#((This is the SECOND TIME THIS WEEK that a school organization has given me a position I do not want-))

[antihibikase-archive]

I am in a school where its student council is being run by a villain I swear to god

[edgeray]

“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

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Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I start giving some very *very* Christian family members religious pamphlets from non-Christian religions as gifts?

To be clear, I am writing this while firmly believing I'm NTA but I am angry and don't trust my own judgment too much right now.

Background and Players: My Son (19) was adopted out as a baby by his incubator behind (my husband, 40) his father's back. He was abandoned at 4 by his adopted family because of behavioral issues related to what his incubator was putting into her body while she was pregnant with him, and went into foster care with people I will call Amom and Adad. Adad is a pastor in his 90s and Amom is a pastor's wife in her 80s. When Son was 13 and I had been with Husband for 5ish years, we had been told (by someone from his incubator's family but we didn't know that at the time) he was non-verbal and "mentally an infant" and that trying to pull him out of the routine he had would just be incredibly harmful to him, so we had given up hope of finding him and having a relationship with him. We got a phone call one day, a worker who was looking for a medical history for Son. Husband spent close to 3 hours on the phone with her, answering questions and asking anything he could squeeze in. Turns out, we had been lied to about his mental health just... completely. He's impossible to shut up and he graduated high school last year despite, you know, *gestures vaguely at everything* and I am incredibly proud of him. Half an hour after that call ended, she called back and told us Son might be interested in meeting us, was it okay for her to pass on our contact info. A month later, Son, Amom, Adad, Husband and I were sitting in a restaurant together and a month after that we went to their place for a week to spend Christmas with them. This is when they informed us that they had finalized his legal adoption a couple of weeks earlier. 2 years after that, my QPP moved in with us, and another year later 16 year old Son asked if he could move in with us. He still does.

The Issue: Son wants a continuing relationship with Amom and Adad, but due to the previously mentioned substances used by his incubator, he has memory and time management issues so I have to regularly remind him to contact them. I have no problem doing this, but the contact we have had with them over the last few years has soured me on their company. I've got no problem reminding Son to contact them and organizing rides for him to visit (usually QPP and I driving him, the trip is a couple of hours each way) but I'd rather never speak to them myself if it can be avoided. It didn't start out this way, but over the years they have made it very clear that they don't respect anyone else's beliefs. Not just us, like there was one night where they were going off about some Danish surgeon saying publicly that he was Muslim first, Danish second, and they were trying to convince us to be terrified by that. The conversation ended awkwardly when Husband asked if Adad was Nationality or Christian first (because that's different you see). We have found books on the bookshelves in the guest room about how any kind of queerness at all is demonic possession, one of which they wrote. They talk about things like being sent on a mission by their god to save as many (and I hate that these are quotes) "brown heathen children" by making them Christians as possible (Son and his adopted siblings are all First Nations, Amom and Adad are as white as I am), or how Jewish people are evil for stopping Christians from claiming their suffering because "Jesus was a Jew so aren't all Christians also Jews?". Amom once spent a week trying to convince me to go to church with her and share the details of my childhood sexual abuse with the entire congregation because "it will show God you are ready to be forgiven". QPP is a shintoist and after they found that out, we started seeing more literature about the Japanese, specifically during WWII, around their house when we visited.

We have politely made it clear that we are not interested in Christianity, especially not their version. Multiple times. We thought it was finally over after Son had a meltdown at them at his graduation ceremony because he wanted JUST ONE conversation with them that wasn't about Jesus. He was in tears trying to explain that to them, and their response was to tell him he needed to come back to church so they could lay on hands and chase all the demons making him say these horrible disrespectful things to them out of him. He was supposed to stay with them for a few days to visit after that, but by the time I tracked him down and got him calm, he didn't want to go anymore. They seemed to stop after that, like they actually backed off and I think I got maybe 2 emails that didn't mention God or Jesus, not even a "God bless" in the sign off. We were optimistic. Son was late organizing it but we dropped him off (at his request, he's worried that Adad won't make it to next Christmas and wanted to see him) at their place on Boxing Day. We did not hang around, we did not send gifts, we didn't even reply to the Family Christmas Email (it had a video of a Jordan B Peterson rant embedded in it and I've told them before that we are not interested in anything that sack of hateful arrogance has to say please stop putting him in my inbox). We have done everything we can to make it clear that we do not want a relationship with them for ourselves, including outright directly telling them politely to their faces that we will not stop Son from seeing them but we don't feel comfortable around them and don't want a relationship with them for ourselves. Son came back with "gifts" from them - a study guide for a specific Bible book (I got John, Husband got Michael, QPP set his on fire before we saw who it was) and a bag of candy that looked like it came out of a thrift store (I got the same one they always get me, which I laughed off the first and second and third time and explained I couldn't stand them because my abuser used to give me one when he was done. Husband is diabetic and got York Patties. QPP actually got something decent though, $20 for gas).

I have managed to keep my "I'd rather you hadn't bothered actually" rantingvto Tumblr, which i don't think they even know exists, but I'm still pissed about the Bible crap as "gifts". I am considering changing tactics completely and being super friendly, mirroring their energy, and giving them the same treatment they've given us. I want to make excuses to visit so I can explain the finer points of shintoism and Celtic paganism in every single conversation. I want to give them books for gifts, books like The Tao of Pooh and The Gospel of The Flying Spaghetti Monster. I want to wrap cash in pamphlets about The Invisible Pink Unicorn and leave it on their fridge.

QPP and husband think I should give myself more time to calm down and just keep ignoring it and playing nice when I'm forced to play at all but like, IT'S BEEN 6 YEARS.

What are these acronyms?

[inseparabiles]

My (least) favourite part about writing fic for this ridiculous fandom is trying to play Google PhD for Caracalla's fantasy-convenience syphilis.

You don't get to just have symptoms from every godforsaken stage of the disease at once willy-nilly like you're collecting them in jars for display. Pick one or AT MOST two stages at once and sit with it. Christ.

Let's see what we've got here. Welcome to my unlicensed clinic for fictional people and friends only, but do take this neutral disclaimer that I dropped out of school at 12 so I'm totally a professional and this analysis is medically sound as all hell.

Ready? I'm not.

Primary stage: 2-12 weeks after infection - congratulations, nothing here. I have not checked his privates but the only symptom of the initial stage is the chancre, which lasts for up to six weeks before healing on its own and nothing else exists in this stage so. Clear based on presence of other symptoms.

Secondary: 1-6 months after primary stage. - rash, check - fever, can't measure without touch or thermo but a safe check anyway - sores, yes but in a weird location (how are you getting these on your cheeks exterior, tell me). - muscle aches, check. Have you seen how this boy walks? How he holds his hands? - weight loss, don't know. He's petite, doesn't really look malnourished. - headaches, hard probably. - hair loss, none. Fluffy as fuck. - swollen lymph nodes, again I have no touch contact. Probably though. - sore throat, no complaints and has no issue shouting.

Latent: that stage after secondary, where you kind of just don't have symptoms most of the time, but the virus is getting everywhere. Spine, brain, heart, nerves, organs, everything. Flares are possible but mild. Lasts up to 20 fucking years - our boy is like... 25 at most. Hopeful? Not so fast. Based on all evidence and speculation, I wouldn't give Caracalla's immune system much credit as to its ability to hold the infection at bay and the "up to" numbers are best case scenarios. The lowest range for how long the latent stage can last is three years, but quicker progression is usually seen in AIDS patients, and AIDS didn't exist in 200 AD, so we're ignoring that. Despite this, given the era and its customs and culture, it's perfectly possible that Caracalla's caught his infection in his early to mid-teens, which...

... no symptoms to check against, so, moving on,

Tertiary: Most people with untreated syphilis never hit the tertiary stage, because the infection takes so long to get to this point. Up to 30 years. Yet somehow, Caracalla manages to have tertiary stage neurological symptoms from advanced neurosyphilis while not having the physical symptoms or, sans despair-inducing circumstances, the age to show for it. And while having the definitive second/latent stage symptom of skin rashes, which you do not have in the tertiary stage at all. And you don't get to speedrun this stage either: you can live with this thing for twenty years without dying of it. You don't just hit tertiary one day and die next week. Again, how are you managing all of these cherry-picked symptoms and HOW are you fast-tracking them and yourself to hell SO fast. This is going to be such a long list but here we go: General: - brain damage / dementia / cognitive problems, absolutely. - heart disease, nope. - movement disorders and muscle problems, aside from the forementioned pain, no (clear) evidence. - nerve damage, no evidence. - seizures, none. - vision problems / blindness, none. Neurosyphilis: (can and will develop at any stage, however, symptom progression seems tied to general progression, you don't get to have tertiary stage symptoms with secondary stage disease, etc. Except if you're Caracalla and the gods hate you I guess.) Meningeal: - headache, hard probably - nausea and vomiting, no evidence - neck stiffness, I mean sure but he also sits like a sack of potatoes, differential diagnosis of your fucking posture sucks so much - light sensitivity, honestly Geta suffers more of this than Caracalla does (I think this is Joe's fault and I relate) - vision or hearing issues, still nope - cranial nerve dysfunction, no evidence

Menigovascular: - vertigo, no evidence - stroke, thank gods no - muscle weakness or atrophy, still petite but looks fine, twin comparison checks out

General paresis, early: - mood disturbances / irritability, very much - personality changes, yes (based on Geta's statement) - changes in sleeping habits, unknown - forgetfulness, dear god and how.

General paresis, late: - mood swings, and how - memory loss, yes. - impaired judgement, sorry is laughing at this inappropriate - confusion, yes - delusions, yes - seizures, still no.

GP / psychiatric: - depression, no - delirium, hard maybe - mania, no evidence - psychosis, well on the way there

Tabes dorsalis: - ataxia (issues with coordination), reasonable or strong evidence sans differential (drugs. he's on so many drugs) - nerve pain, probably - bladder control issues, most likely not - outside of differential (script case -> fear) - abnormal sensations, we just won't know - vision changes, still no evidence - pupil abnormalities, none - loss of coordination/reflexes, some sans differential (DRUGS) - neuropathic arthropathy (bone/joint fragmentation), none - problems walking, some

So with all of that out of the way, this boy's manifesting: - none of the initial stage as far as we can tell, so he's had syphilis for longer than six weeks. Great, this really narrows it down, lads. - nearly all of the secondary stage symptoms, including rash, which is not present in other stages, indicating that he's either secondary or latent stage per presentation (1-20 years after infection). - one definitive symptom of tertiary stage syphilis, being his absurd amount of neurological / neuropsychiatric symptoms. Even then it's almost impossible for him to be at this stage under any circumstances, but here we are. TERTIARY STAGE DOES NOT HAVE RASHES OR OUTWARD SYMPTOMS. TERTIARY STAGE IS INTERNAL ONLY. (screams into a megaphone in the general direction of Hollywood) - three symptoms of early general paresis - every single symptom sans seizures from late general paresis (again you can't have this with your other symptoms by ANY standard that I have been able to dig up. Like based on medical law this is literally illegal go straight to fantasy disease jail.) - let's say one whole symptom of neuropsychiatric made out of two halves, with psychiatric disorders manifesting in late stage disease - 2½ symptoms of tabes dorsalis which is whatever, as none of this is technically outside the legal zone of what he's allowed to be experiencing.

WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF DISEASE PROGRESSION BLIND BAG ARE YOU DRAWING FROM. No wonder everyone's so worried about you. You're either going to die an absolutely excruciating and horrifying death in a week or in 50 years and nobody can tell which is it going to be.

The only thing we can say for somewhat certain is that regardless of where his disease progression is headed, his mental state is not going to go back to fine ever again thanks to the plentiful evidence of physical and permanent brain damage from his infection, even if he was pre-latent and experienced a decent degree of improvement in the asymptomatic period - but honestly, as a person of questionable mental and physical state myself, I relate to and accept this. Disability is not a death sentence.

The rest of this though? What the hell. What are we supposed to do with this. Who do I sue.

[elvenisms]

on my doorstep —; e.m.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader [5.6k]

summary: An unexpected gift exchange between you and Eddie leads to an eventful Valentine's Day. 18+ MDNI

cw: smut, fluff, no use of y/n, mutual pining, best friends to lovers, first i love yous (':, sub!eddie if you squint, oral (female receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (as always, don't do this), lovesick idiots and emotional sex.

author's note: getting this up literally ten minutes before valentine's day ends! woohoo! got carried away (as i often do), hope u like it. <3

masterlist

February 10th, 1986

It was a somewhat chilly day in Hawkins, the wind whipping around dead leaves that hadn’t yet been raked, the trees prickly and barren. Forest Hills looked its best like this, you thought; you were never one for hot summer days, or freezing winter nights.

Inside your trailer, Nancy was pouring a cup of coffee, wearing a matching set of pajamas that was oh-so her. That alone made her look more put together than you or Robin, clad in baggy, mismatched sweats. 

“What time do you work, Robs?” You asked mid-yawn, blankets pooling around where you sat on the couch.

She frowned beside you, squeezed her eyes shut, and threw her head back dramatically. “Don’t remind me.”

“Can’t Steve cover for you?” Nancy rounded the corner with two steaming cups, handing them off to the two of you. “He kinda owes you. You covered for him for that date last week.”

“That is a great observation.” Robin pointed a finger at the girl, as if she’d forgotten. “I’ll call him.”

Knock, knock, knock. All three of your heads flew to the door, then back at each other, brows furrowed. 

“Expecting someone?” Nancy asked, and you shook your head in response.

Curious, you threw the blankets off of you, cradling your cup of coffee as you approached the door. Maybe the kids skipped school, had some adventure planned? Maybe Eddie was bored?

You unlocked it, then swung it open—no one was there.

You looked down, confused, and were met with a sea of red; a bouquet of roses, neatly organized inside a vase, sat on your porch. On top, a small note with your name written on it. 

Your jaw dropped slightly in shock. You’d almost forgotten that Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and certainly didn’t anticipate getting any gifts. You’d been single for almost a year, and not exactly searching.

No reason, really. It just never felt right.

You picked up the bouquet, wide eyes scanning the park for any sign of who dropped it off, but you didn’t see a thing. 

When you turned around, Robin almost spat out her coffee. Nancy had a huge grin on her face. 

“Do you have a secret admirer?” She teased, but it was full of love.

“Not that I know of,” You sat the vase down on the table between the three of you. It really was beautiful. “But this definitely has my name on it.”

“Five bucks says I know who that’s from.” Robin raised her eyebrows, staring sheepishly over her mug. 

“I don’t think I’ll take that bet,” Nancy was still grinning her face off. “I think I know, too.”

You were even more confused now. You looked between them, expectant.

“ItsobviouslyEddie,” Robin spat out, then threw a hand against her mouth. Nancy rolled her eyes. 

“You could’ve given her, like, more than half a second to figure it ou—”

“What?” You interrupted, incredulous. “Why would… Eddie’s my best friend, you guys. It’s not—it’s not like that.”

It wasn’t like that; you just spent a lot of time together. Sometimes you watched movies, and fell asleep wrapped up in each other’s arms. Sometimes you’d go to his shows, watch him play guitar, and bite your lip so hard it bled. Sometimes you had… questionable dreams about him. 

Okay, maybe it was like that. But not for him.

The two girls were looking at you like you just failed a polygraph test. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” You grumbled, setting your coffee down on the table. “He doesn’t feel that way about me, okay? That’s not even his handwriting. It’s way too nice.”

Robin rose from the couch. “Whatever you say, chica,” She headed for the phone, eyeing you as she went. “I’m gonna call Steve.”

You looked to Nancy, who simply shrugged with a knowing smile, then back to the flowers. It wasn’t Eddie. It couldn’t be.

But what if it was?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

February 11th, 1986

“I think I blew it.”

Eddie’s elbows rested on Steve’s kitchen counter, face buried in his hands. The house was empty, per usual, which Eddie always thought was insane—he wondered what it was like to have money for a place like this, let alone have it and never be in it.

“Oh please,” Steve had a mouth full of cereal, sitting a few feet away at the dining table. “What the hell are you talking about? You got her flowers. Girls love flowers.”

“She’s not just a girl.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, man. She’s a goddess, she hung the moon, she changed your life.” He gestured with his hand, rattling off the painstakingly cheesy things Eddie had said before. “Whatever, she loves flowers. Stop stressing.”

To anyone else, Steve might’ve looked like an asshole for dealing with Eddie’s anguish so casually. In reality, he quite appreciated it. Someone had to keep him grounded.

“Do you think she knows it’s me?” Eddie’s face finally left his hands, looking at his friend with a concerned expression.

“Doesn’t matter if she knows it’s you.” Steve pointed his spoon at him. “She hopes it’s you.”

“And how do we know that?”

“You know nothing, clearly.” Steve got up, carrying his empty bowl to the sink. Eddie rolled his eyes theatrically. “I, however, see how she looks at you when you’re together.”

Eddie’s heart did a little flip inside his chest. He wanted to believe that, he really did—but he doubted the words. “How… how does she look at me, then?”

Steve shrugged. “Sometimes like she wants to kiss you,” He spun on his heel, landing right across from where Eddie sat. “Sometimes like she wants to eat you.”

He swallowed harshly.

In the year that Eddie had known you, he’d been gone on you. Like, the whole time. It only got worse as you became better friends.

You’d help him study, insistent that he finally graduated, but his mind went fuzzy at your bare thighs, your floral perfume, the heat of your skin hovering just beside his. When he knew you were coming to his shows, he’d get indescribably nervous, petrified of embarrassing himself, despite knowing you probably couldn’t care less.

He thanked God he’d never seen or heard about you with another guy; at the same time, it was a little unbelievable. Hence, Steve had finally convinced him to do something—anything—remotely indicative of his feelings. 

Flowers. A good way to test the waters, Eddie thought, without giving himself away. 

After another thirty minutes of crisis-control, Steve drove him home. The boy gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Ed, seriously.”

He appreciated it, though it did nothing to quell his anxiety. With a nod and a weak smile, he opened the passenger-side door, making toward his trailer.

He glanced at your place as he passed it. Just two days ago, it would’ve been so easy to knock on your door, ask to hang out. It suddenly felt impossible—perhaps because he was no longer shoving his feelings for you to the wayside. He’d made a move. Maybe he’d ruined everything between the two of you.

Mind racing, he treaded up his steps, nearly crushing what laid in front of his door.

A box of chocolates.

His whole body froze, staring at them wide-eyed. Slowly, he bent down, noticing a note stuck between the ribbon. Eds.

Not Eddie, not Ed… Eds.

The nickname he’d heard fall from your sweet lips a thousand times, and hoped he’d hear a thousand more. His heart thumped wildly.

He snatched the box, free hand digging through his pocket for his key, desperate to get inside before he passed away on the spot. He rushed to the couch, studying the note with gentle hands.

All it said was his name. But right now, it felt worthy of a golden frame, a tourist attraction—as if it were the eighth wonder of the world.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

February 12th, 1986

Despite the fact that you still questioned whether or not the roses were from Eddie, today was the fourth day in a row you hadn’t heard from him. No calls, no drop in visits—it was highly unusual. 

It was also a very good sign that it was, in fact, him. 

You hadn’t been able to focus on anything, especially since you dropped the chocolates off at his door. If he wasn’t your so-called ‘secret admirer’, you would have to explain all of this somehow. Well, I thought it was you, because I kinda hoped it was you, and…

The thought made you shudder.

“Are you okay?” Max asked, shoving a pair of sunglasses on her head.

You snapped out of your trance, looking between her and El. “I—yeah, I’m good. Are you guys ready to go?”

The two girls had showed up on your doorstep this afternoon, all giggles and playful shoves, begging to be taken to Starcourt. They took advantage of the soft spot you had for them often.

Soon enough, your run-down car was pulling into the mall parking lot.

“Alright, two hours tops, okay? I’m on night shift tonight, I need enough time to go home and change clothes.” You put on your best parental voice, the three of you making your way toward the entrance. 

The girls nodded happily, just excited to have hitched a ride at all. “You sound like Steve.” El quipped, earning a laugh from the redhead.

