd look cool" lol

greeeeeeen

"you're more of a liability than an asset, Lucy" HE SAYS WHILE LOOKING AT HER WITH HEART EYES

oh Georgie

OMG HE HAS A PLATE OF BISCUITS AND A TINY GLASS OF MILK

GEORGIEEEE NO DONT YOU HURT MY BOY

green lighting!!!

"I'll take him" says boy with immense confidence

"can I offer you a cup of tea while you ransack my house? one lump or two" *throws torch and misses*

HNNNNNNNN THE NOISE I MADE WHEN HE DOES THE RAPIER THINGY AND GETS INTO HIS STANCE AND TWIRLS THE RAPIER AND PUTS HIS HAND UP

AND THEN WHEN HE DODGES THE TORCH??????? SIR WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO BE THAT FINE DODGING A FUCKING TORCH?????

oh my god the still I paused it on to write the above comment is gonna make me pee myself with laughter 😭😂 I wish I could screenshot to show everyone

ooo I might be completely delusional but Lucy smashes the mirror with her elbow in this scene (and the camera pauses on it for a good couple of seconds) and then plays a part in smashing the bone glass later on??? am I delusional or am I making connections???

Georgie omg

LUCY PICKING UP HIS GLASSES!!! I love this omg I would be lost without mine

HEHEHE STAB THAT INTRUDER

fuck me that neck crack was hot (also could lockwood fuck me please?)

green lighting!!!

also how did I never notice the stairs were spirally?

George you are so funny and I love you

I AM SORRY. WHAT. EVERYONE GO WATCH THIS FIGHT SCENE AND STUDY THE WAY LOCKWOOD FIGHTS/MOVES THE RAPIER IN HIS HAND BECAUSE- I need my bucket holy shit

George hauling those chains around like it's nothing 👀

green lighting!!!

yeah you better run bitch

"we should have people round more often" lolllllll

lockwood can kick me-

"why are you making that face?"

"that's not your normal face, that's your 'I know something you don't' face"

sweaty lockwood

George's face when she pulls the ring out is so funny to me 😂

"you lunatic" *lockwood grinning widely* I love their reactions

aww let Georgie swear :(