It would be nice to do some window-shopping, you thought, to take your mind off of things, if that was at all possible. You just wanted an answer—you wanted to be certain it was him, stop the spiral into thinking you might lose your best friend over some candy. 

Something came over you just inside the mall, right as El and Max were about to split off.

“Max,” You blurted, and she looked at you questioningly. “Weird… Um, weird question. Have you seen Eddie lately? Like, in our neighborhood?”

“No, don’t think so.” She shook her head, then narrowed her eyes at you. “Why?”

“No reason.”

You really were a terrible liar. “Is he ignoring you?”

“No! I mean… yes, but—no, I don’t think so?” You bit your lip. Jesus Christ, way to keep it cool. 

A maniacal grin spread across Max’s face, gesturing for El, who was preoccupied by a display, to come over. “We’re hitting Orange Julius first, and you—” She jabbed a finger into your chest. “—are telling us everything.”

For fuck’s sake.

Within ten minutes, the three of you were sitting at a table, sucking down your frozen drinks. You quietly hoped the brain freeze would give you a stroke.

“Spill.” Max commanded, both girls clearly excited for some gossip.

Before saying a word, you sat down your cup, extending both pinkies. “First of all, this stays between us, alright?”

They each hooked a pinky with their own, and you nodded, satisfied. So much for keeping your mind off of it. 

“Two days ago, someone left flowers on my doorstep. And I… I hope it was Eddie, because I might’ve left chocolates on his doorstep yesterday.”

Both girls squealed, clutching each other in excitement. “But, like, I don’t know if it was him, guys.” You were quick to subdue it, putting a hand out in front of you.

“It totally was!” El chirped, and Max nodded, joining in. “You guys are, like, idiots in love.”

“We are not!” The blush on your cheeks told a much different story. “Okay, whatever. Four people have now told me it’s definitely him, so guess I have my answer.”

“You already knew the answer.” Max rolled her eyes, rising from her seat with El. “Now, go get him something nice, and we’ll meet you back here in an hour and a half.”

The two girls skipped away. You took a dramatic slurp of your Orange Julius. 

Fine, you decided, less stressing, more shopping. You couldn’t take back the chocolates, so there was no point in worrying about it—que sera, sera, or however that goes.

You roamed the mall for about forty-five minutes, making pit stops at your favorite places; you bumped into the girls at Afterthoughts, where they were taking a decision on friendship bracelets very seriously. You stopped into Spencer’s, a favorite of yours for band tees and silly knick knacks—you almost got something for Eddie there, but lava lamps and mugs didn’t seem meaningful enough.

Deciding you’d figure it out later, you began making your way back to the meeting point. A display, from out of the corner of your eye, stopped you in your tracks. 

You stared at it, eyes slightly glazed over. It felt insane that you were even considering it.

It felt even more insane when your feet developed a mind of your own, carrying you into the store, and back out with a small bag—which you promptly shoved in your purse. 

“Do my eyes deceive me? You guys are here early?” You teased, approaching Max and El at the table from earlier. They were each carrying a few bags.

“We work fast,” El smiled, scanning you. “Did you get something for Eddie?”

“No, but I will, don’t worry.” You lied, knowing if you didn’t, they’d pester you until you showed them. “Ready to head out?”

The three of you made your way back to the car. After dropping El off at Hop’s, you headed back to Forest Hills with Max. She rested her feet on the dash. 

The ride was quiet—probably due to the fact that your mind was anything but. The gift you’d picked up for Eddie was… ballsy, to say the least. You blamed your friends for these bouts of fleeting confidence, which ultimately ended in wanting to bang your head against a wall. 

You parked at your place. Max hopped out, bags in tow, and made off toward her trailer.

“Thanks again,” She shouted, then gave a little nod towards your front door. “Looks like you got another delivery.”

Your head whipped toward the doorstep, approaching it with an embarrassing amount of haste. There was another delivery. 

A copy of Flashdance. Your knees wavered.

Now you were certain it was Eddie; the first time you’d watched it together, you made him swear he wouldn’t tell anyone how much you loved it. Cheesy, romantic, dance films didn’t exactly fit your tough-girl image. 

As giddy and lightheaded as you felt right now, maybe they were starting to. 

Of course, there was a note attached. You grabbed it, eyes widening when it didn’t just say your name.

Will I be seeing you on the 14th?

No name, no signature. What a little shithead, you thought, cheeks sore from smiling so hard. You pressed both the tape and note into your chest, exhaling a shaky breath.

It was real now. Whatever part of you that still doubted Eddie’s feelings had vanished—and it left behind a mess of excitement, nerves, and anticipation.

You glanced down at your purse, having almost forgotten about what you bought. Your stomach flipped in anxiety.

One more gift.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

February 13th, 1986

Eddie missed you. Like, missed the hell out of you—which was embarrassing, considering it had been less than a week since you last hung out.

Despite being adamant he couldn’t give out anymore free rentals, Steve had scored him the copy of Flashdance. He was really just proud that Eddie hadn’t completely chickened out yet.  Quite frankly, so was Eddie.

Though, that note he’d left at your door got him pretty close to it.

What if you said no? Even worse, what if you said yes, somehow under the impression that this was some lighthearted, best friend thing? Eddie didn’t think you were that oblivious, but the worst case scenario was kind of his forté.

Dustin thumped him on the back of the head. “Stop thinking about it.”

“But I’m—”

“No, nope, zip.” The smaller boy closed his fingers in front of Eddie’s face. “You can think about it tomorrow, when she professes her undying love for you.”

Eddie glared at him. The audacity was outrageous. “What do you suggest I do, then?”

Dustin glanced around the trailer. He didn’t think he’d get this far.

“Um,” He scratched the back of his neck. “We can talk about Hellfire?”

Eddie groaned, leaning back into the couch. “Henderson, I love you, I really do—but for the first time in my life, I have more pressing things to think about than Dungeons and Dragons.”

Dustin didn’t take it personally. In fact, he understood. He’d been sent here by Steve to keep Eddie’s mind off of it, which was proving useless, so he caved.

“Alright, fine.” He sighed, taking a seat beside the long-haired boy. A loaded silence ensued.

Eventually, he looked at Eddie in earnest, the corners of his lips turning up. “You think she’s the one?”

Eddie studied him for a moment. He noted the sincerity in his expression. “Yeah.” He breathed, nodding softly. “I mean, shit, yeah, I really do.”

“I think she is too, man.” Dustin grinned, in the comforting way that was uniquely his. “I mean, your one, not my one.”

Eddie chuckled at that. He might’ve been the luckiest guy in Hawkins to have such great friends—even if some of them were fifteen years old. If he had you, too, he’d be some sort of walking miracle. 

“Let’s just hope—”

Knock, knock, knock. Eddie’s sentence stopped in its tracks. The two of them locked wide eyes, and Dustin broke out beaming like a schoolboy.

“Holy shit,” He giggled, watching as Eddie approached the front door slowly. “She has, like, superhuman instincts or something.”

“Shush.”

Eddie’s hand gripped the handle, overcome by a wave of anticipation. Just beyond the worn wood, he’d find the answer to his question—a question which meant so much more than its face value.

Will I be seeing you on the 14th? Am I crazy for thinking I might? Do you want me how I’ve always wanted you?

He pulled the door open, eyes already trained to the ground. There laid a small piece of paper, liable to be blown away at any moment—he picked it up, hand shaking, heartbeat in his ears.

My place, tomorrow, 8pm. Last gift is here.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

February 14th, 1986

It was 7:45pm. You sat on your couch, leg bouncing, the faint sound of crickets penetrating your walls.

It was silly, really, to be so nervous—it was Eddie. You knew Eddie like the back of your hand.

His favorite songs, the way he’d fidget with his rings when he was nervous, the little noises he made in his sleep. You could almost smell his signature cologne, musky and warm, like a campfire at midnight. 

There were things you didn’t know.

You didn’t know the way his lips felt against yours. You’d long wondered whether he was a gentle or fiery lover; as much as you knew him, you still couldn’t tell.

Eddie, who’d once tended to a wound on your knee with delicate hands, wincing in sympathy whenever you did. Eddie, who was a passionate performer, owning every square inch of the stage with confidence. 

A knock at the door took the wind out of you. 

You stood up abruptly, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in your sweater, your skirt. You cursed yourself for not putting on some music, now acutely aware of the silence.

It was too late now. Fuck.

It was so much easier when it was flowers, movies, or flirty little notes on the other side of the door. You wondered if Eddie felt the same—terrified to knock and stay put, not scurry off and hide.

You clutched the doorknob, opening it slowly. Your eyes found each others’ in an instant.

He had on his leather jacket, typically reserved for shows, and a Judas Priest t-shirt. Like always, his knees showed through the holes in his jeans—a chain clipped to the belt loops. 

He was perfect. And even so, he looked nervous.

“Hey.” You said softly, like a deer in headlights.

He twisted one of his rings, eyes glued to yours. “Hi.”

It was so strange, you thought, how effortless it was before; a few innocent gifts had so drastically changed the air around you both. Some scrawled out notes brought a sea of unspoken feelings to the surface.

Instinctively, your arms reached out, pulling him into your home with a lingering hug. Despite being the root of your current anxiety, you craved his comfort.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He breathed, like feeling you in his arms was a relief. Your face was buried in his shirt, taking in the scent. Like a campfire at midnight. 

After a long moment, you leaned back to look at him, his hand cradling the back of your head. You could feel his breath ghosting against your lips, chests rising and falling together.

“Can I kiss you?” Eddie whispered, heartbeat drumming against you. 

Your limbs were numb. “Please.”

So, he did.

Every insecurity you had became ridiculously insignificant. The lack of music, the wrinkles in your clothes, the smudge in your eyeliner—they were like specks of dust on the Mona Lisa, because Eddie was fucking kissing you, and it felt like clicking the last piece into a ten-thousand piece puzzle.

He held you as if you were made of glass, gentle enough to bring tears to your eyes.

You finally parted, breathless, foreheads resting together. “Eds,” You murmured, hands beginning to wander, skimming over his shoulders, his chest. “I… I want to…”

“Me too.” He replied with a shaky breath, not needing you to finish the thought. “Promise me you’re sure. I’ll… shit, I’ll never forgive myself if I fuck this up.”

You won’t. You can’t. You never could.

“I’m sure.” You croaked, hands finally finding themselves in his curls. “I’ve been sure, Eds, for a year, since the moment I met y—”

He pressed his lips to yours, a different sort of passion within it. It was feverish, needy, tongues and teeth bumping into each other messily; his hands traveled down to your thighs, lifting you, and you wrapped your legs around him.

You hardly felt yourself move before you were being laid down on the soft surface of your bed. Your fingers stripped him of his jacket, tossing it off to the side, then moved to the hem of his shirt, embarrassingly eager to feel his skin against yours. 

Eddie held himself up with a forearm beside your head, his other hand clutching at the sweater over your waist, finally finding the courage to lift it off of you. Underneath it, intricate black lace—a sheer one-piece that left nothing to the imagination. 

He stopped kissing you. Not on purpose, but out of pure astonishment, eyes trailing your torso. 

“Is this…”

“Your last gift?” Your chest was heaving now, Eddie’s eyes warming your skin, but you managed a shy smile. “Yeah, it is.”

He sat up, bringing both large hands to delicately span your ribcage. Jesus Christ, the way he was looking at you was the best kind of absurd—like you were expensive, unattainable.

You felt the cold metal of his rings through the thin fabric, and it made you keen inadvertently. His eyes immediately flicked up to your face.

“You’re gonna kill me.” He shook his head lightly, utterly awestruck. “Like, really, I might not make it out of here alive.”

You giggled, and the smile rubbed off on him. “I might not either,” You reached out, hands slipping beneath his shirt, traversing the bare skin underneath. He shivered at the feeling. “So, let’s die happy.”

That must’ve ignited something in him, because he squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of it, wasting no time in pulling his shirt over his head. You hardly had time to appreciate the sight before he was on you again.

He nipped at your jaw, your hands making quick work of the button on his jeans; at the same time, his fingers tucked themselves in the edge of your skirt, gliding it off of you.

You tangled your fingers in his curls, as if it was the only thing keeping you from floating away. Only a few thin layers were left separating you.

“So perfect,” Eddie’s hands came to your shoulders, oh-so softly hooking the straps of the lingerie, sliding them down your arms. His breath warmed your neck. “This is beautiful, but you…” 

Your mouth opened and closed again, too overwhelmed by the praise to speak. You felt him drag the fabric down, an agonizing pace, until you were entirely exposed.

“You are everything to me.” He whispered, and there was a vulnerability behind it that made your heart swell.

Your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, and he gently clutched your wrist, stopping you. You made a small noise of protest. 

“Wait,” He murmured, pressing his lips to your neck, then your collarbone. His ringed fingers came up to cup one of your breasts, and your breath hitched when he kissed there, too. 

He continued downward, lips trailing your navel, pausing just above where you wanted him most. His dark eyes met yours, and Christ, he looked like an angel.

“Wanna take care of you.” He gripped your hips—not forcefully, but hard enough. “Can I?”

“Please.” You didn’t even know how he meant it. You didn’t care.

His hands found their way to the backs of your thighs, giving them a gentle push, putting your center on full display for him.

It had been so long since anyone had seen you like this, and now it was Eddie; as many times as you’d imagined this scenario, you never considered it could be a reality. You felt suddenly insecure.

His face couldn’t have told a more different story.

It was as if you’d bestowed God’s greatest gift upon him with your permission—you almost couldn’t be insecure. He was doe-eyed, slack jawed, a few stray curls hanging down in his face. Clearly the least of his concerns.

As you reached to brush them away, he leaned forward, softly swiping his tongue between your folds. It caught you off guard, back arching slightly. “Shit, Eds, yes.”

Your response was all he needed to continue, attaching his mouth to you again. You half expected it to be sloppy, fast, and eager; instead, he was methodical. His tongue circled your bud slowly, dipping down to your entrance every so often, wanting to taste everything you had to offer.

He was savoring every moment. And, fuck, you thought your soul might leave your body.

“G-God, shit,” You whined, no longer in control of what left your mouth. His hair was threaded in your knuckles, which you hadn’t even noticed until a particular swirl over your clit made you tug roughly on the strands—Eddie groaned against you, movements nearly faltering.

The vibrations were almost too much, let alone the fact that he liked his hair being pulled. You felt a finger tease your entrance, eliciting a gasp among your many moans, and it didn’t take long for him to sink it into you.

“Eddie,” It came out like a weak warning. The coldness of the ring on his knuckle met your most sensitive area, and you were gone. “Oh, fuck, Eddie, m’gonna—”

He curled it inside you and whimpered, sending your body alight.

You came as if you never had before. The combination of his mouth, his finger, the sounds he was making, his goddamn ring—it was euphoric, unlike anything you’d ever experienced, rendering you a babbling mess. 

He slowed down as you did, reading your body as if it were his favorite book. You thought he must’ve somehow read it a dozen times already. 

Appearing at your level again, Eddie caught his breath alongside you, his voice as soft as silk. “Was that… good?”

And for fuck’s sake, he was asking in earnest, like he really didn’t know whether he’d done well.

You huffed out an incredulous laugh, and it brought a smile to his face. Your hands came up to cradle his cheeks. “The best I’ve ever had, Eds.”

That did something to him—his eyelids fluttered shut, brow furrowing. It turned him on to hear he’d satisfied you. Which, in turn, made the ache between your legs apparent again. 

When you began to tug on the waistband of his boxers for a second time, he made no effort to stop you.

“Need you inside me,” It was more of a beg than a demand, barely audible, against his lips. 

Finally, every piece of clothing had been discarded. Feeling him rest against your core, heavy and throbbing, made you tremble. He was already on the brink of losing his composure. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He brushed the hair from your eyes, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Always. Gonna go slow, okay?”

Your heart turned inside your chest. Eddie knew it had been a while since you’d done this. You knew it has been awhile since he’d done this, too—and yet he pushed the nervousness aside, determined to be a rock for your comfort. 

You nodded, nosing against his cheek, feeling safer than you ever had before.

He lined himself up with you, pushing forward gently, tip breaching your wetness. It made your jaw fall open; the stretch was good, not painful, but you still needed the time to adjust.

He reacted similarly, his mouth open slightly, the muscles in his abdomen tensing. At the same time, his eyes scanned your face for any sign of discomfort.

When he was fully seated within you, you were already panting into each other's mouths. It felt like you were complete, not only physically, but emotionally—and you knew he felt it, too, though it remained unspoken. 

“Okay?” He whispered, dark orbs boring into your own.

Your body was covered in goosebumps. “Yes.”

He started to move, languidly pulling his hips back, pressing them into your own. You were desperate for each other, to feel each other; your passion didn’t choose to manifest in a rough, frenzied manner. Both of you needed to relish in every movement, every touch, every sound. 

It was overwhelmingly intimate.

His left hand found your own, lacing your fingers together, pressing it into the mattress beside your head. The other cupped your face, thumb resting on your bottom lip. 

You breathed out each other’s names, eyes locked. He was reaching the depths of you, brushing your sweet spot with every slow thrust, and it made a knot begin to form in your stomach. 

Your free hand found his hair, gripping it again, and he shuddered out a beautiful noise. “Baby,” He keened, and his hand left your face to hold your hip, pulling out farther, rolling in deeper.

“Me too.” You croaked. It was like you shared one mind, one body, no longer needing to say what it was you felt. You just knew. 

The air thickened around you, breaths becoming shorter, grips becoming tighter. A sheen of sweat covered both of your skin, fast approaching your climaxes.

“Eddie, I—” You were swept away, mind trying to force the words out, pleasure making it difficult. “I… I—”

“Tell me, baby.” He rasped, full of longing, like he hoped he already knew.

“—I love you,” It came out like a soft sob, every muscle in your body contracting.

He lost himself at that. A symphony of noises filled the small room, and you clung to him with everything you had, mind buzzing, body writhing instinctually. It was a feeling that deserved to be bottled, placed in a museum—complete and utter fulfillment, in every possible way. 

You weren’t sure how long the two of you laid there, heartbeats drumming against each other, trying to come back to earth. It could’ve been a minute, an hour.

Eventually, and probably for the best, your minds wandered back to you. Eddie gently backed away, just enough to pull out of you, and quickly enveloped you in his arms again. 

His chin rested on your shoulder, chest pressed to your back, both of you blissed out and fuzzy.

“By the way,” He spoke softly, arms tightening around your waist. “I love you, too. I should’ve said it earlier, but I was a little busy losing my absolute shit.”

You broke out into a laugh, the contradiction between his words and the current situation tickling you. He grinned widely into the skin of your neck. 

“Who wrote that note?” You turned towards him, mind running over the events of the last few days. “The first one, with my name. I didn’t believe Rob and Nance when they said it was you—the handwriting was too nice.”

His hand came up, stroking your hair lovingly. “Steve has girly handwriting. Usually I make fun of him for it, but it got me here, so maybe I’ll stop.”

You giggled at that, and jeez, you were sure the two of you looked like idiots in love right now—faces inches apart, delicate touches wherever you could reach, absolutely beaming. 

“For the record, I didn’t believe them either.” Eddie’s eyes explored your face. “Harrington, Henderson. I thought they were batshit, saying you were in love with me.”

You inched even closer to him. “Maybe we should start listening to our friends.”

“Let’s not be rash.” He joked, and you playfully pushed his chest. “But, yeah. They were right this time.”

There were a few moments of silence, the two of you taking each other in, biting back smiles. 

“I love you.” You said quickly, giddily. 

Eddie’s finger brushed your nose. “I love more.”

“See, that would be the case,” You began, faux seriousness painting your expression. “If I didn’t love you most.” 

He wagged a finger in your face, leaning in to pepper you with kisses, and continue waging a war that would never end. 

At the end of the day, three things were certain.

Firstly, you loved Eddie.

Secondly, Eddie loved you.

Thirdly, your friends were definitely going to regret encouraging you to tell each other those two things.

[shinycollarboneapologist]

a tale of brief encounters (and the one time it actually isn't so brief)

(part 2 to clandestined, or the one where matty tries to call elle’s bluff)

word count: 8.6k

content: MINORS DNI! mentions of alcohol and drinking, matty is a jealous baby, mutual pining, george cockblocks, smut, fingering in front of a mirror, and matty uses the term “good girl” a lot, also slight age gap (3 years). (i also have not read through this yet, so please do not hesitate to tell me if something is wrong or weird thank u)

with the turn of the season comes the inevitability of elle’s trek home from the hectic haze of school and work and the return to some sense of normalcy. it’s inundated with the promise of rest and relaxation, a chance to stretch her legs and finally start cracking on that growing pile of “to be read” books or change up her style, get cracking on those internship applications. it also comes with the promise of returning to george’s couch, a tradition dating back to when she initially committed to a university and moved out of their shared childhood home. It was the promise that both would have a month or so of uninterrupted brother-sister bonding time (it also gave her the opportunity to work and make money without having to pay rent). 

the season changes and so does she, trading in her sweaters for shorts and sundresses; its unnaturally hot for this time of year and the sun is fully shining instead of peaking through the clouds. it’s early in the morning when she gets the call from george that he’s outside with a borrowed van. stomach flipping, elle tells him that she’ll be down in a moment. there’s that underlying promise that there would be someone with him. it was tradition after all for george and matty to come to get her. she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about him once these past few weeks. but her unrelenting anticipation is soon replaced by disappointment at the sight of a lone george waiting outside the building. it’s short-lived, though, as she finds herself quickly distracted by loading up the van with some of her essentials. she’s hardly lifting a finger because in true george fashion he’s lugging most of the heavier items, a bit begrudgingly but he’s doing it anyway.

the ride back to his is smooth. there’s not many people on the road due to the time of day, and he even makes it a point to stop and get the both of them some fast food breakfast and coffee along the way. george asks about the internship and elle answers, raving about the london office and all of the coworkers she has yet to meet and how one of her roommates was also awarded a position there so the duo plans on commuting together. elle asks about the guys, carefully skirting around the topic of his own roommate. and after he talks about ross and hann, she doesn't bring up matty, a bit too scared to ask where he is or how he’s been. his absence is felt in the car all the way home and elle finds herself having to push away dangerous thoughts of him more often than she would admit to. 

the apartment is empty when they arrive, much to elle’s dismay. a smile replaces her frown, though, as not to seem too dejected. even if there was no kiss, no longing, no desire, she still would miss him and his antics and the big welcome home that he’s always given her. the day passes by as she makes herself at home in the small two bedroom apartment, claiming a shelf in the bathroom and setting up a stake on the pull out couch. it almost feels empty without matty messing around and hiding her stuff as she tries to organize herself. she can’t help but feel dejected in a way, chest feeling heavy as she tucks herself onto the couch after the long day. 

sleep comes easy, but doesn’t stay that way. it’s late when elle hears a clanging by the door, the jingling of keys and giggles coming from outside in the hall. not this. it takes a second for the door to open and the culprits to be revealed. 

matty’s wrapped around another girl, lips feverishly pressing to her own and hands roaming her body. its dark, but the small amount of light coming in from the door is enough to illuminate the way he’s pressing himself against her. she’s gasping, her own hands clutching onto him and pulling him close. there’s stifled whispers falling from his lips, elle can hear the hush in his tone, and his friend’s incessant giggling. the door to the hallway shuts and he begins to move her inside, closer to where elle is trying so viciously to not be seen. bile rises to her throat. 

“oh, hey there, ellie belly,” he hums. 

ellie belly. the nickname weighs heavy on her brain, he hasn’t called her that in ages. and surely, she had thought something would change following the kiss and the things he muttered into her ear and the way his hands gripped her waist. but evidently, it’s still the same. at least it is for him. 

she rolls over, wanting the couch to just fold back up and crush her with it, but not before his eyes meet her’s and he sends her a wink in the dark that turns her stomach. 

“who was that?” the dark haired girl breathes out, as he begins to back her into his room. 

“no one important, s’just my roommate’s sister,” the door is shut and that’s when the tears come. 

—---------------

elle is pretty good at avoiding matty for a few days. 

she pushes herself to stay longer at the office, take the longer train ride home and the more scenic walk up to the apartment building. and it’s easy to do so. he’s rarely home when she is, and even when he is around there’s not many interactions between the two of them that aren’t mediated by george. 

“you going out tonight?” george asks, walking up to the bathroom that she had been hogging for what he saw as hours. his face comes to view in the mirror as he pokes his head into the open door. 

elle smiles at him, nodding as she lowers the music playing from her phone, an old throwback song, “yeah a couple of the interns wanted to celebrate the completion of our first week at the office.” 

he returns the smile and steps into the room, leaning against the threshold of the door with his arms crossed over his chest, “hope it doesn’t end up as a repeat of your eighteenth birthday. you remember that?” 

eyes narrowing, she puts the curling iron down and turns to get a full look at him, scoff falling from her lips, “it will not!”

“that’ll teach you to go shot for shot with me and matty,” he’s full on grinning now, “spent most of your night in this bathroom here if i’m correct.”

his words bring elle back to the flavored vodka and redbull induced night, can still taste the bitterness on her tongue and the copious amounts of sports drinks she had consumed to not spend her night in the hospital. it all started when matty made a comment on the “girly” drink she had in her hand, challenging her to take a sip of his much more “macho” mixed drink. it wasn’t half bad, surprisingly, and he promised the girl that he would buy her as many as she wanted so long as she finished them all. an opportunist at heart, elle accepted but soon found herself clutching her stomach and being led out of the dingy london club by george and matty, her friends and the rest of the guys trailing behind the three of them. the night got foggy from that point on and the first thing she can vaguely remember is waking up in george’s bed with a cool rag on her forehead and a pounding headache. 

“enough from you. it was all matty’s fault anyway,” elle chides, turning back to the mirror to continue fixing her hair. 

“oh yeah, because he force fed you all those drinks,” george tuts his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“alright, get out before i burn you with this,” elle waves the iron at him. he only holds his hands up in mock surrender. 

“do you need a ride? i think matty’s heading out tonight, was gonna dd for him. can always drop you off as well,” george asks as he exits, leaving elle to ponder the thought. 

“where’s he going?” she tries not to seem too enthralled by the question, instead trying to busy herself with the hot curling iron and a stubborn strand of hair, “i’m not gonna ask you to taxi me around if he’s going somewhere and i’m out of the way.” 

she hears george utter the name of a club. it’s familiar, has her pausing the music to hear him again as he repeats it. the curling iron slips from her hand and there's a slight burning sensation bubbling up on the skin on the top of her foot. 

“fuck!” 

when the realization of matty being at the same club finally sinks in, the hot metal doesn’t seem so painful. she reaches down quickly and grabs the tool, placing it back on the counter. 

“elle, are you alright?” george asks, poking his head back into the bathroom. 

“yeah. i’m fine,” she mutters, more so trying to convince herself than anything, “guess i’ll take you up on that offer, then.” she gives him a half-smile. he nods apprehensively, but doesn’t push the issue. and elle is grateful for that. when he dips out of the room once more, she lets out a long, exasperated sigh. 

she was fucked.

matty returns moments before they’re set to leave; the first time elle has seen him solo and not entangled with one of his friends. his presence cuts into her bravado with a knife, tugging on the threads of her confidence and pulling against them until they’re taught enough to snap. she finds herself messing with her outfit more, playing with the straps of her dress and fiddling with the hem. he notices, because he always does, and offers her a sly smirk, lips curled around his teeth. if things were different, it would have hit her right in the gut, eliciting a burning sensation. and while it did that now, elle was conflicted with a sense of wanting to shy away from it all. 

in a turn of events, matty lets elle take the passenger seat claiming the back of the van is “too decrepit for sweet ellie belly.” she cringes at the nickname, rolling her eyes as she slips into the passenger side. his eyes are hot on her neck, burning holes into her skin. she can feel them lighting little fires, a stark comparison to how cold he had been to her the week prior. 

the ride is quick, her thoughts muted by george and matty’s antics. her stomach churns when george asks if matty plans on bringing home a friend tonight. the older boy only laughs, his eyes catch elle’s before he slips out of the van, offering a sly smirk and a stomach-fluttering wink. elle is nauseated and thankful that he’s ran ahead to meet up with his friends at the door. 

“call me if you need anything, yeah?” george smiles from the driver’s seat. elle nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before she follows matty’s suit and slips out of the car. loud music permeates the air of chatter around the entrance which is saturated by the bodies of those waiting to get in or enjoying a smoke. there’s no sight of matty, though, and elle is thankful for that. she just wants him to stay out of her hair and out of sight for as long as possible. 

“elle!” 

elle pivots on the balls of her feet, spinning around to see charli and sophie. she wraps her arms around her friends as they squeal and cheer their hellos, despite the annoyed glances from those around them.

“is that george in the car?” charli quips while they pull away. she raises on her tippy toes to attempt to see in the van that’s slowly pulling away, tugging her lowcut top down a bit and fluffing up her hair, “go ask him if he wants to come have a drink. s’on me.” 

“don’t be weird, char.” elle groans, dragging her friends towards the entrance after turning to wave george off. 

the club is packed, littered with bodies from wall to wall. and despite the lack of room to move let alone breathe, elle is happy. it leaves little to no anticipation that she would be forced to interact with matty. the girls are quick to distract her from it all, buying her drink after drink and shot after shot. the music is vibrating through her body, mixing with the alcohol she’s quickly consumed to create a sense of euphoria. she needed this. 

“that guy over there has not stopped staring at you since we came in,” sophie smirks, handing elle another drink. her head nods over the girl’s shoulder and elle twists around to follow her gaze. 

sure enough, a guy; about six foot with a mop of golden curls and tattoos littering his slender arms, has his lip tucked between his teeth. his aloof demeanor matches the off-set smirk thats on his face. elle won’t deny he’s attractive, she has a type clearly.  a small, bashful smile pulls at her lips. she offers him a wave, which he returns. elle is quick to turn around, giddy as she faces sophie once more. 

“he’s coming over.”

“no he’s not, shut up,” elle’s cheeks feel warm, stomach twisting in delight.

sophie nods, wide eyed, “elle, he’s uh right behind-”

“hey,” his voice is deep, sending a shiver down elle’s spine as he finds his place carefully next to her.

“hi,” she returns the gesture. if the lights in the club were not so dim, she was sure he would see the rising flush from her neck. 

“what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he quirks, nodding his head at her.

“am i not allowed to be here?” she tilts her head to the side, looking up at him with doed eyes.

“never said that. think running into you made my night significantly better, actually,” his arm worms its way around her waist and elle’s smile only deepens. she curls her lips around the straw of her drink, sucking down the bitter liquid while keeping her eyes locked on his.  

his name is alex. he’s a musician in a local band, lead singer and guitar player. he grew up ten-minutes from where elle’s family moved and he was actually in her maths class. 

she has a type. 

her attention is only pulled from his momentarily. and in that moment she’s kicking herself for even looking away.

across the bar, matty is stood nursing a drink. he looks like he’s paying half a mind to it as his head bops to the beat. their eyes lock for only a moment. his attention is pulled down to the arm around her waist and the guy slung around her neck. alex’s lips are hot on her skin, albeit a bit messy. a soft gasp falls from her parted lips, consumed by the thickened air around them. her eyes fall shut as his teeth drag over the sensitive skin just under her ear. 

when her eyes open, matty’s gone. 

“well well well. what do we have here?”

even in her alcohol induced euphoria, elle would recognize the timbre of that voice anywhere. the way his lilted pronunciation rolls off his tongue, hangs in the air like smoke and vanishes away before she can hang on too tight. his presence usually elicits flutters in her stomach, a pounding in her chest and a bright smile. this time, however, the disdain burns heavy on her tongue. he’s got a thing for being places he shouldn’t be at the times where its least opportune. the hand on her waist tightens, drawing her in closer to the stranger’s grasp. she wants so badly to remember the guys name, it sits untouched on the tip of her tongue because the only name she can remember is-

“matty,” elle huffs, “what are you doing here?” 

“just wanted to see how little ellie belly was doing,” he reaches up and ruffles her hair. it draws a chuckle from the man wrapped around her (andrew? jamie?). elle feels her shoulders slump, stomach twisting instead of fluttering. matty doesn’t relent, “though, it looks like she’s doing alright for herself.” 

“do you know this guy?” scott! his name is scott, asks from next to her. 

“unfortunately,” elle mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. 

matty snorts with a roll of his eyes, “i’m matty. and you are standing way too close to the precious cargo.” his hand is outstretched, staring directly at the arm wrapped conveniently around elle’s waist. she feels small under his gaze. and even smaller as the man stood next to her reaches out his unoccupied hand.

“alex,” their hands collide in an uncomfortable sound, “and i’ll stand right here until she decides to tell me off. which i hope she doesn’t, by the way.” 

matty’s tongue rolls against his teeth. it clicks against the roof of his mouth as an emotion elle has yet to pinpoint washes over his face. he covers it up quickly with a half-lipped smile, looking between the two of them, “next round on me?” 

he does buy the next round, with alex soon following with another and there was a third bought by matty and a fourth by alex. with each slam of an empty pint glass and smirk thrown in her direction, elle feels like she’s shrinking. small enough to weasel away from the testosterone induced challenges that have been plaguing her ears for the past thirty minutes or so, but alex’s hand sitting firmly around her waist and matty’s darkened stare are enough to keep her in place. 

“is one of them about to pee on you? or is the meat-fest pointless?” sophie huffs, though she’s already downed another drink bought by matty. 

“this is getting ridiculous. i just want to get out of here,” elle sighs. 

it doesn’t matter how loudly either of the girls talk. the two men are paying them no mind. instead,both of their chests are puffed outwards and elle can tell from the way matty is standing that he’s trying to appear taller than he is, though he and alex stand around the same height. its paired with their obnoxiously timed sly digs in between the casual conversation about alex and matty’s one shared common interest: being musicians in a local band. 

manicured fingers reach up to tug on the sleeve of alex’s shirt. there’s no budge. no movement aside from the arm that was once around her waist slipping a bit. brown eyes dart down, and a smirk rises on matty’s lips. elle feels sick. he looks pretty pleased with himself. she needs to work harder, remind the man that was so wrapped up in her moments ago that she was still standing there. so, she tugs again. 

alex shifts to face her this time, dazed smile on his lips. 

“do you wanna get out of here?” elle all but begs into his ear; she just wants to be put out of her misery of watching the mirrored images bicker. 

“oh…oh…yeah,” he nods. thankful, elle lets their fingers intertwine.

“we’re gonna head out. see you, matty. thanks for the drinks,” she nods her head in matty’s direction. 

his expression is unreadable, like he’s mulling over something in his head. as annoyed as she is, elle would kill to be able to crack open his brain to see what exactly was going on in there. the wheels were definitely turning, whether good, bad or indifferent. as badly as she wanted to get out of there, she more so would spend the next few hours picking his brain. yet, alex serves as a viable distraction. a means to break her from the matty-induced spell. 

alex extends his hand out to shake matty’s once more. the brunette looks down at the outstretched hand, then back at the way elle has so comfortably enclosed herself around alex’s arm. he meets her eyes, eyebrows arched in an “are you sure about this?” expression. 

“why are you looking-” 

“dunno if you want to take her too far, mate. she might blow chunks on those nice new trainers you got there,” matty seethes. 

elle stiffens, hoping that the otherwise loud roar of the conversations around them and the overwhelming bass of the music would drown out the sound of matty’s voice. his words hang around in the thickened air, though, long enough for alex to slowly lower his hand. 

“matty-”

“mate, what are you talking about?” alex chuckles uneasily. 

“meant what i said. was her birthday. at this very club, she got so shit-faced couldn’t even walk straight. yacked right in that corner that she was probably about to take you to,” matty continues, vindictive bites laced within the syllables that fall from his mouth. elle so badly wants to catch them all, bury it all deep below the surface. this has never happened before. he’s never done this. 

“matty, stop,” she pleas. her requests fall as quickly as alex lets her hand drop. 

alex, all six-foot, messy auburn-hair, guitar playing lead-vocalist of him, laughs beside her. 

“think that’s the same night you belted out shakira the whole way to the cab? right, elle?” matty’s looking at her, expecting an answer. but how can she answer when her tongue feels heavy against the roof of her mouth? when the words she wants to utter are jumbled and foreign? how can she answer when the one person that’s always made her feel like the only person in the room is treating her no better than the lime he discarded on the bar?

he doesn’t wait any longer for a response. instead he continues, “it was a fucking mess, dude. the bouncers had to cone it off. my brand new trainers were stained.” 

elle’s chest feels tight, throat constricting as she tries to gasp for air. she would much rather deal with matty’s incessant stare, the darkened gaze and the brooding attitude than have him obliterate any chance with blonde-haired alex right in front of her. when the two of them laugh in cohesion, she feels a knife puncturing at her heart, eyes glazing over. 

she’s worming her way away from the group before she can hear anymore of what matty so graciously has to say. the tears come before she can make it all the way outside, ignoring the concerned stares from strangers.

 the cobblestone lined wall provides little relief to her heated body, heart hammering hard against her rib cage. she’s gasping for air, choked sobs drowning out the bass from inside. never in her life did she believe that of all people matthew fucking healy would be the one to take the piss out of her. it was bad enough that he’d pretty much pretended like she didn’t exist the entire first week of her arrival, ignored her texts. was this how he felt all along? was their friendship instilled in convenience of her stroking his ego when she complimented the band?

her shaking hands cover her face as the sobs rack through her body. she’s pathetic, feeling no bigger than the ants that crawl on the sidewalk. she envies them, despises them even. they at least get to crawl away from their problems and are able to get squished under the shoes of those that don’t care about them. meanwhile, she’s helplessly tangled up in the one problem she has. 

matty.

“elle?! where the fuck are you?” his voice collides with her ears oppressively. her stomach twists, “why- why did you leave?”

he’s out of breath; shoulders rising and falling quickly.

she puffs out a laugh, wiping at the tears that have collected under her eyes. 

“why did i leave? are you that fucking dense, matty?” 

he gulps, adams apple bobbing. 

“can you go get sophie and charli for me? i want to go home.”

“thought you were catching a ride with me and george,” matty takes a step towards her. its tentative, like he was mulling the action over in his head before he did it. so, he can think. he just picks and chooses when to do so. 

“don’t want to be anywhere near you, actually.” 

she watches as he winces and rubs over his heart, “sheesh. that one hurt, sweets. wait, are you crying?” matty’s face softens but she turns her face away. 

“elle.”

“leave me alone, matty,” she mutters. its pathetic the way her heart raps against her ribs harder as his hand comes in contact with her shoulder. the tiny little fires under her skin burn brighter and faster than ever before. 

“why are you crying?” he presses, tone unwavering.

“I’m not,” her voice betrays her as a sob escapes between her parted lips. 

he scoffs, “then what’s all this?” 

“i just don’t understand what i did to make you hate me so much,” elle sniffles, rubbing at her eyes. 

“what are you talking about?”

she inhales slowly, “you, fuck, you made me look like a fucking idiot. Fucking telling him all those embarrassing stories, won’t even look me in the eye at the apartment, avoiding me like the damn plague. matty, if you hate me, just fucking say it.” 

he’s quiet. 

he’s quiet and she’s fucked it. again. 

“if you regret kissing me just say it. i can take it. m’a big girl.”

matty stares at elle. long enough that she can feel his eyes burning holes into the side of her face. her head spins again, resonating within her brain is the sound of silence. its loud, overpowering her racing thoughts. she wants him to say something, anything. matty could recite the abc’s to her and she would be content. 

“say something.”

he flicks the butt of his finished cigarette to the ground. if it were any other person, she would have scolded them for littering, chastise them until they picked it up. but matty did it in a way that had her heart racing. his eyes coast over her when she finally looks at him again. her own eyes plea with him. elle needs him to say something, wants to hear the words that will finally put the nail in the coffin. if he rejects her maybe all those years of pining and going after guys that look and act like him will be in the past. maybe she can move on from the love sick crush she’s been harboring for so long. maybe. 

“eleanor daniel, are you dense?” 

“what?”

matty’s frame looms over her, pressing her body up against the wall as if he needed her to stabilize him, “i asked if you were dense.” 

she’s never seen him look at her that way before. 

“i don’t know what you’re getting on about, matty,” elle gulps. she can feel her heart beating in her throat; a rhythmic thumping that she’s positive he can hear from how close he is to her. his hand comes to rest at the base of her neck, thumb stroking over the heated skin, “just wish you would stop being so mean to me.”

“i don’t hate you. i want you, elle,” he exhales, “so fucking badly that it’s killing me knowing i can’t have you.” 

its her turn to be struck into silence, chest rising and falling slowly under the weight of his palm. her tongue juts out to flick over her bottom lip, blinking slowly. 

“you what?”

“you’ve been plaguing my thoughts since the last time i’ve seen you. but it can’t happen again,” matty murmurs, voice falling just above a whisper, “it shouldn’t have even happened the first time. you were crossed, didn’t want that to be the first time i kissed you.”

“you’ve been thinking about kissing me?” 

“do you only speak in questions?”

“only when it comes to you.” 

they stand in a comforting silence, though its tensed by the way his hand slides down from her neck to the curve of her waist. its slow, sensual and leaves a trail of goosebumps on her exposed skin. he leans in close to her and elle is almost convinced that he’s about to seal the space between them by pressing his lips against her own. the very lips she’s thought about at least ten times a day in the weeks following their last kiss. he doesn’t, though. instead he leans to her ear, hushed whispers against the shell of her ear. 

“i want to kiss you again, elle. but we can’t.”

she shudders, eyes fluttering closed as he presses a kiss just below her earlobe, “says who?”

“the laws of physics. george.” his voice is muffled as it reverberates against her skin, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. 

“george doesn’t have to know,” she refutes, nails dragging along his skin. he shivers underneath her hold. 

 its quiet again, aside from the cars that drive past and the occasional melodies escaping from the constant opening and shutting door of the club. 

“are you drunk right now?” matty asks, eyes pouring into elle’s as he lifts his gaze. his eyes are dilated, chocolate brown irises almost non-existent in the wake of his enlarged pupils. 

she shakes her head, but he pinches at her side.

“n-no. are you?”

“no.” 

his lips find hers before she can even find the courage to ask him to do so. its softer than their first kiss, slower and exuding a sense of comfort from their longing. he tastes of the bitter whiskey he had been sipping on the whole evening, yet it was uniquely matty. a taste elle was sure she would never get off the tip of her tongue. his hands wander over her body, falling from her waist to the curve of her ass through her jeans. they settle there, squeezing at swell. her mouth falls open in a gasp and he takes the initiative to slide his tongue between her lips. 

elle moans, and that’s when matty’s movements come to a screeching halt. he pulls back hastily though she’s frozen in time, lips still pursed and chin still tilted towards him. 

“we can’t do this again,” he hushes, moving his hands from over her jeans to rest at her waist once more.

“matty-” she exhales. she wants to ask him how he can kiss her like that and then decide on his own accord that whatever that just was is to never happen again but he’s quick to cut her off with a bruising kiss. it’s hard. the way his lips collide with her own and the force behind him as he pushes her back up against the cool cobblestone of the wall. the bricks dig into her back, yet elle pays them no mind as she lets herself get lost in the kiss. her hands move from the back of his neck up to the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling at the unruly curls that habituate there. he groans against her lips, gripping at the bare skin of her side. elle’s almost certain that there will be moon shaped marks left tomorrow but she has half a mind to care. 

the marks would prove to her that this was real.

–

its late. its late and the impending sound of her alarm is enough to make elle question her own sanity as to why she’s staring at the cracks in the ceiling instead of sleeping peacefully. she rolls over and reaches for the phone that’s plugged in beside the makeshift bed, eyes squinting as she tries to make sense of the bright screen. 2:04. groaning, she tosses the device aside. instead of peacefully falling among the pillows, it clatters to the floor, the noise disturbing the otherwise serene apartment. getting up to grab it would ruin the promise of sleep, yet she was feeling rather thirsty and with the kitchen only a few strides away maybe it made sense to lazily remove herself from the warm blankets. she’s pulling herself up with a sigh, fetching the phone from the floor and gently placing it on the arm of the couch, and makes her way to the kitchen. her steps are lithe and careful, not wanting to ruin the sound sleep of the two other occupants. 

her back is to the threshold, hands nimbly searching the familiar scuffed cabinets for a glass. she retrieves one, hips swaying to an unsung melody that ricochets through her head along with thoughts about matty and the events of the past few nights. the longing and the waiting and the kiss, how could she forget about the kiss? there’s still a phantom memory of it that lingers along her lips, almost as if he wanted her to remember. did he want her to remember? or was the “this can’t happen again” that he uttered true? and if that were true why did he look at her like that before? why did his body encapsulate her up against the wall? why did he breathe down her neck to elicit goosebumps? why did he avoid her at dinner? why does he barely hold a conversation? why-

“can’t sleep?” 

elle jumps, soft shriek falling from her lips. she snaps her head around, eyes locking in on the culprit in the dimly lit room. matty, of course. he looks like a vision; sleep stained eyes, hair awry on the top of his head and hips adorned with low hung pajama pants. her heart races and she’s not too sure if its from the man stood before her or the way he invaded her thoughts. he always invades her thoughts. 

“hasn’t anyone ever told you its rude to sneak up on people, matthew?” she chides, setting the glassware down on the counter beside her.

“hasn’t anyone told you that its rude to leave people hanging, eleanor?” he counters, arms coming to cross over his chest. 

“you’re the one who said that it couldn’t happen again. i was just seeing to that,” she utters and takes a step towards him. 

he scoffs and with a roll of his eyes he follows her lead, stepping forward as well. his eyes trace down to her hips, lingering on the curve there. elle usually cowers under his stare, but this time she feels a sense of bravado wash over her. he’s not as intimidating as he thinks he is. 

“i’m not drunk,” she urges, arms tentatively reaching out towards him. elle half expects matty to shove her away, “or high for that matter.”

but with another step forward, he’s got her backed into the counter, “neither am i.”

elle swallows thickly, her throat feeling constrained under his darkened gaze. he looks starved, depleted of whatever she was offering and she wanted to give it to him, regardless of the implications at hand.

“so kiss me.” her voice is barely audible over the sound of their labored breaths. 

“what was that? couldn’t hear you, sweets.” his hand rises to rest at the base of her neck, almost possessively. it matches the heat in his glance and elicits a wave of fire beneath her skin. 

“i said kiss-” 

before elle can finish her request, matty’s lips crash into hers. they fill in the void that was once left behind, molding and pulling. there’s sparks reverberating through her skin, clawing through her bloodstream. this kiss feels different. for what it lacks in the awkward learning of what makes the other tick, it’s garnered the all expansive exploration of putting those pieces together.  its all teeth and tongue crashing into one another. his teeth dig into her bottom lip, tugging at the tender flesh. a surprised gasp falls from her occupied lips, granting matty the access he needs to slip his tongue into her mouth. elle presses herself up against him in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer. 

the counter digs into her back as matty’s hands roam all over her body through the thin t-shirt she’s adorned with. she needs more, craves more to dull the ache that’s overtaking her from within. as if he’s read her mind, matty’s knee pushes it’s way between her legs and presses deliciously into her heated center. with a swivel of her hips, she’s overtaken by a radiation of pleasure. it’s a small wave washing over her, but its enough to satiate the climbing impatience that’s growing inside of her. she feels his leg prop up more, an invitation for her to buck and grind against his knee as much as she likes. and she does. over and over, building a rhythm that has her aching for more. 

“can feel you soaking my knee through these sorry excuse for shorts, darling.” he groans against her lips. 

all she can do is whine, digging her hips a little deeper. maybe if she shifted up a little more-

“i’ll give you what you need, sweet girl. just be patient.” 

she’s been patient for weeks on end, having to pretend that the desire bubbling deep within her was nothing more than a farce. it takes everything in her not to whine, though she’s pretty positive he would like it more if she did, as he pulls away. 

“get on the counter,” he utters. there’s a commanding tone though his voice is nothing more than a whisper. elle stands there, stunned into silence and paralyzed with want. her breaths are baited, eyes tracing over his face for a few times. everything seems to set in at that moment: what she was doing, who she was doing it with, the proximity of her brother, the nagging feeling in her chest and the desire pooling in her core. she feels like she could melt into the floorboards, be washed away with the rain. the feeling of his lips linger on her own, she still feels the traces of him in her hair. 

“did i stutter? or do you need me to do that for you, too?” 

her mouth opens but nothing comes out in time. 

their tryst is up as the sound of a door being swung open pulls them from the heated embrace. matty steps away, quickly and for the first time in all the years that she’s known him, elle can see a trace of fear on his face. he's breathing heavily and situating himself a few paces away from her heated body. elle is positive her own reaction mirrors his as george pokes his head into the kitchen. 

“all right?” he yawns, “so fucking dark in here. we pay the electric bill for a reason.” his large hand reaches around to flip the light on, leaving all three of them to blink blearily. 

elle grabs the once abandoned cup from the counter, chugging down the rest of the water. it all feels too much: matty consuming her with his heated stare, wearing the remnants of her arousal on his knee while george is a few centimeters away drinking orange juice from the carton. the silence is unbearable, eating her alive bit by bit until she’s nothing more than a mess of herself- fragmented and torn to pieces. 

“as fun as this has been, i have to piss. goodnight again,” george presses a sticky kiss to elle’s forehead and is off, venturing into the dark of the living room. 

elle doesn’t exhale until she hears the door to the bathroom shut. 

“see you in my dreams, ellie belly,” matty hums while offering her a whimsical smirk before he stalks off as well. 

this is sick. sick and twisted and if elle was the tiniest bit religious, she would be on her knees right now begging for forgiveness. she should be sleeping, blissfully surrendering to the lulls of peace. but instead, she’s thinking about animalistic groans, the pressure between her legs and a mop of curly hair. the kitchen is cold and lonely without the heat of his body pressed against her. there’s a phantom of his knee lingering between her legs. she could cry, which seems to be the only thing matty’s been good at making her do recently. 

a door shuts in the distance, and with it closes the small opening she had. the floor looks like a promising place to crumble up and wallow. 

but it’s late and the red numbers on the microwave only burn an unwanted reminder into her brain that she has to be up in a few hours. as she rounds the corner between the kitchen and the living area that she was residing in, her eyes fall to the slightly ajar nature of matty’s door. she gulps. it’s never been left open before, especially not this late at night. because he usually has a girl over, her conscious reminds her. she could be such a bitch sometimes. elle chews on the inside of her lip. what if he just forgot to close it? what if he’s not in there? what if he really meant it couldn’t happen again? 

she toys with the idea of just going back to sleep, though she knows that sleep won’t come easy and the promise of being able to get off with matty is more enticing than the comfort those pillows would offer her. maybe he would let her grind up against his knee again, or dip his head between her thighs and use that sinful mouth on her until she was shaking.

her legs carry her through the door before she can construe another miscalculated scenario in her mind. chest rising and falling as she pushes the door shut behind her, hand gripping onto the handle like her life depended on it. she had half a mind to twist the door open again and slip out, hoping he didn’t notice her. she could play it off like she thought it was the bathroom. she could pretend that she was confused or sleep walking or-

“thought i would be able to call your bluff,” he grins wryly once the door is shut. elle spins around to stare up at him, breath caught in her throat. he’s lost the shirt he was wearing before, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his waist. her eyes dare to travel from his waist, but she doesn’t know if she has the strength to keep off of him if she does.

they’re at a stand-off; squared away and facing each other. elle’s mind is spinning out fantasies about what it would be like to be one of the girls that gets to spend the night tucked away behind these four walls. and by the way he’s staring at her, she feels as if she’s been caught. she wouldn’t put it past him to be able to read her mind.

“just wanted to bring you water,” she blushes, offering him a sheepish smile.

“you don’t have any water in your hand, elle.” matty comments from his stance in front of his dresser, arms crossing over his chest and head tilting to the side. 

she feels exposed, shying away from his gaze and turning around to face the now closed door once more in an attempt to make a run for it. maybe this was a mistake, a bad idea shrouded by the thoughts of matty and his devilish grin. 

“oh. silly me, must have forgotten it i-”

“you didn’t come to bring me water, did you? you came here to finish what we started, hm?” he’s pressed up behind her. his lips are on her neck, pulling a breathy sigh of his name from her mouth, “use your words, elle.” 

she could fold right there. his tongue pokes out and licks a trail up to her ear, “i’m waiting, sweet girl.” 

but how could she think let alone speak with the way he’s touching her and kissing her and making a mess of her brain. her thoughts feel scrambled and mushed together. she melts into his stance, mewling lowly. every nerve ending in her body feels as if its aflame. there’s no way to extinguish it alone, at least not with the way he’s dragging his fingers around her thigh and sucking deep welts onto the exposed skin of her neck. 

“please i’m so-” his fingers trail up her thigh, pushing the lame excuse of shorts to the side. skilled fingers find her clit, rubbing slow circles over the sensitive bud. she whines, head falling back into his shoulder. its the relief she needed, craved even. but she needs more, wants more.

“wet. you’re so fucking wet for me, dirty girl,” his teeth pull at her earlobe as he finishes her stuttered thought, “is this what you wanted? hm?”

“yes, want- fuck, want,” his pace on her clit increases, head feeling heavy. 

she moans lowly, reaching down to grip at his wrist. he lets her, watching her blissfully as she puppeteers his hand against her cunt. 

“feels good, doesn’t it?” matty grins. all elle can do is sigh out a whine, squeezing her eyes shut. her nails dig into his wrist, “i know, pretty girl, i know. need you to be quiet for me. can you do that?”

she nods, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“being so good for me,” matty’s lips drag down her neck, teeth scraping over the bruised area from before. an unabashed moan falls from her lips. he’s quick to turn her head towards him though, sealing his lips to hers in a heated kiss. the last thing they both need is an intrusion from the other house guest.

he swaps his fingers for his thumb, using the leverage to slip a finger inside of her. she clenches around him, the action going straight to his untouched dick that’s hidden within the confines of his pajama pants. elle feels it pressing up against the swell of her ass.

“matty,” she mewls against his lips. its hard to think with the way his finger dips in and out of her, almost in time with the motions of his thumb on her clit. she’s writhing against him, legs feeling as if they could give out any moment.

his long finger slides in and out with ease, toying and teasing at her silky cunt. she nips at his bottom lip, tugging the plush flesh in between her teeth. a low moan rumbles up from his chest, and elle’s convinced its the prettiest sound she’s ever heard. the sound is imprinted in the depths of her brain, something she knows she’ll think about for the rest of her life.

“think you can handle another?” he puffs out, slowly pulling his lips back from her to search her face for approval. 

she nods quickly, mouth falling agape as he adds another finger. his fingers work in and out of her at a blinding pace. his own mouth falls open as he mirrors her face, watching her only a moment before he’s pressing his lips back to hers to capture all of the broken moans that slip into the air. 

elle’s facade is crumbling, quickly. a familiar yet distant burn brewing in the depths of her stomach, a rubber band that's almost ready to snap. matty adds a third finger. elle hisses at the blissful stretch, eyes rolling back into her skull. she’s done for.

“you’re still such a needy thing, aren’t you?” his teeth drag along her neck, trailing a line straight to her jaw. he presses heated kisses along her jawline. his fingers hook up inside of her. and that’s when he finds it. 

if elle was in heaven before this had to have been the vip club. a choked sob lingers in the air, cunt clenching around his fingers. 

“right there,” she chants the syllables over and over like an oath, the words floating out in the heated space between them. and who is matty to deprive her when she looks so pretty begging like that? his fingers dip in and out, finding the exact spot each time. her knees wobble, hand gripping onto his shoulder for support.

“gonna fucking dream about the way you’re clenching on my fingers like this. letting me fuck you like a good girl,” he moans into her ear. its almost too much between his fingers deep inside of her, the sinful whispers in her ear and the sound of her arousal filling the room. she’s close, the rubberband stretching thin as she’s about to snap.

“you close?” he asks. she nods languidly and he hums out his approval, “you wanna cum?” 

elle nods again, almost scared to let herself speak. she’s so close, can practically taste the promise of the sweet release. another moan of his name falls from her lips, she feels him shudder from behind her. eyes squeezed shut, in total euphoria. 

“open your eyes, elle,” he husks into her ear, “want you to watch yourself as you cum.” 

elle’s eyes open slowly, locking with the eyes of her reflection in the mirror. she’s never seen herself like this before; cheeks flushed, eyes wild, lips swollen. she looks as fucked out as she feels. its the image of matty behind her, his own lips parted and hushing the filthiest sayings into her ear that has her clenching tightly around his fingers and choking out an almost too-loud moan of his name. he shushes her, working her through her release with a soothing kiss to her lips whilst he slows down the onslaught of his fingers. his unoccupied arms wraps around her quivering body, holding her upright as she gets rocked by wave after wave. 

“so good, sweets. you did so good for me,” he coos, kissing at her cheek. matty slips his fingers out from her, leaving elle to whine at the loss of fullness. he laughs. elle half expects him to wipe his fingers on the strewn towel on the back of his door. that’s what every other guy has done before, at least. 

he doesn’t though. instead he pops the digits into his mouth, sucking off her liquid arousal from his fingers. she stares at him, wide-eyed as he moans around his own fingers. matty’s eyes pour into her own. she finds it hard to catch her breath.

“taste even sweeter than i imagined,” he smirks at her dumbfounded expression, “oh, sorry. should i have offered you one? s’kinda greedy of me that i took all three for myself.”

“oh. uh.. no. no thanks,” elle blinks blearily, swallowing thickly, “i’m uh… i’m gonna go uh.. clean up and head to bed. thanks for that.” 

“not a problem. anytime you want another mind-numbing orgasm, you know where to find me,” he grins cockily.

elle’s cheeks sting but she can’t fight back the smile that’s curling on her lips, “sure thing.”

she smooths the hem of her shorts down, blinking a few more times as she hastily walks towards the door. there’s no way in hell that that just happened. it was something ripped straight from her thoughts, a mirrored image of the way she’s been thinking about him for weeks. her chest rises and falls quickly, hand reaching for the door knob. she needs to lay down immediately.

“oh and elle?,” he calls just as her hand comes in contact with the cool metal of the handle.

she tilts her head towards him, “hmm?”

“i meant it when i say i’ll dream of you,” he offers with a smirk and pink tinted cheeks. 

and in that moment, elle know she’s going to dream of him too. 

[xmalfoyweasleyx]

The more that you say, the less I know

Steve x (Henderson!)Reader, based on the song Willow -Taylor Swift --> my Taylor songs masterlist

Summary: Y/N is Dustin's older sister, she comes to town and meets Steve. But it seems the boy has some commitment issues...

Angsty but fluff ending <3 , between 1.5-2k words

I'm like the water when your ship rolled in that night.

Rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife

“My sister is coming to town! I’m gonna meet her here” Dustin said excitedly, hanging on the Family Video counter while Steve was focussing on organizing some tapes. “Wow, wow, wait. I didn’t know you had a sister?” he questioned, looking up from his work for a split second. “Duh, didn’t I mention that?” Dustin answered confused. “No? why didn't you mention such an important family thing but litterally tell me all kinds of other annoying and boring stuff?” the boy complained. “Well, she’s my half-sister and lived with her dad for 4 years now. So I haven’t seen her in ages. But she’s really great and smart.” Dustin talked admiringly with a big smile on his face. “Actually, she would be a pretty great match for you, weren’t you like.. searching for the one or something like that” Dustin suggested. Steve chuckled. “Dude, I appreciate the matchmaking but I don’t think your sister is going to be something for me, no offense” he waved off uninterested while walking away from the counter to stack some shelves.

“Hey dude! She’s kind and like... pretty funny actually, but okay” Dustin said disappointed, following Steve through the store like a puppy. “And by the way, I’ve given up on finding the one, it’s bullshit” Steve sighed. 

That’s when the bell rang, a beautiful girl that looked around 20 years old entered the shop. “Y/N!!” Dustin screamed running to the girl. “My god Dusty you’re all grown up I can’t believe this” she giggled while hugging him tight. Steve looked at her with wide eyes when they approached hem. Never in his life did he expect that Dustin Herderson’s sister would look like that, sound so sweet and cause a weird tingling feeling in his stomach. He was shocked, to say the least. 

“You never told me your sister was going to be so goddamn hot” he whispered in Dustin’s ear. “Ew dude, calm down with those words” he answered. “You must be the guy who’s been babysitting my little brother,” Y/N smiled. “Um - I-well… you could call it babysitting.. but..” Steve stuttered, making Dustin giggle. “I’m Y/N” you interrupted, reaching out your hand. “I’m Steve, nice to meet you” he smiled back.

***

The more that you say, the less I know.

Wherever you stray, I follow

It became a habit, visiting Steve when he had his break. It almost felt like a dream. The autumn sunshine in the afternoon. You and him picnicking under the tree in the beautiful field hidden behind Family Video. Laughing, touching, teasing. In the last 3 weeks, you two became closer and closer. Other people might say it was easy, Steve liked you and you liked him. Why wouldn’t you start dating? At first sight it all seemed obvious. You saw each other almost every day and it had been a while, since Nancy actually, that Steve had been showing interest in a girl for that long. But it wasn’t that easy. And you didn’t understand it at all. It was like you knew two different boys. Every time you got closer, Steve shut down.

It was a wednesday afternoon when you leaned on the counter, nibbling on some sandwich, staring at the boy you developed the biggest crush on. You both sat in silence. “Steve” you sighed. He didn’t look up. “We need to talk about our conversation from yesterday”. You had asked him on a date the other day, finally finding the courage. You didn’t even need that much confidence since you two already acted like a couple sometimes. He changed the subject immediately after you asked. As if you didn’t already go on some kind of dates when you picnick or pick up Dustin together after school. It left you confused and sad.

“What is there to talk about” he snapped. Your heart sank, surprised by the angry tone in his voice. His eyes filled with guilt immediately after he saw the hurt in his eyes. “If I’m that horrible or just some toy to fix your boredom with, you could just tell me” you responded, turning around to leave and go home to be alone. “No, I’m sorry Y/N, I…” he sighed from behind you. “You what? Tell me” you turned around angrily. Steve didn’t seem to know what to say. A doubtful look plastered his silent face. “That’s what I thought” you said disappointed and he watched you walk away.

***

Wait for the signal and I'll meet you after dark

Show me the places where the others gave you scars

Your bedroom was silent, you laying there in your bed, thinking, crying, an ache in your heart. It seemed all very dramatic, you laying there in the dark, not able to fall asleep while the rain splattered on your window. It was almost midnight when you got startled by a silent knock on the glass. Steve stood there. Drenched. You rushed out of your bed to open the window before the boy could fall off the roof or something.

“Steve what are you doing here?! You’re soaked” you were worried, but still angry. “I’m so sorry, it’s just… it’s just so confusing” he said shivering. He looked sad, almost like he’d been crying too but it was hard to see with all the rain on his face. You didn’t answer and grabbed a warm towel from your closet first. “Here” you whispered, putting the soft towel around him, feeling his broad shoulders underneath the material. His features softened when you touched him and he looked comfortable. It was silent, your bodies close. “Why are you here?” You asked softly, trying not to drown in the hazel eyes staring lovingly into yours. You didn’t understand, one moment he snaps at you and acts like there’s nothing between you two. The other moment he looks at you like he’s never been more in love.

“I’m sorry for playing with your feelings.”  He sighed. “I really am”. 

“Then explain it to me, why?” you whispered while he was toying softly with a lock of hair on your shoulder. Your foreheads almost touched. “I’m scared,” he said with a crack in his voice.

He seemed so vulnerable, you had never seen him like this. Little shivers from the cold, his eyes teary and filled with guilt. You stroked his wet brown locks softly and he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes. “Come sit on the bed with me” you suggested.

“The thing is.. I-I’m acting so weird because it’s the first time in a long time I felt this way” Steve confessed. “What do you mean?  Why is that bad?” You asked. “It makes me scared, I have this terrible feeling, that this will fail, that you will get bored of me eventually and.. it’s not going great at home, I know that’s not an excuse but, I’m.. I..” he stuttered, nervously toying with his fingers. You touched his hands delicately, trying to give him some comfort. “I won’t hurt your feelings like others might have done, if that’s your concern, I promise.” You whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “This is what scares me too, the goddamn tingles I get when you do that” he chuckles, being a little more comfortable. “That’s not a bad thing Stevie. I don’t know the details of what happened with you before, but I can tell you, love is not a bad thing” you said. “Love?” he asked. You nod. “Can I kiss you?” he said, moving closer. “Please”

Wreck my plans

That's my man

Kissing Steve Harrington was one of the best things ever. He was tender, yet passionate. You were laying on your bed now, making out with your legs tangled and your hands in his soft hair.  “I could kiss you forever” he sighed while placing soft kisses on your cheek and neck. “So, don’t stop then” you teased. Steve giggled, grabbing your hips and pulling you even closer to him with a soft groan of satisfaction. “Don’t challenge me, baby”.

You fell asleep in his arms that night. Your head on his chest, his chin resting in your hair. His arms were wrapped tightly around you and your one leg was placed on top of his. His warmth and smell made you fall in a deep sleep. Listening to his soft breath. In the arms of your man.

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL

June 2023 Wk 2

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs. Organized by which ones (in each category) I’m enjoying most.

Ongoing Series - Thai

Step By Step (Tues WeTV & Gaga) ep 7 of 10 - I really adore the family/household dynamics in this show. All the relationships between siblings are so well executed. All the tension and sub text and covert glances in the first “modeling” sequence was so good. I really want to watch the BL within this BL. Bruce is THE BEST. Jeng shutting down everyone with a cool few words is genius (especially given the curt sharp flat way he speaks Thai). Why does nobody have parasols or sun hats or sunshades or sunglasses or anything? I’m actually not mad about seeing an attempted reunion with the ex, bc we are getting to see both that (and how) they once were good together, and also the cracks that drove them apart (and will not allow them to ultimately be together a 2nd time around). I do feel sorry for Jeng, he moved too slowly and lost the 1st round. The captions were not good in the trunk seen, but trust me it was totally hilarious. 

La Pluie (Sat iQIYI) ep 7 of 10 - I finally figured out why I am so tense around this show. In openly taking to task and challenging the soulmates trope, this narrative is telling viewers not to trust it’s core trope - which means we cannot trust the main couple to end happily, nor can we trust those characters who believe most strongly in fated mates (Pat & Mai). This means I, personally, not only can’t rely on an HEA but (as someone who also does not believe in soulmates) I am not entirely sure I even WANT an HEA. This has NEVER happened to me before. It makes me uncomfortable because that’s a core part of my identify with these shows. I mean, good job La Pluie, but also.... huh. Back to this ep: Uh oh. The crush is obvious and the soulmate knows what’s up now. The sex scene twist was v interesting, v gay, and v unusual in a BL. Unfortunately it’s still a BL so the faen fatal just HAD to appear. Will there ever be one out of Thailand where this trope doesn’t show up? Next week is the tried & true uke damsels off into the woods alone. Sigh. 

Our Skyy 2 (Bad Buddy & 1k*) eps 12-16fin - Jimmy, baby, why so hot in an engineering smock? Please have mercy. Aw, Marc is back in yet ANOTHER BL. Definitely the current record holder for most BLs at any one time. (His filming schedule must’ve been insane at the beginning of this year!) PatPran are still great, and their eps this had me hooting with laughter (startling the cat). I forgot how much I enjoyed this show and cast. (Ohm looks great with longer hair, but also he’s lost a lot of weight. I hope he’s OK.) OhmNanon give pitch perfect LTR energy. Throwing EarthMix into the, erm, mix is fun if awkward. NO SINGING. 2 damsels in the forest! Also PatPran = geniuses at mock fighting. So much flirting. It was all quite adorbs. But me-thinks Chief & Tian have been eating moonlight chicken. Full review below. 

Be My Favorite (Fri YouTube) ep 3 of 10? - was enjoying it up until the last bit, why so digusted by smooches? Bad GMMTV no green tea for you. Trash watch here! Rollercoaster about to go DOWWNNNN. 

Luminous Solution (Sat Gaga) ep 3 of 6 - I still only like the high school characters + Dome (WHY so gorgeous?). Is he a magical spirit too? Also, the subs were well off kilter. 

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Our Dining Table AKA Bokura no Shokutaku (Japan Thurs Gaga) ep 10 fin - God they’re so cute. This show used the manga as a storyboard, so I knew the “crisis of faith over possibility of loss” would happen. Still in live action this felt tonally off. While understandable given Yutaka’s character, and ultimately particularly important for the dad and a relationship with the family, I don’t know we needed it in this BL. The book does have a better ending second scene, but it wouldn’t be possible to do it on screen easily. Ultimately, this show had a simple, touching, quiet end to it. That’s very like the show as a whole. I did love it - it’s been top of my list all along. Full review after the special airs. 

Love Tractor (Korea Weds iQIYI) eps 1-2 of 8 - I LOVE IT SO MUCH. IT IS EVERYTHING. SHUT UP I AM FERRIL FOR THE BEAUTIFUL CITY BOY AND THE YOUNG FARMER. Come on. Korea. SRS? Plus some language play? I just go die now. 

Star Struck (Korea iQIYI & Gaga) ep 7-8 fin - Man this was a difficult show for me. I know we’re supposed to identify with HanJoon but I really felt for YooJae. I’ve been in his position more often than I care to count, and it’s terrible to lose a friend because they caught feelings and you did not. It’s an awful thing to hold a friendship hostage on condition of a romantic relationship. Especially if the other person is not sexually interested in you! All that said, the boyfriend ep was okay. Not sure I believed in this relationship, but it was cute enough. The final ep was (how do I put this?) a loser. We spent a lot of time with terrible home lives and then a semi happy for now final scene? Whatever. Full review below. 

Vian the series (Vietnam YouTube ) ep 6 of 12 - somehow I keep missing this one, I’ll catch it next week. 

Naked Dinner AKA Zenra Meshi (Japan Fri Gaga) ep 9 of 12 - I think the Taiwanese boss is my favorite character. Japan rarely (if ever ) trots out the faen fatal trope. I mean I named it with a Thai word for a reason, it’s not from origin yaoi at all. Yet still there she is. Sigh. This show. 

Stupid Genius (Vietnam Fri YouTube) ep 1 of 6 - RL Studio (Stupid Boys Stupid Love) bringing us yet another high school set VBL. It’s actually not bad. I see a lot of common faces whom I’ve enjoyed in past VBLs. 

It’s Airing But ...

House of Stars (Thai Mon iQIYI) 12 eps - I bounced at ep 3. Will binge if told it is worth it at end.

Stay (Pinoy YouTube) 7 eps - It’s mostly in English and set in LA so I’m not bothering but the first one did drop.

Ever After (Pinoy ????) - I got nothing. 

Takumi-kun Series 6: Nagai Nagai Monogatari no Hajimari no Asa (Japan Sun ????) 10 eps - NO ONE ASKED FOR THIS and no, I have no idea where to get it, why would I? (Say it with me everyone: Oh Japan, must you?*)

Boys Love Omegaverse (Japan ????) - honestly tho? Who tf cares? You’ll still tell me if you find it, because inquiring minds... Irony of this airing at the same time as Takumi-kun. Full circle much, Japan? 

Tin Tem Jai Special (Thai ????) - honestly I checked Gaga & iQiyi in my territory (craptastic hotel) and neither had it listed so I quickly gave up. I mean OF COURSE I WOULD LIKE TO SEE Lee Long Shi in a bathtub, who wouldn’t? But... 

Just because I didn’t watch the special doesn’t mean I can’t gank Lee Long Shi wearing nothing but soap bubbles for you. 

I’m not a monster. 

Ended This Week 

Our Skyy 2 final 4 eps thoughts: This was an interesting combination, and don’t get me wrong I very much enjoyed it, but it felt like the story was carried by PatPran’s characters while the setting and narrative followed an ATOTS arc - ultimately disjointed. OhmNanon are so bold and vibrant they’re too stark a tonal contrast to EarthMix’s more refined and elegant approach, so for me the screen presences and the style of story clashed. It was like a bouquet made up of tulips & roses: they are both flowers and they’re both pretty, but I feel like they actually belong in different vases. Still, enjoyable. And I got a crying kiss. Always makes me happy. Definitely the best of this bunch, and probably the best Our Skyy (and I genuinely loved both the NLMG historical installment and SOTUS.) 8/10 

Star Struck. A friends to lovers story that felt more friends to tolerant yet disinterested partner. It was more about challenges with parents and class strife. I would’ve been disappointed if the show hadn’t come out of nowhere so I had no expectations. But as KBLs go, don’t bother. 6/10 

Next Week Looks Like This:

Starting:

6/15 Tokyo in April AKA Shigatsu no Tokyo wa (Japan Gaga) 8 eps - Based on a yaoi, this is a reunion romance that takes place in an office. Japan does Our Dating Sim? Yes please.

Still Coming - June 2023

6/22 About Us but Not About Us (Pinoy movie from 2022 on Prime) - A professor grieving the loss of his partner meets an ambitious literature student.

6/24 Why You (Khmer BL ????) - Billed as a horror romance, not sure if this is a movie or a series where it will air... nothing except that it exists.

6/24 Tie The Knot AKA Under the Same Sky (Pinoy movie on Prime) Trailer - I guess Prime is coming for our Pinoy BL? From OXIN Films (Rainbow Prince), announced for 2022 based on a true story, Briggs's family runs a bridal business but he has never had a chance to fall in love until he meets Shao, a groom to be.

6/25 Dinosaur Love (Thai iQIYI) Trailer 5 eps - from Ultimate Troop about a uni student, Rak, whose partner cheats on him with Rak's best friend. This gives bad boy hazer Dino an opportunity to hit on Rak at last. From The Yearbook people so I will not watch this as it airs. After Remember Me? Never again with them.

2023 forthcoming BL master post (see comments, some are inaccurate, NOT KEPT UPDATED)

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

Bruce is so damn fantastic in this show.

Consent comes in all different forms. (both Step by Step) 

Fight fight fight!

Sex sex sex blow job! (both La Pluie) 

Smartest boy in the show. 

Not enough InkPa... never enough. Never never never! 

Love the suit.

All from the Our Skyy 2 BB + ATOTS cross over. 

(last week)

Current Kpop earworm? IVE’s I Am

[doll-shaped-cyanide]

Update (09/27/24)

What I'm Into Now

MCU (Wanda Maximoff, Agatha Harkness)

X-Men (Logan)

Progress Updates

The Avengers send Wanda to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters to help her control her powers and get an education (Progress: threw my plotting process to the wind and am winging it for now, still needs a title)

Agatha is brought on to the Avengers to teach Wanda magic... now has a working title! This concept will be referred to as Daffodil Futures (Progress: still slogging through plotting and waiting for more reveals re: Agatha's backstory)

Fic Recs

And there we go! Another week down!

Agatha All Along thoughts below the cut.

FIRST OF ALL: I am writing this very shortly after I watched the third episode on Wednesday (Sept 25th) night, so I haven't had a chance to look at everyone else's thoughts and opinions.

SECOND OF ALL: Dude! Mrs. Hart is dead?!?!?! I mean, we all figured she was going to die, but this soon?! And her last words were to Wanda to let her husband stop choking?!? I am punching the dry wall! Is the rest of the coven going to die throughout the trials, just leaving Agatha and Teen? God, I hope not. Mrs. Hart's death was sad enough for me.

THIRD OF ALL: BRO, I knew it! I knew that Agatha traded Nicholas Scratch for the Darkhold! I want it on record, even if I didn't mention it in my notes last time, that I privately had my thoughts about this AND I WAS RIGHT! Nobody is ever hearing the end of this.

It's clear to me that this action haunts Agatha more than she lets on, given that her traumatic hallucination was of her son crying in his cradle and then revealing the Darkhold.

Or, she didn't do it at all and something else happened entirely that will be revealed later. Still, there's a connection there and she's carrying it with her.

ALSO: have y'all seen the new Funko Pop spoilers?? Apparently it was revealed that on the back of the unreleased Funko Pop boxes, it shows Rio as Death and Teen as Wiccan, which we already figured out but still! You can't see it but I am flapping my hands so hard right now.

Gah, I can't wait for the Jac Schaeffer interview on Monday and the episode next week! I am going to make this show my entire personality. Jk, I already have :)

[synergysilhouette]

Remaking "Fire Emblem: 3 Houses"

(Spoilers ahead, obviously)

The time has come for another rewrite! I'm an amateur (re)writer, and I KNOW people are gonna be picky about this rewrite since many consider this entry the Holy Grail of the "Fire Emblem" series, but I hope you'll still be open to my changes, anyway! This is purely subjective and not something that reflects the fandom's opinion or me saying how to make the game objectively "better" (even though the term itself is subjective). I don't remember every single aspect of the game, so if I mention something that I wanted from the game that they actually DID do, be sure to mention it!

General

DON'T RUSH US!--From the get-go, you're on a fixed schedule. Once you become a professor, you've got one day out of the week to explore the grounds, fight battles/do paralogues/xenologues, or another activity. Every Monday, you've gotta do instruction for your student, and the other days literally breeze by until you get to your next story arc. Letting us go at our own leisure would be awesome, particularly since it'd give us more time to get to know our characters via more missions and xenologues. Between school and war, it can get a bit monotonous.

2. Give us impactful dialogue options instead of the illusion of choices--I have the same issue with "Pokemon: Mystery Dungeon." Throughout the game, we're given dialogue options, but most of the time the choices are identical or offer no affect other than a character's approval/disapproval. It felt annoying to have the option to tell the Flame Emperor that you'd join them, only for them to say they could tell you were lying. It's annoying stuff like that that makes it feel like you don't really need dialogue options at all, just cutscenes with Byleth speaking for themselves.

3. Those Who Slither in the Dark being keeping us in the loop--It's wild to me that the people who did the most damage are the most underused in the game. Someone said that making their deeds more pronounced/known would ruin the point, but I disagree. In Crimson Flower, their role in the Tragedy of Duscur is revealed, but Edelgard defeats them offscreen before restoring peace. Dimitri never learns the full truth of this in Azure Moon, and if I recall, the organization does get more attention in Silver Snow (for like 2-3 chapters) and Verdant Wind, but I can't recall for certain. Either way, I feel like each route should feel complete, given that you're playing completely different stories, rather than it feeling like you're missing some information depending on the route you play. Not to mention, Kronya deserves better, even if I'm retconning her actions (more on that in a second)...

4. Don't make us forget about marriage--having to find a ring sucks. After Jeralt dies, you have a certain amount of time in order to find his marriage ring (which I completely forgot about in my first playthrough) that you NEED if you want to reach S-supports with anyone. I'd prefer if Jeralt just gave it to Byleth rather than us having to go to his office and find it.

5. Change the confusing Byleth bloodline--I'm fine with Sitri being either Rhea's daughter or (if you wanna romance Rhea and Sothis without ethical concerns) simply working at the church where she met Jeralt. The family tree above makes things a lot more confusing than what it needs to be.

6. Marriage to (mostly) whoever, whenever--In the game, you have to wait until after the war is over to be married, and out of them, you only have 5 romantic same-sex options for female Byleth--2 of which are route-exclusive--and 3 options for male Byleth--2 of which are either DLC or route-exclusive. I'd rather make it a free-for-all, save for Gilbert and Alois, who are married, and should've never prevented you from a romantic relationship with another character.

7. Keep Jeralt alive--I'm just...I'm just TIRED of the "dead parent/evil parent" storyline that "Awakening," "Fates," and "Engage" have done, along with "3 Houses." I'd enjoy having Jeralt kept alive, in this version. Nevermind, this is probably the longest a protagonist has gotten to keep their parent in one of the recent FE games. Having him stand by Byleth similar to "3 Hopes" would be awesome.

8. Let us have Child units--As someone who got into the series via "Fates" and "Awakening," it disappointed me greatly that child units were removed. While I prefer "Fates" using the Deeprealms, I think an "Awakening" approach fits best here. Perhaps Sothis' time manipulation is more powerful than she knows, having sent the child units from the future to avoid their dark fates. Since it's story-related, perhaps it's Byleth's child who comes from the future first, referencing Chrom's daughter Lucina coming to save him and Emmeryn in "Awakening," only the child comes to save Byleth and Jeralt. Personally I made a lsit of fanmade child units almost a year ago.

9. Recruit Jeritzia outside of Crimson Flower--"3 Hopes" allowed us to do so as long as we had Mercedes in one of our routes, and I'm confused on why that couldn't be done here. Recruiting Mercedes would be the wakeup call Jeritzia needs to join our side, rather than being the opposition.

10. Keep Byleth's hair color--This is a nitpick, but I'd like being able to change Byleth's hair color back to the way it was before becoming one with Sothis. I'm fine with keeping the hair color, though.

11. A 3 Houses United Route--I mentioned in another post about a route where Jeralt survived, TWSITD as the main antagonists. What'd make this route unique (since I'd want the other two changes to be changed in all routes) is that the almost-death of Jeralt would inspire Byleth to leave the church and become a mercenary again, only getting involved years later once they see how the war has affected their students, and they can still recruit others based on their stats, and since they're not tied to a particular "side" in this concflict, they could recruit the house leaders and their aides rather than having to kill them.

12. Fix Dimitri's turnaround (Azure Moon)--It's probably just me, but it felt like Dimitri's vengence and sudden change of heart following Rodrigue's death felt...too quick? I know this is a hot take, but I'd have thought Rodrigue's death would've fueled Dimitri's anger. Plus I didn't feel like Dimitri's redemption (so to speak) was earned. It was just kinda "sorry for being a jerk, guys" even though the whole team seemed to back him. I'd have enjoyed seeing more moments of his sanity and morality kick in amidst the chaos rather than being one-track-minded. I feel like a lot of poorly done villain arcs do this (even if he isn't the villain of this route, per se). Since in my rewrite we learn about TWSITD, it's quite possible that Dimitri's anger is focused elsewhere in any case. Maybe Rodrigue didn't even have to die...

13. Utilize 3 Hopes designs--This may not be a popular opinion, but I think some of the characters looked better halfway in 3 Hopes than in 3 Houses. It would be nice to have the option to switch their costumes to their 3 Hopes looks instead (even though I know they're older in the 3 Houses timeskip than they are in 3 Hopes).

14. NO IGNORANT BYLETH--Instead of other installments that use the amnesia subplots, Byleth is simply kept in the dark about their parents' pasts, the world, and the church (which is kinda the same thing). I'd alleviate this entirely so we can have a mature and well-learned protagonist rather than a teacher who's just learning how the world works and about the tension in the land.

Hope you're not too upset with my version of the game! Lemme know what you think and if you have any questions. The next FE rewrite I do (whenever I get around to it) will be "Engage," which is the last FE game I've played.

[stubblesandwich]

Return To Me - Chapter 4

A/N: It was requested I post this here, as well, so here ya go! (Sorry if I double tagged anyone.) I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you endlessly to anyone still following this story. You have all my love.

Summary: Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.

Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny. Find on A03 here

++++++

Chapter Four - Don't Get Around Much Anymore

Three Weeks Post-Op 

Emma had been called a cynic plenty of times in her life. As it turned out, being pushed through the foster system for a decade and a half hadn’t exactly turned her into a beaming optimist. Like most cynics, she claimed she was actually a realist. She planned for the worst, because things tended to not work out that great for her, and hoped for the best. Sometimes she was pleasantly surprised. 

But in the litany of potential outcomes Emma had been preparing herself for, a new heart had never actually made the list. It was akin to winning the lottery, in her mind. Life had not been particularly kind to her. Yet, she had always taken her blows in stride, and she never took handouts. And the prospect of finally making it to the top of the transplant list at the age of twenty-six, after almost a decade of waiting, felt like a handout from life. 

Emma Swan had never been one to sit around waiting for handouts. 

There were other things she had prepared herself for. Increasing the handful of pills she took each day to keep her body from failing on her any faster. Moving from her full time job and supporting herself completely on her own to working part time, then very part time, to not at all. Getting on a government disability program. Each new punch to the gut from life she took in stride, as best she could. 

And through it all, righting her each and every time she stumbled, were David and Mary Margaret. They were some of the best, most genuine and caring people ever to be placed on planet earth. She didn't deserve them—there was a small, cruel voice in the back of her head that affirmed this for her every day. But they just kept showing up for her, and they wouldn’t leave, and they wouldn’t let her quit. 

As it turned out, after the first week, getting a whole new vital organ sewn into her chest wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. By the third week, the pain was starting to subside, transitioning into a residual soreness, and her biggest struggle currently was not clawing at her incision every time it itched. When the skin itself didn’t feel like an odd mixture of both tight and numb, it felt ablaze with itchiness. It was all she could do not to scratch at it. (Every time she did, Mary Margaret would bark at her to stop it, or David would throw a random item in her direction. Most recently, it had been a box of tissues that had narrowly missed her head, and he threatened to get an extendable fly swatter to swat her with, as needed.) 

For the first time in her life, Emma was well and truly doted upon. She had family members who inarguably refused to leave her side. That is, of course, until Mary Margaret was forcibly removed by way of her impending school year start. 

She’d had almost a month left of her summer break when Emma had had her operation, and she had been able to push almost all of her classroom prep off until the very last minute. David helped her ready her room when he could, but Emma knew her friend was fraying at the seams from trying to do so much in such a short span of time. Mary Margaret had a handful of vacation days, but she hoarded them like a dragon for true emergencies, and worried constantly that if her students started off the school year with a substitute teacher, they would just end up watching movies all day instead of actually learning something. 

This was their last weekend before the new school year started and Mary Margaret went back to working full days. Emma was lounging on the couch, dozing, lidded eyes half focused on the episode of Friends quietly playing on the living room TV. She and Mary Margaret had just finished putting together twenty-five “Welcome back!” folders for her incoming students, as well as a second set for their parents. 

“Why couldn't they have been ready for you to have the surgery during the start of summer?” Mary Margaret lamented, as she plopped her last folder down on the pile.  “I would have had three months off to be here with you!” 

David glanced over at them from the pile of pans he was washing at the kitchen sink and gave his wife an odd look. “You do realize you're wishing the woman whose heart Emma has now had died earlier in the year instead of later, right?” 

Mary Margaret looked aghast. “No! Of course I don’t wish that. I didn't... I just meant...” 

David raised his eyebrows at her, but by now he was smiling gently at his wife. Mary Margaret huffed. A slightly awkward silence settled between the three of them. The fact that another person was dead and Emma was still alive because of it was something they all knew but typically left unsaid. David had said it out loud, and now the strangeness of that fact settled over them all heavily. 

“I wonder what she was like,” Emma murmured from her spot on the couch, puncturing the silence. “They couldn't tell me much. Well, couldn't or wouldn't, not sure which. All they said was that she was older than me, but not by too much, and in great health. Obviously we had to have the same blood type. But they couldn't tell me how she died, just that it didn't affect her heart.” 

“Probably head trauma,” David said sagely. Emma winced at the thought, but he was likely right. He had seen enough as an officer to know. Especially working night shifts, when the majority of car accidents took place in the area. 

“That sounds awful,” Mary Margaret said quietly.

“I'd never say I was glad someone else died,” David said after a while. “But I'm glad Emma's still with us.” The fact that these things were one in the same went unsaid. Mary Margaret reached over and squeezed Emma’s arm in gentle agreement with her husband. Emma glanced over at her and offered her sister-in-law a small smile, trying to convey to her without having to say it aloud that it was okay. 

But in truth, Emma was uncomfortable. It just made her feel so strange, knowing that for every happy moment she now got to have here with her family, someone out there was living new moments, making new memories, without their own loved one to share them with. Someone out there was grieving a tremendous loss—had lost a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife. The woman whose heart Emma now had could have been any one of those things, or all of them at once. She was presumably loved, adored, missed dearly. And Emma just didn’t know what to do with that information, how to carry these feelings with grace and proper gratitude. Often they \manifested in the form of guilt. David and Mary Margaret were quick to talk her out of that whenever it came up. That woman’s death meant something, they assured her. Part of her lives on, and part of her saved a life. That has to mean something to her family, right? 

They were right, Emma knew. David saw so much meaningless death in his line of work that she inherently believed him when he told her that it was a gift, her being able to use someone else’s heart. (She didn’t have the courage to ask him how he would feel about any of Mary Margaret’s vital organs going to someone else, if she died.) It was a guilt she carried nonetheless, and she carried it poorly. It was an awkward shape, this guilt, and heavy, and she didn’t know how to carry it well. It all too often made her fumble. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said Mary Margaret looked over at her sharply, instantly suspicious that Emma was still feeling off from the previous conversation, but Emma was quick to wave away her worry. “I’m fine,” she assured her. “Really. I just feel grimy, and I don’t want to taint the epicness of Last Dinner with my stink.” This was their last evening—Last Dinner—before Mary Margaret returned to work full time, and they were marking the occasion with David’s mother’s famous lasagna recipe, a favorite from David and Emma’s semi-shared childhood (and coincidentally the only meal David really knew how to make, but that was beside the point). 

“I second the vote for a shower,” David said, raising his hand in mock vote. 

“You would,” Emma said with a roll of her eyes that David didn’t even need to see to know was there. Mary Margaret started to rise with her, as if about to help her to her feet. “Relax, woman,” Emma said, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder gently to stop her. “I’ve got it. I’m not a complete invalid.” 

“Jury’s still out,” came David’s response. 

Emma looked at Mary Margaret, half expecting her to admonish her husband, but Mary Margaret just stared up at her with poorly veiled anxiety. “I’m not!” Emma said. “Guys, it’s been almost a month.” 

“Three weeks,” Mary Margaret corrected. “Since you got a new heart. Not since you got your tonsils removed.” 

“Okay,” Emma said, stretching out her back a bit as she stood there, chasing a kink out between her shoulder blades. “Sure, it was a big surgery.” David scoffed from his place by the sink, and Emma shot him a warning look. “But the doctors even said I have to try to do more on my own. I think it’s safe to say that includes showering.” There was no argument from David on that one. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, looked unconvinced. 

“What if you slip and fall?” 

“I’ll be sure to have my Life Alert button handy,” Emma retorted wryly. “Seriously, guys, it’s okay. I can handle showering.” Before they could argue any further, Emma slipped away, locking herself in the bathroom.   

“Let me know if you need any help, okay?” Mary Margaret called through the door in a singsong voice only a few moments later. Emma swore she heard the doorknob jiggle, like her friend was testing to see if it was locked or not. It was, thankfully. Emma was already halfway undressed, and the last thing she needed was for her brother to get an accidental peep show because his wife thought Emma had already gotten stuck behind the toilet and died or something. “Emma?” 

Oh, my God, Emma mouthed to herself. “Thanks,” she called out. “I will!” That seemed to appease Mary Margaret. But the faint squeak of the bar stool at the kitchen island assured Emma she hadn't gone far. It was endearing, how much they worried about her. At least, that's what she told herself in the moments like this, when it was almost impossible to find even just two seconds of privacy. Sometimes, she really did feel like she was a little kid again. Only now, she was re-living a much different version of her childhood. A sweeter, kinder version wherein people actually wanted to take care of her and didn't think of her as a monumental burden. 

The tub's faucet squeaked shrilly as she turned on the water. When she’d first gotten home a week ago, just that motion, gripping the handle and giving the antique metal a yank, had left her arm feeling like a limp noodle. She was doing much better now, but she still felt pathetically weak and exceptionally out of shape. At one point, long ago, she had been fairly strong. A thin child, but always scrappy. Now she was a pale waif, muscles atrophied over the years as she'd gotten sicker. She vowed to herself that was going to change. Despite how frail she was, at the same time, she legitimately felt like she could take on the world now, with this new heart. She could finally breathe, take a breath fully in and out, without feeling lightheaded. That alone was a miracle.  

Gingerly, she lifted her tank top up over her head. Her scar, where a surgeon had cut into muscle and bone and forcibly ripped open her sternum, stood out, an angry red slash against alabaster skin. For the first few weeks, it had been concealed by gauze. By this point, it was still tender, but her doctor encouraged her to air it out often. She even had some skin mobility exercises she was supposed to be doing daily, to help the layers of tissue beneath the scar not permanently adhere to one another. The scar itself stretched from the top of her chest, dropping down in between her breasts, all the way past her sternum bone. It was a thick, gnarled thing, aesthetically ugly; but she found herself overwhelmingly grateful for it the longer she looked at it. As ugly as it was, this scar meant she was going to live to see her next birthday. 

Washing herself was still a slow, cautious process, but much easier than it had been when she’d first gotten out of the hospital. She took the time now to do her full, luxury, self care princess shower routine, something she hadn’t had the strength to do in months.  The venting system in the loft's tiny bathroom was terrible, and by the time she stepped out of the shower, steam cloaked the room like a fog. The sheer dampness of the air made her cough when she inhaled. Emma didn't care; she felt amazing. It was easy to underestimate how much better a good shower could make a person feel. She felt human again, instead of the fresh-from-the-hospital, invalid goblin she’d been feeling like for the past few weeks. Humming to herself, she dried off, turbaned her wet hair, and started to dress. 

David had the water running at the sink, and the apartment’s ancient radiator had kicked on next to the bathroom; when Emma finally opened the bathroom door, her brother and sister-in-law didn’t hear the faint creak of the old wood on its hinge as it started to open. 

“But you love your classroom.” David was saying in a low voice. It was clear he was trying to be fairly quiet, but this felt like intruding in on a conversation that had been going on for several minutes. Possibly the whole time she’d been in the shower. 

Emma didn't hear Mary Margaret sigh, but she could tell by the tone of her voice that her words had come on the end of one. “Of course I do,” she said, “And I really do miss my kids. But Emma needs me here. I can't just leave her! She just got a new heart, David. A heart. It's not like she had her wisdom teeth removed and just needs a day or two to get back on her feet.” 

The aforementioned heart skipped a beat in Emma's chest. A familiar, sinking feeling of guilt settled low and heavy in Emma's stomach. 

“But she will get back on her feet,” David said gently. “You know she will. She just needs time.” 

“Exactly! And she needs me here to help her until she does.” 

“No, she doesn't.” 

“David—” 

“Mary Margaret,” David interrupted lovingly. “She's going to be okay. Better than okay. This is the day we've all been waiting for, don't forget. She's getting a second chance at life here.” Unexpected tears welled in Emma's eyes at that. “And Emma knows that,” David continued. “You and I both know she's going to be chomping at the bit to get back out there. It's going to be hard enough keeping her here the six weeks it'll take for her to heal. She's not going to need our help half as much as you think she will.” 

Mary Margaret started to respond, but Emma couldn't take it anymore. She took the bathroom's old doorknob in her hand and gave it a good rattle, like she had just started to open it, and the door creaked loudly as she pushed it fully open. David and Mary Margaret grew hush until Mary Margaret piped up with, "Oh, hi Emma!" a little too brightly. David noticeably busied himself with cutting the garlic bread he’d pulled out of the oven moments before. The guilt at having eavesdropped coiled in Emma's chest like a snake ready to spring, and she swallowed around the lump that had grown in her throat. “Hey,” she said, trying her best to sound normal.

“Everything go okay?” Mary Margaret asked. “No dizziness?” 

“I didn’t hear the Life Alert alarm go off,” David said dryly, shooting his sister a wink. 

“I feel amazing,” Emma said earnestly. “Seriously.” She sidled up to her brother and successfully bumped him out of the way, taking over the cutting of the garlic bread despite his weak protestations. 

“Oh, good,” Mary Margaret breathed, and the relief was evident in her voice. She shared a glance with David, which Emma pointedly ignored, and moved to grab the stack of dishes waiting on the island so she could start setting the table. 

“I was thinking,” Emma went on, “Maybe I could come help you set up your classroom later today. If you think you need the help. Or I could just come keep you company, get a change of scenery.” 

“That sounds like a great idea,” David said, as he watched his wife’s expression. 

“That would be great, honestly,” Mary Margaret said, but was quick to add, “As long as you’re feeling up to it.” 

“I mean, as long as you don’t have me lugging around twenty-pound carts of Crayons or something,” Emma laughed, “I think I’ll be okay.” 

“Do fourth graders still use crayons?” David asked, as he popped open the oven one final time and withdrew the lasagna. The cheese on top was browning and bubbling and a minute away from burnt, just the way his mother had always cooked it, and the whole thing looked wonderful. 

“Not really,” Mary Margaret said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t matter. I have a big, handsome deputy to do all my heavy lifting for me.” She batted her eyes at her husband a few times, who grinned back at her. 

“All right, lovebirds,” Emma said, as she clicked the salad tongs at them a few times in playful warning. “Let’s eat. I’ve got my appetite back and I’m actually starving.” 

“Jeez,” David said, “You’d think she’d gotten a new stomach with the heart. She’s gonna eat us out of house and home now.”

Table set, food out, they took their respective seats. David uncorked a bottle of red wine he’d been saving for a special occasion, which Emma was definitely not allowed to have, but she told Mary Margaret to enjoy it for her. 

As Mary Margaret spooned squares of lasagna onto everyone’s plate, Emma took a moment to try to find the right words to say to convey how she was feeling to these people who would seemingly do anything in the world for her. But what she wanted most is for them to get back to living their lives, too. They had put off so much for her sake, and she was more grateful than she knew how to say. But it was time to move on now, to heal, for all of them. 

“I know it can suck, having such a huge surgery,” Emma started, pausing to clear her throat. “But this is different.” She glanced up at Mary Margaret, who was watching her closely. “I mean, a month ago, I was dying. I never told you guys this, but it just felt like the end. I was working on drafting a will.” 

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret said quietly. 

“That’s so morbid,” David said.

“I know it’s stupid.” Emma toyed with the end of her napkin as she stared down at her plate.  “I don’t really have anything to will to anyone. I was just going to leave anything I had to you guys.” She cleared her traitorous throat again and took a moment to blink back some tears. She needn’t have bothered; when she glanced up at her family, they were both openly tearing up as they looked at her. “Okay, stop,” she said, pointing her fork at them, “Or I’m going to lose it. Absolutely no crying in baseball.” 

“Got it,” Mary Margaret said, her voice watery and absolutely unconvincing. 

“Just… Thank you,” Emma said, when she finally got her voice back under control. “I don’t want to think about where I’d be without you both. From the bottom of both my hearts,” she said, with a wry little smile she couldn’t keep at bay, “Thank you.” 

David chuckled, wiping at his eyes, and Mary Margaret continued to stare at her, smiling and barely holding back the floodgates. “We love you, sis,” David said, and a moment later he raised his wineglass. “To Emma’s new lease on life.” Mary Margaret’s wine glass followed, and Emma clinked her water glass with theirs. 

“And Mary Margaret’s new school year,” Emma added. 

“Hear, hear,” Mary Margaret agreed. “I’ll take prayers, good vibes, anything you’ve got.” 

“You’re going to do great,” David assured her, as he put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer to kiss her cheek. “Those kids are lucky to have you.”

Dinner was splendid, and the company even better. It was the first full meal Emma was able to enjoy without feeling nauseated, which was a win in her book. She literally couldn’t think of the last time that had happened. Mary Margaret did indeed have Emma’s wine, and was perhaps a little tipsy when they later ventured out to put some finishing touches on her classroom, which just made it all the more enjoyable for Emma and David. 

And as Emma settled into bed that night, for the first time in a long time, she felt well and truly good. She felt full, warm, strong, and loved. And she knew, felt sure in her bones, that this was the start of one of the best years of her life. 

+++++

The funeral went as well as a funeral could--especially considering there was no actual body to bury. Milah had set it up long beforehand that all salvageable organs were to be donated to the nearest hospital at the time of her death, then the rest of her body donated to science. This made planning her funeral and memorial service a unique affair, as there was no body for a wake, no urn of ashes received. That he would receive later, whenever the hospital saw fit. So Killian honored his wife's memory the best way he could. 

Everyone who had ever known her in the past few years since she and Killian had moved Stateside was crammed into a small funeral home to celebrate her life and speak well of her. Her parents were long dead, but he had managed to get his hands on some childhood photos from her aunt who still lived across the pond; a small smattering of her extended relatives had sent cards to pay their respects. But the room was filled primarily with her coworkers and friends she’d made in the few years they’d lived in Boston. 

Milah had been a truly gifted photographer, both in her work and personal life, evidence of which sat neatly framed and displayed on nearly every available inch of table space in the room. All the best photos Milah had ever taken through her work had been printed and framed and displayed, tucked neatly between bouquets of flowers. One table was so long, it took up the entire back wall. 

Killian had almost, almost, completely lost the last tenuous grip he had on his sanity when the wrong flowers had come in that morning. He had distinctly ordered stargazer lilies, his wife’s favorite flower, for the table arrangements. Instead, what had been delivered to him were a rainbow assortment of Gerber daisies, of all things, which he viewed on this particular day as nothing short of an abomination. As it turned out, there had been a mistake with the delivery trucks, and his order had been sent to a birthday party instead. It probably should have embarrassed him, how angry a simple mix up of flowers had made him. But as he had very little pride left, he was literally seeing red, until Robin showed up beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently steered him out the side door and outside for some fresh air. Will took over, his general belligerence a helpful and actually useful tool that day, and tried to get the flowers sorted out with minimal shouting. 

As Killian stood now, gazing down at the myriad of perfect photos his wife had taken over the course of her career, he belatedly realized he had been the star of many of them, unbeknownst to him. His wife had apparently been a ninja behind her viewfinder when he wasn’t paying attention. It should have made him feel awkward, being the focal point of so many of her photographs; the last thing he wanted now was attention. And yet, he couldn’t help but smile at most of them. One of him leaning over the railing of a dock, for instance, staring pensively out at sea, squinting slightly in the light of the sun. Another of him from behind, a shadowed figure standing on the beach with his toes buried in the sand and his hands in the pockets of his shorts, staring out at the red slashed sky of an oncoming storm. He was the blurred, black clad figure in the background or at the helm in several photographs of the ships he and his brother had helped restore. 

It was visible, tangible proof of how much she had loved him, how often her camera found itself pointed in his direction, focused on him. And God, if that didn’t make him miss her all the more. His heart was an open wound, and he was never going to be able to staunch the flow from it. Day by day, he felt like he was bleeding out, until soon there would be nothing left of him. 

One photo, his favorite, and one that was already framed in his home, stood out prominently. His and his brother, Liam, in front of their first real score for the ship restoration foundation, a beautiful, towering piece of history in the form of a stunning antique merchant vessel. Liam’s arm was thrown over Killian’s shoulders, his face alight with absolute joy (and possibly the buzz from the beers they’d had over lunch). They were both squinting, laughing like fools at having finally pulled it off. Towering behind them, not to be overshadowed, was the ship, herself: the Jewel of the Realm. Milah had been sent by a local paper to get photos of the ship, and her new owners, as a focal point for a story on local maritime history. 

Killian felt fortunate he remembered that day so well. It had felt like the best day of his entire life, at the time. Seeing his brother so elated, after everything they had endured together, had been enough to send Killian to the moon. It felt like things were finally, finally going their way. He had taken to Milah instantly, and spent the hour regaling her with the history of the ship. A merchant ship, originally, but thought to have been used for piracy at one point. He leaned heavily into the implications of the latter fact, as he felt—rightly so—that it added intrigue, and Milah had been enamored with the Jewel. He'd joked that day about renaming it the Jolly Roger, much to his brother's chagrin. She’d had other work to get to that day, so she hadn’t stayed long, but she’d given him her business card, which he still carried in his wallet. Liam had been killed shortly after, on one of his last missions with the Royal Navy before his scheduled retirement. Everything had changed, then. But Killian had always felt especially lucky that it had been Milah that day who had come to take their photo. For one short hour, she had been able to meet his brother, before Killian had lost him forever. The stars had aligned, and for one short span of time, the man who had meant the most to him and the woman who would come to mean everything to him had met, briefly. It wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of things, but to Killian, it had to be enough. 

And then there were the glorious photos of the rest of the ships he had brought on through the years. He had always marveled at Milah’s skill behind a camera, her ability to find just the right angle, at just the precise time of day, to truly capture the essence of the ships he restored. Through her eyes, even the in-progress pictures never made them look like pieces of floating shit, which some of them very much were at the start of the process. She managed to make them look like hidden treasure, just waiting to be uncovered. Pieces of history waiting to be lovingly restored to their former glory. That’s what he’d felt like, with her. She’d been the one to see past his flaws after the death of his brother, to see something worth loving in him, something worth restoring. 

And now what was he, without her? 

The frequent looks of sympathy that came his way over the course of the memorial service were one of the worst parts of the day. Each and every concerned glance that flit in Killian's direction was threaded not only with heavy condolences, but something much worse: pity. And he knew he was a pitiable sight, indeed. He was dressed well enough, in a deep black suit Milah had bought for him after his business had another big break. But, his arm with the broken collarbone was still in a sling and had no hand at the end of it. Dark circles cradled his eyes, which seemed to be permanently bloodshot these days. He had given up almost entirely on sleep.

Sleeping felt impossible, an insurmountable task despite its simplicity; the bed was too big, too cold, and too empty when he was the only one in it. He tried—really tried. Each night, he made a valiant attempt to sleep in his own bed. He'd toss, turn, and generally do a lot of staring up at his ceiling. Eventually, he resorted to Netflix. But his “recently watched” list was full of her favorite shows, episodes half finished, series just begun. It was a terrible distraction. 

The first week after he arrived home from the hospital, his recliner chair in the living room had been the only place he could comfortably fall asleep with his arm in a sling. It was a lumpy, unsightly thing he had inherited from his brother (it was this reason and this reason alone his wife had allowed him to keep it.) Milah had called it his old man chair. These days, he’d often fall asleep in the chair, wake up with a start an hour later, and make his way to the couch, where he’d try to fall back asleep, but would mostly lie awake, staring into the dark, letting his mind off its leash and letting it wander to dangerous places. 

Often these thoughts centered on what he would do if he could track down the driver who had hit them head on, then fled the scene. What he would do when he found him or her varied. Sometimes, he pictured lighting him on fire. The next moment, he'd revel in the thought of running him through with a knife, watching him slowly bleed out on the floor. Or he’d take his hand from him, too. Such thoughts kept him company and carried him through until morning. 

Now, with the lack of sleep and the general dissociation he felt, he often didn’t feel cemented in reality. When he looked around the room, taking in the funeral parlor, it felt like this was happening to someone else, and he was merely observing. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by a sea of people who didn't know what to say to him. The moment never came that he was spared the awkward indignity of a conversation with someone who had little else to say other than I'm sorry. 

She was a lovely person. 

(Each time, he bristled at the use of the past tense.)

She'll be missed. 

Pity had overtaken the room, lingering like a dense fog. Everywhere he turned, his friends, her friends, co-workers, even a handful of people he had never seen before in his life, were all wearing the same expression on their faces. It transcended simple pity. It was next-level pity, flashing from their eyes and those slight down-turned corners of their mouths like a brightly-lit billboard in the night that read "YOUR LIFE DEPRESSES ME." 

He couldn't blame them. He pitied himself, too, when he wasn't numb, pulled down so deep into his own despair he could no longer think straight.

At least the food was decent—or so he had been overhearing. One quick glance over at Will Scarlet in the back of the room, face stuffed with h'orderves, told him the funeral parlor's appetizers couldn't have been terrible. If there had ever been a time he appreciated his friends more, he couldn't think of it. Of all the people who had shown up to the service, Locks and Scarlet were the only two who didn't make him want to scream. Or run. Or throw a punch. All of it, all at once. 

Will and Robin sat apart from the rest, in a pair of wingback armchairs in the corner of the room. Killian hadn't had a chance to speak to either of them, apart from initial hellos and quick hugs when they'd first arrived, and of course the ordeal with the flowers, but somehow, he knew without even asking they intended to stay for the entire affair, likely planning to take him out for a drink when this was all over.

What else do you do for your best friend after his wife's funeral?

All in all, it wasn’t a very hopeful affair, and too often bordered on bleak. Killian had no words in honor of Milah he wanted to share with a roomful of people who didn’t know her very well, and he didn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down. So, people ate, drank, and made a reserved and somber form of merry. They swapped stories back and forth, each offering up little pieces of the woman they had known.

Milah's parents had died years ago, and she had no siblings, so the room was occupied primarily by people she had thought of as friends. That was a nice thought, and in the coming weeks, Killian would be touched by the food, flowers, and cards that continued to arrive on his doorstep in memory of his wife. 

But here, in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to find hope in anything. 

+++++++

One Year Later 

Was a house truly haunted if you didn’t mind the ghost?

It felt like a haunting for months after Milah’s funeral, this limbo state he found himself in, where he couldn’t bring his heart or his brain to fully comprehend that she was gone. They traded shifts in misunderstanding, his heart and brain. There were days where, logically, he understood his wife was dead. And yet, his heart still leaped at the sound of a car door shutting outside, or an imagined creak in the floorboards that sounded like her coming around the corner in the hall. Other days, his heartache was so profound, he could barely muster the strength to get out of bed. All too often, he’d forget, and for a few blissful minutes, reach for his phone to call her and ask her a question. Those were beautiful moments, the forgetting. But the remembering that followed took his breath away. 

Then there were the things around the home he couldn’t bring himself to toss. Notes she’d left on the fridge, a grocery list on the table. Leftovers from her favorite meal at their favorite restaurant he couldn’t bring himself to throw away until they were fouling up the whole kitchen. Her phone was recovered from the accident and eventually made its way to him, via the detectives working the hit and run case. He went through her email drafts, texts, anything he could get his hands on that held pieces of Milah. He'd saved every voicemail she'd ever left him, had them memorized, and he'd play them when he missed her most, poking the bruise in his heart over and over until it numbed and didn't hurt so much. It all felt relatively harmless, like doing this to himself couldn’t possibly be a bad thing. 

Until he found himself practically sobbing the floor of the shower one morning over a soggy clump of her hair he’d pulled from the drain. 

He just couldn’t seem to pull himself together. 

How do you bring yourself to purposefully excavate traces of someone from your life, after they’re gone, until it was like they weren’t even there at all, the life you shared existing only in snapshots and memories? How exactly does one get to that place, force yourself to loosen your grip on all you have left of the person you love, the person you’d give anything to see one last time? Killian couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t picture himself ever ridding himself completely of Milah’s memory. 

But he could stop leaving land mines for himself. 

He’d always run a tight ship at home, in terms of cleanliness. He had never had much, by way of possessions, and wasn’t sentimental about keeping things. Now he found himself debating whether or not he should keep a note in the bathroom his wife had scrawled out for herself to remind herself to order new contacts. These were the silly, useless things he stared at for minutes on end, debating what to do with. This little scrap of her pretty handwriting he recognized and loved. The thought of it winding up in a landfill somewhere made him ill. 

Eventually, he gathered these random scraps and pieces of her he’d found (except the clump of hair from the drain—that one did make it into the waste bin, thankfully) and gently shepherded them into a large Ziploc bag, which he kept in a box on her side of the closet. 

Robin and Will called often, texted even more often, and even dropped by now and again. They offered their help constantly, gladly would have helped with menial tasks like this (like throwing away scraps of paper Milah might have touched, God, he was a mess), but he turned them away each time. He just wanted to shut the world out, encase himself in a tomb of his own grief. 

He hadn’t even been able to see her, to say goodbye to her, because he hadn’t been bloody conscious for it. He had no memory of Robin telling him of her death; in the week following the accident, he left a slew of traumatized nurses in his wake as people had to tell him again and again for what felt like the first time that his wife was gone. 

Milah, bless her ever-loving soul, had signed herself up to be an organ donor. Of course she had. On some level, he knew this. It was marked on her driver’s license, and it was surely something they had talked about at one point. But now he resented it, resented the whole idea of it. He resented anything that didn’t allow him to see his wife one last time. One doctor had had the absolute audacity to tell Killian that he didn’t want to see his wife, anyway; the damage from the accident had been too great, the brunt of which had gone to her head, and that it was a miracle her heart was still beating enough to allow for any organ transplants. Killian, for his part, had an entirely different definition of the word “miracle”. 

So he waited to receive her ashes, held a funeral without her body. But he certainly didn’t wait patiently. 

He wonders sometimes what she would think of what he's become. No doubt there would be times she'd laugh at how ridiculous he was being, debating on keeping an old, wet clump of her hair like some kind of serial killer, and the subsequent guilt he felt at throwing it away, this gross little piece of her DNA. 

And yet, he reminds himself that there is, oddly, more of her DNA out there somewhere. Somewhere, out in the world, a select few of her vital organs are in new bodies, presumably thriving and keeping their hosts alive and well. Presumably, there are people out there who will be forever grateful for these pieces of his wife. Actual, living pieces of her. Killian has no idea how to feel about that, truly. There will come a day, when he is able to pull himself out of this darkness that perpetually feels more crushingly inescapable by the day, that he is able to see the true and abundant beauty in it. Milah, gone, but literal parts of her living on, providing life-giving support to someone else’s body and soul. That's the true miracle, really, and something he’d know she would be proud of. 

For now, in the depths of his despair, he feels annoyed, indifferent at best. Her benevolent medical and scientific donation was, for many long months, the thing standing between him and a proper burial for his wife, the thing that stood in the way of closure and him being able to say goodbye to her properly. This is the thing his mind latched onto, chooses as a target for his blame. 

Closure arrives on his doorstep one afternoon, boxed and bubble wrapped, in the form of an unassuming black urn. When he finally received her ashes, half a year after her death, he knew what he would do with them, knew immediately what she would want him to do with them. But he can’t yet bring himself to say goodbye, and the urn sat above their fireplace for months. This is the moment it hits him, truly, that she is gone. This is what it takes for it to finally sink in. He spends a long time building up the courage, brick by brick, to do what he needs to do. And as what would be her 37th birthday approaches on a warm July day, he finally gathered the strength to lay his wife to rest and honor her the way she deserved. 

What he doesn’t appreciate about the day, however, is the weather, which turns out to be an absolutely perfect New England summer day, which Killian very much resented. 

It was almost like it was mocking him. Jabbing a bright, sunshiny finger right into his face and laughing at his grief, which still, even almost a year after the death of his wife, was still a wound that had left him hollowed. When his brother had died, suddenly and with too much life left unlived, he'd felt like the ground itself had been pulled out from under him, and he'd been left in free fall. Now, with Milah gone, it felt as if his heart had been ripped right out of his chest and crushed in front of him. 

How did people live like this? 

If he were truly honest with himself, Killian wasn't certain what he was doing each day could actually be called living. He was alive, sure. Most days, the only thing that kept that from being true was the unknown lurking behind the veil of death. He had his own theories, his own hopes, for what awaited in a possible afterlife, but of course, no one really knows for sure until their time comes. He couldn't be sure what would happen to him, whether or not he'd see Milah, if he died tomorrow. Hell would be dying and not being reunited with her. And that was a hell whose existence he was not quite ready to test. 

The closest thing he had to his wife now was resting in his lap, ashes encased in ceramic. He had taken a small, private sailboat out to sea, sailed until there was no one else in sight, trying to find a good spot to release her ashes to the ocean she had loved so much. It had been close to two hours, now; he knew he was putting off the inevitable. If he didn’t do it now, he feared, with good reason, that he never would.

The best part about giving someone’s ashes to the sea was that there wouldn’t be one particular spot where her body would be laid to rest. The waves would take the dust of her and spread it for him, from shore to shore, just like they had taken his brother’s ashes. There would be no headstone, but the ocean itself would remind him of her, and he could visit her anytime he liked on a sea that had always brought him a sense of serenity. 

Killian Jones had never believed in soul mates until he’d met Milah.  And he still didn't quite believe in them, in the traditional sense. He didn't believe in a ready-made mate just waiting for him to find her. No, in his experience, life was far from ever that easy or that simple. But things had changed for him when he'd met his wife. Then, with her love, the broken pieces in him, irrevocably shattered the day his brother had died, shifted together into something that could almost be held together again. With her, he’d felt more whole than he could ever remember feeling in his life. 

She had been married at the time, when they’d met. Daydreaming of leaving her terrible husband, dreams which grew in intensity with each passing day. And while she hadn't exactly left him for Killian, she may has well have. Everything had changed for her that day, too. 

For while Milah had been his partner, they hadn't met each other and been perfectly content. But they had made each other stronger, in all the ways that counted. Now he believed wholeheartedly that soul mates existed. But they weren't found, ready made and prepackaged. They were made, forged through love and hard work working hand in hand. 

These were the things he thought, as the gentle salted breeze ruffled his hair and brought stinging tears to his eyes. As he looked down at the urn that held the last physical piece of the woman he’d loved, would always love, was lost and adrift without. 

“I love you, Milah,” he whispered to the wind. The tightness in his throat and jaw wouldn’t let him say more, but he knew he didn’t need to. She’d known how much and how fiercely he’d loved her, and he had to think that wherever she was, she still knew the hold she had on him. 

He held the urn against his chest with his prosthetic hand, working to unscrew the top. The breeze calmed at just the right moment, and as he leaned over the side of the ship to release Milah to the sea she'd loved, the dust of her settled gently down into the water. 

=========

gonna tag a few folks who I think might care this is up (again, sorry if I already tagged you!) @spartanguard @sunbeamsandmoonrays @caprelloidea @kmomof4 @queen-mabs-revenge @ahsagitarius @galadriel26 @t-tamm-

@lavendersoapsuds @its-imperator-furiosa @midnightswans @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky @withheartfulloflove @captainswan-middlemist @sarahreadsff @princesseslikepirates @winterbaby89 @pirateherokillian @wordslovedreams

@hannah-mic @thecraftyartist @blackwidownat2814 @once-uponacaptain @kylalovesbabeme @swiftmicheles @emmaswanstlk @captainswanslay

@the-tones-of-wallflowers @kday426 @krystalsficpage

[chevvy-ryder]

Ticket to the Major Leagues for Ryder, Thyjs and Falco on the ask game pls!!

How did they react to their first chrome? (Not including the neurosocket, shard slot and wrist plug).

Ryder’s first chrome were Kiroshi optics when he was still a Corpo. He used to wear contacts and/or glasses as he was born astigmatism. He wasn't allowed to get optics until he turned 18 (his family hates cyberware) When he eventually was allowed to get some they had to be in his same eye color (ice blue). The reaction to this was nothing special. He's had a headache for a few days and needed to adjust to see everything clearly now without contacts or glasses. So nothing really special But I want to add how he reacted to his first real chrome that definitely changed his body forever: his mantis blades: You have to know that he replaced his well functioning organic arms with these weapons. He decided it from 0 to 100. I mean he literally walked into a ripper doc's office and demanded "Cut off my arms and install me some with blades!" having literally no clue what Ryder was demanding there. At this point of his life he literally changed everything about himself drastically, often not thinking about whether this decision is good or not. Hate and anger mainly for Cyberpsychos drove him towards this decision. Of course the blades made it so he could protect and defend himself in the first place as he always carries them with him 24/7. and he finally had something that was added to his overall look that can be frightening plus he could fight with them. If trained right mantis blades serve you well. What he did not have in mind: learning how to live with two cybernetic forearms from now on that have sharp blades, he didn't know how to handle at first. Also the fact that he will never feel touch again like he used to hasn't been on his mind back then either. He was only to discover it afterwards because the ripper doc didn't care much to inform him about it since Ryder seemed to be bold and harsh. At the start Ryder often second-guessed himself about this decision he made. In the beginning he often sat at home having problems just to grab a beer because he had to learn that his brain and connected muscles around the elbow accept the cyberware and the given commands were set into the right motion. The ripper doc did a good job and Ryder payed all of his money left for getting the best ones the market had at this time. He didn't feel any pain and they adjusted fast once Ry found out how it works. Nonetheless he kept them and accepted his decision. He gets them checked frequently.

Like Ryder, Thyjs first chrome have been Kiroshi optics. As albino he's had photophobia and decreased visual acuity since he was born. So he definitely was in need to get a better eyesight as soon as he started Military school. The first day of having them felt weird for him, needed some adjustment and to get used to it. He had the usual headache right after he received them but no further problems. They felt like his real eyes before just way better.

Garnet's first cyberware is the one on his neck and the chest. He was diagnosed with lung cancer in a very early years of his life as he already started smoking "wie ein Schlot" at a very young age. So his entire lung including the trachea and the thyroid are cybernetic. Falco didn't do well in the beginning as he had been laying in bed before the operation for weeks to months already. They tried to fight the cancer off via chemotherapy before but it didn't work out so he opted in as last chance to stay alive to get that whole bunch of chrome installed inside his body. When he woke up after the operation and the meds losing their effect he felt insufferable pain in his throat and in general the weight of his body seemed very heavy (up to that he was still super weak, almost reduced to a skeleton). He needed months long rehabilitation and even today a medtech frequently has to check as everything works appropriately. He had to pay the huge bill for probably all his life if he didn't become popular in the music industry. After five years he was free from his debt. Today he's healthy, fit (trains frequently) and takes his needed medication as he should.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Lil Kalish at HuffPost (09.13.2024):

Daniel Trujillo’s first month of junior year has been a “cakewalk.” He’s in two different jazz bands and is a member of his school’s chapter of March for Our Lives chapter, a student-led organization promoting gun control. He dreams of studying music in college. But getting there has not been easy for Daniel and his family ― especially in Arizona, where a barrage of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation and rhetoric has threatened their sense of safety. In 2022, state Republicans banned gender-affirming surgeries for minors in Arizona, though those procedures were already rare, and barred trans girls from playing on girls sports teams in schools. (A federal appeals court decision this week stopped the latter law from going into effect.)

Lizette Trujillo, Daniel’s mom, has traveled from their home in Tucson to Phoenix each legislative session over the last six years, taking time off work to testify in opposition to such anti-LGBTQ+ bills. Daniel has joined her on those trips since 2020. “My husband and I are small business owners, and it’s given me the flexibility to devote my life in this really distinct way to fighting the trans legislation in our state. If I clocked the hours of free volunteer time, it’s significant,” Lizette Trujillo told HuffPost. And when they aren’t traveling to the state Capitol, the Trujillo family is focused on cultivating a safe, accepting community in their city. [...] Organizers across the country are sounding the alarm about the high stakes of the November presidential election and the looming threat of Project 2025, the conservative playbook for a second Trump presidency spearheaded by the Heritage Foundation. Project 2025 equates being transgender with pornography, calls for federal government to enforce sex discrimination protections based on the “binary biological meaning of ‘sex,’” and argues that educators and librarians who share materials about trans identity should have to register as sex offenders. In addition, Trump has vowed to roll back Title IX protections for transgender students and criminalize doctors who provide gender-affirming care if he’s reelected. The former president has spent the last few weeks repeating false claims that children are undergoing gender transition surgery at school and without parental consent. This week, he also refused to answer whether he’d veto a national abortion ban. By contrast, Democratic nominee Vice President Kamala Harris has campaigned on the promise of restoring access to abortion and the “woman’s right to make decisions about her own body.” Her running mate, Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz, has been a champion of trans rights in his home state.

A forthcoming Supreme Court case, L.W. v. Skrmetti, will decide the legality of Tennessee’s ban on gender-affirming care for youth. Justices will begin hearing oral arguments next month, and their decision, which is expected next summer, could have sweeping ramifications for the state of gender-affirming health care for trans youth nationwide. Activists argue that the outcome of the election and the court’s decision on gender-affirming care, like its decision overturning the right to an abortion, will affect all kinds of people who are made vulnerable in society. That’s why organizers are working so hard to bring those fights together, under the umbrella of the broader struggle for bodily autonomy — and to do so while also celebrating the beauty of self-determination. Daniel’s story is one of nine about trans and gender-nonconforming young people featured in the American Civil Liberties Union’s new “Freedom To Be” campaign, which launched this week and aims to spotlight two things that advocates say are largely missing from mainstream stories and coverage of transgender youth: joy and intersectional identities. And on Saturday, the Gender Liberation Movement — a new group to help bridge the gap between the trans rights and reproductive rights movements — will hold its first march and festival at Columbus Circle in Washington D.C., one block away from the Heritage Foundation’s headquarters. Daniel and Lizette Trujillo are slated to take the stage at the event, along with trans rights advocate Miss Major and actors Elliot Page and Julio Torres.

“At the heart of this effort is looking at the connections between all of the attacks, particularly from the right, on communities on the margins,” said Raquel Willis, a Black trans activist and writer who co-founded the Gender Liberation Movement with Eliel Cruz, an organizer and communications worker, and others. “We know that restrictions around access to abortion and reproductive justice have been a galvanizing fight for a lot of people on the left, and in queer and trans circles a lot of us have been fighting against restrictions around access to gender-affirming care.” Conservatives often use the same political playbook to target both abortion and trans rights, Willis said.

“The strongest connective tissue between our struggles is bodily autonomy,” she added. Restrictions on reproductive rights go hand in hand with the rollback of LGBTQ+ rights, harsher immigration policy and restrictions on what parts of U.S. history can be taught in schools — and what should be censored, Willis said. Everyone is harmed by anti-trans laws and rhetoric, she added, but especially cisgender women of color and gender-nonconforming women. For example, she pointed to Algerian boxer Imane Khelif, whose recent Olympic win in women’s boxing was heavily criticized by Trump, author J.K. Rowling and billionaire Elon Musk. They falsely claimed Khelif is trans and helped drum up a barrage of online abuse against her.

This past weekend featured a new protest movement called the Gender Liberation Movement that tackles abortion, gender-affirming care, and bodily autonomy.

[blackjackkent]

Headcanons for all the faves! Sorry, it's a long one, haha. Again, pulled at random.

Hector - hc + 📔 for a reading-themed headcanon

Karlach - hc + 😡 for a headcanon about something that makes them angry

Jaheira - hc + 📿 for a faith-themed headcanon

Rasaad - hc + 🔞 for a nsfw-headcanon

Khalid (!) - hc + 🌂 for a weather-themed headcanon

Rakha - hc + 🧡 for a friendship-themed headcanon

Wyll - hc + 🌞 for a day-themed headcanon

(Thematic Headcanons meme)

All the faaaaaaves. :D Yesgood. The exclamation point next to Khalid made me smile. XD

-----

Hector - hc + 📔 for a reading-themed headcanon

Hmmm. Hector is rather thrown when Karlach mentions that she hasn't read a book since secondary school. It's not that he judges her for it - he fully recognizes that not everyone is the nerd that he is, plus she's been in the Hells for ten years and would set fire to any book she touched anyway. This is still during Act 1, so they're not actually together yet, but he's already starting to have feelings for her, so he keys in on the whole situation more than he might otherwise.

He has a few conversations with her afterwards where he (attempting to be subtle but not really succeeding) asks her what sort of books she liked best to read when she was a kid, and susses out (unsurprisingly) that she liked adventure tales. After that he starts making a point of going through the books they pick up and picking out the most exciting-looking ones (the Tenebrux Morrow books, for instance, or Adventures on the Sea of Fallen Stars); a couple nights a week during their long rests he sits at the campfire and reads them out loud - ostensibly to the whole camp, but mostly to her.

The tradition continues after her engine gets its second repair and she could theoretically pick up the books on her own, because by that point she's fallen for him too and prefers hearing him read it out loud.

The rest of the team teases Hector about the whole thing, but he does notice that over time they also drift over to listen more and more often. Gale, Shadowheart, and Wyll love the stories right from the beginning, as does Minsc once he arrives. Astarion scoffs and pretends to stand aloof most of the time but Hector can tell he's deliberately still standing within earshot to listen. Lae'zel sits by the fire and listens with unblinking intensity that would be appropriate for a githyanki student at her studies, and Hector's never quite sure if she realizes the stories are fiction.

Jaheira and Halsin listen fondly from afar and think the whole thing is super cute.

-----

Karlach - hc + 😡 for a headcanon about something that makes them angry

Karlach has had beef with a particular merchant (let's call him Keaton) in Baldur's Gate going back to her childhood; the merchant was rude to her dad once. Probably more often than that, actually, but Karlach witnessed it only once while helping her dad with his work and she has never forgiven Keaton for it.

Once she started working with Gortash, she learned among other things that Keaton was a general dick and a cheat in addition to having been a dick to her dad. So she would cause trouble for him whenever the opportunity arose, making use of her pull in Gortash's organization - not anything permanently harmful because she's not that sort of person, but she definitely arranged for Keaton's shipments to get delayed or mysteriously lost on more than one occasion.

On her return to the city in Act 3, she fully recognizes that they have far more important things to do, but she does tell Hector about it in passing, and Hector "just happens" to end up with Keaton's shop being one of the ones whose basement Hector loots. XD

-----

Jaheira - hc + 📿 for a faith-themed headcanon

I think Jaheira has a complicated relationship with faith. She invokes Silvanus on a number of occasions, which makes sense given her history as a druid, but the Harpers are (I believe) more affiliated with Selune so she also has a connection there (and especially in my worldstate, because of her years spent with Rasaad also). And she has done so much traveling and adventuring that she has run up against many many different belief systems over the course of her life.

The end result, I think, is that she has a sort of unique personal religion, mixed and matched from traditions from various gods - primarily Silvanus and Selune, but also Oghma (from traveling with Caden and Imoen), the gnomish pantheon (from traveling with Aerie), and even some of the concepts of spirits of the land as espoused by Minsc.

I think she and Isobel end up having a lot of very interesting late night conversations on the subject, when neither of them can sleep and they're trying not to think about the dark wasteland around them. Jaheira discusses her complex experiences with various faiths, and Isobel tells her a lot about the experience of being actively raised in the Selunite faith as opposed to sort of picking it up by osmosis. And it ends up being their initial point of bonding after an initial period of mistrust right after Jaheira's arrival.

-----

Rasaad - hc + 🔞 for a nsfw-headcanon

Hee. XD Ahem. Hmm. Let's see.

I sort of touched on this a bit in the smut ficlet I wrote of him and Jaheira a few weeks back, but I think Rasaad is a pretty rough, primal lover when he really lets himself go. One of the things I find really interesting about Rasaad as a character is that he has a lot of capacity for darkness and violence and very deliberately chooses peace and discipline instead.

(He has at least one interaction with Dorn il-Khan where Dorn comments that he can see Rasaad's internal rage after the battle with Alorgoth and encourages him to use it rather than hiding it away, which Rasaad rejects. Rasaad also speaks in his romance, in the scene leading up to him and the PC having sex for the first time, of having "restrained [his] baser urges for fear of alienating [the PC]". Which could just mean that he didn't want the PC to feel pressured, but also strongly suggests to me that he has the capacity to get very... intense. XD )

In my ship with him and Jaheira, I suspect he tries to hold himself back at first and be very gentle/careful, because he thinks that's what she would want (and, probably, thinks it's how Khalid treated her, but that's another headcanon XD ). But Jaheira picks up on the fact that he's holding himself back and it turns out she doesn't mind having her back blown out. >.> 😳 (She has her own subtle ferocity, after all.)

-----

Khalid (!) - hc + 🌂 for a weather-themed headcanon

First real bit of writing I've done about Khalid in a while. <3 Let's see.

Jaheira mentions that the two of them were married "on an upturned cart in the rainy Dalelands". As of this moment, I choose to headcanon that it was more than rainy - it was an absolutely insane storm that washed out the roads in the whole area. They were actually on their way back to Baldur's Gate with the intention of being married in the city in a standard temple ceremony but the storm struck during their journey and stranded them en route.

Khalid insisted that they not wait for the route to reopen and instead conscripted a cleric from among the Harpers they were traveling with to perform the ceremony on the roadside instead. Overtly he insisted that this was simply because he couldn't wait a day longer to be her husband; the more subtle reason was that he'd realized during the journey that she wasn't really looking forward to being back in the city and that it would mean more to her to have the ceremony out in nature anyway.

-----

Rakha - hc + 🧡 for a friendship-themed headcanon

Rakha and Barcus's friendship was incredibly unexpected by everyone, but the two of them get along remarkably well. Barcus enjoys talking about his work and Rakha enjoys anyone who wants to tell her things about the world; in this case, much of what Barcus teaches her about involves explosions, which is particularly interesting.

During downtime at Last Light, the two of them set up a little ballistics field down by the river (hah) just inside the moonlight shield and Barcus sets off a number of different small grenades he's concocted and excitedly explains the difference between each. Rakha listens incredibly seriously; she doesn't show any active excitement but anyone who knows her would recognize that it is, for her, considerable enthusiasm.

Jaheira and the Harpers do NOT enjoy the regular explosions happening so nearby but no one quite has the heart to tell them to stop.

-----

Wyll - hc + 🌞 for a day-themed headcanon

This is such a broad category, rofl. Hm.

Wyll strikes me as an early riser. I think he often ends up joining Karlach on her early morning exercise jaunts or otherwise takes some time to himself before everyone else has woken up. It's an important part of his routine - and a carryover from his time as the child of a Flaming Fist officer; I don't think Ulder was much of a fan of his son sleeping in.

This is also a common time for Mizora to crawl into his head via the sending stone and demand updates, issue orders, or chastise him, so it is a bit of a mixed blessing of an experience. Ostensibly she does it at random, but he's noticed that she tends to specifically time it for moments when he's feeling particularly relaxed - watching a nice sunrise, for instance. He hates this about her but is grudgingly grateful that she at least does it mostly when he is alone.

In Rakha's worldstate where the two of them are together, Rakha tends to stay up late rather than get up early, because she wants to put off going to bed and dreaming for as long as possible. So Wyll spends some mornings just sitting up near her and watching her sleep, sometimes holding her hand.

[daylilifiedsundrewdrops]

Tape Recording #1.

[ CLICK ] Hm... Ah, I didn't know tape recorders were this big... What was that thing they used to say? Testing, testing. 1, 2, 76... ... Good enough! Soo... I should introduce myself, shouldn't I?

[They clear their throat.] So, uh, Hi there, Mr. Tape Recorder! I'm Maricel Mylene V. Rosarinde. Or just Maricel. That should work too. The 'V' stands for Vallenza, in-case you were wondering. I'm a student at Avidenia Willow Institute. Grade-6 specifically. I've always seen my classmates have these like... personal diaries. But! I thought it was way cooler to have an audio diary. Like a podcast or something! Though, I've never actually listened to one, hm.... Anyway, since Tape Recordings can't consent, Let me tell you aaaaa---lllllll about my day and about events at scho- Oh- Shi- [Silence for a couple minutes... Now, it sounds like someone stood up and is now hitting their head onto a pillow.] [Never-mind, they're back on the chair.] ...Haha, sorry, Mr. Tape Recorder. Had a headache for a moment there. Anyway, as I was saying, All about my day and about events at my school. So, to start off! I was late to school today. Again. For the third time this week. But no worries, the teachers could really uh... care less this time around. So, all I got was a slap to the arm and I was good to go. Speaking of being late! I also conveniently forgot one of my journals I used for creative writing while I was rushing for class which suuuccckssss... but it's fine. Whatever. Anyways, so school itself was mostly uneventful. Except for during recess when Nathaniel accidentally spilled juice on Angel's uniform! It was actually funny how Angel got so mad at him. She had to change into the P.E uniform because of it. Luckily, she packed an extra grooming kit in her classroom. She unfortunately could not save her uniform from getting stains, however. [They're laughing through their words.] Anyway, sorry, sorry. So, on another note, the Book Club has organized this year's new readathon for those who wanted to sign up! Guess their campaign's succeeded cause nearly everyone in the school joined. Including me, of course. It started today, and oh-ho, I think all the books in the school library has been hoarded completely. I went there and it was absolutely deserted. Mr. Lauriette was still hangin' by his desk like he always did though. I read only one book today, '' The Second World '' by Sarah Eviernes. Club Leader, Carmelita, announced that the 3 winners of the readathon will have 3 unique, mystery prizes given to them. Neat! I hope it's going to be good like a cat or something. Aside from that, I heard there's a local art contest about to be opened near the school. And I am SO signing up for it once the organizers start looking into our school for volunteers. The theme this time is something 'Magical' and I'm sure I'll ace it completely! I mean, there's like a 5% chance of me actually winning but, ya' know, it's worth a shot just for that small, small chance that I would win! Plus, the prize is a sweet 5,000 PHP, and I want that money. Plus, runner-ups get 700 and people who participated but didn't win still get 100. So, the money's worth it. Now, on another, more... negative note. Another 5 students were reported missing. 2 From our school and 3 from Wilvewood High. It's strange, though. Luis and Andrea were there. They were always cautious and... y'know, stuff like that. So, I don't think they could've gotten kidnapped unless.... Hmmm. Anyway, this is getting waayyyyyyyy too not-so-positive for me! [Sounds of someone wrongly imitating a cough-sound.] Cough, cough... anyways. Let's end the tape recorder off with after-school. I walked home because my parents didn't wanna come get me and it wasn't that far. So, my mom was home early. Guess what! She uh.. cooked dinner for us. Sinigang. But no rice. It tasted salty without the rice, I didn't like it. Though, afterwards, I managed to sneak in my phone up here in my bedroom and of course, this tape-recorder! Which I am currently using right now to record... you know! [Silence.] Gee, I'm- Ow- going to end this off here, I'm having another headache, see ya tomorrow, Mr. Tape Recorder! End recordi- Damnit this is- killing my head- [CLICK]

[tieflingkisser]

Forced Labor Continues in Colorado, Years After Vote to End Prison Slavery 

Coloradans voted in 2018 to amend their state constitution to ban forced labor in prison. Years later, incarcerated people are still being punished for refusing work assignments.

Throughout Abron Arrington’s decades-long incarceration in Colorado, he often found himself in solitary confinement—not because he was causing trouble, but simply because he refused to work. He didn’t see the point given he was paid 13 cents an hour and figured his time could be better spent learning physics. Before Arrington was incarcerated in 1989, he was studying to get his aircraft mechanic license. But within weeks of returning home from the U.S. Air Force, at 22 years old, he was arrested and ultimately sentenced to life in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. In 2019, he received clemency from Governor Jared Polis and was released after three decades behind bars. “I was actually 30 years a slave,” Arrington, who is Black, told a crowd of people gathered in one of Colorado’s oldest Black churches on Juneteenth, the federal holiday that commemorates the emancipation of enslaved African Americans. “So, this is deeply personal to me.”

[...]

In 2018, after years of community organizing, Colorado sparked a national movement when voters overwhelmingly passed Amendment A, a ballot measure that deleted half a sentence from the state constitution that allowed slavery and involuntary servitude “as a punishment for crime, whereof the party shall have been duly convicted.” Colorado was the first state to do so since the signing of the 13th Amendment. Since Colorado removed its language, Utah, Nebraska, Vermont, Oregon, Alabama, and Tennessee have followed suit with similar constitutional amendments. Organizers in around a dozen more states are now pushing to get similar ballot measures in front of voters during the 2024 elections. 

[...]

But in some ways, Colorado’s Amendment A only abolished prison slavery on paper. That’s because the Colorado Department of Corrections (CDOC) has continued to punish those who refuse to work. Since 2018, there have been at least 727 documented instances where an incarcerated person was disciplined for failing to work, according to a 9News investigation this past summer, with punishment ranging from changes in housing to loss of privileges and delayed parole.

[...]

Today, incarcerated workers produce more than $2 billion each year in goods and commodities, and over $9 billion in services for the maintenance of the very prisons that confine them—all while being paid pennies an hour or nothing at all, according to research conducted by the American Civil Liberties Union and the University of Chicago Law School’s Global Human Rights Clinic. Their labor enables mass incarceration by offsetting the cost of the country’s ballooning prison system, which has grown by 500 percent over the last 50 years.

[...]

In addition to off-setting costs for federal, state and local governments, approximately 4,100 companies in the U.S. have directly profited off of prison labor, a number that is likely an undercount—including large companies like Walmart, McDonald’s, Starbucks, IBM, Tyson Foods and Microsoft, according to a database created by the advocacy organization Worth Rises. “A lot of people are making a lot of money off the system,” said Arrington, who has worked for the reentry nonprofit, Second Chance Center, since his release. “It is no different than it was 200 years ago.”