#It Ain't Gonna Ride Itself

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

TF141 + cars

SOAP is a car guy in the sense that he drives a junker manufactured the same year he was born (the significance of which, he says, speaks for itself). 

refers to the car as she and loves bringing up how sexy she is when she chugs to life. you think it's a weird flex until you realize he's not talking to you; he's talking to the car. 

often tells her he's gonna get her all fixed up as soon as he has the money.

GAZ is a car guy in the sense that he drives a sleek, sporty, low-ass car. a convertible. keeps it pristine enough that he can keep whitewall tires on his baby and they stay clean.

cream interior. all the bells and whistles because if he's gonna cruise around london when he's off-duty, he's damn sure gonna do it comfortably. 

pays to keep it protected in covered parking while he's gone on leave.

side-eyes Soap's mismatched aftermarket parts; can't help but respect his dedication.

PRICE is a car guy in the sense that he's had his since Gaz was in diapers. the thing can't possibly have any resale value anymore but it's the first and only new car he's ever bought.

uninterested in getting her fixed up because she's no ship of theseus. no sir. he fixes only what need fixing when it needs fixing. the rest is original parts. no need to fix what ain't broken and all that.

she's almost come back into vogue as a classic car. wasn't his intent, but he's glad to see so-called collectors putting respect on her name again.

GHOST is a car guy in the sense that he's a motorcycle guy.

scoffs at Soap and Gaz preening over their rides. they don't know what it is to love their rides until they've squeezed their legs around it while it purrs.

[pin-k-ink]

imagine grinding on hoshina’s thighs or abs. Like bros muscular and he’ll be so mean and would tease u about it

fragment // hoshina soshiro

tw ⇢ bratty!reader, mentions of a quickie, mentions of shower sex, biting, teasing, orgasm denial, hoshina is mean, panties as a gag, thigh riding, squirting, dirty talking, name calling/degradation, power imbalance, spanking, manhandling

wc ⇢ 3.9k

a/n: holy shit this was just pure filth 💀

The soft glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows across Hoshina's office, illuminating the seemingly endless stack of papers before him. He sighed, running a hand through his violet hair, disheveling it further. A glance at the clock confirmed what his aching back had been telling him - he'd been at this for hours. The night had long since fallen, and the muffled sounds of the Third Division's nocturnal activities filtered through his closed door, a stark reminder of the world beyond his paperwork-laden desk.

"Shoulda known Ashiro would pull somethin' like this," Soshiro muttered, his kansai dialect thickening with fatigue. Captain Ashiro's abrupt departure for an emergency meeting had left him drowning in administrative tasks, each form and report more mind-numbing than the last. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had settled there like a lead weight. His fingers, stained with ink and cramping from hours of writing, reached for yet another document from the towering pile.

As he began to read through the report, Soshiro's mind wandered unbidden to more pleasant thoughts. Specifically, to you - his girlfriend, his unexpected ray of sunshine in the often grim world of the Defense Force. A small smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the last time he properly made love to you, nearly a week ago now. Work had been relentless since then, leaving little time for anything beyond stolen kisses and brief embraces. This morning's quickie in the shower, while invigorating, had done little to sate the growing hunger he felt for your touch.

The soft click of the door opening pulled Soshiro from his musings. Your familiar scent - a mix of vanilla and something uniquely you - wafted through the air, causing his heart to skip a beat. He looked up, his tired eyes drinking in the sight of you standing in the doorway. The hallway light silhouetted your figure, highlighting the curves that your uniform usually concealed. Soshiro felt his mouth go dry, his body responding to your presence even as his mind struggled to focus on the task at hand.

"Soshiro," you called softly, your voice a melodic contrast to the silence of the office. "Are you still working?" There was a hint of something in your tone - disappointment, perhaps, or frustration - that made Soshiro's chest tighten with guilt.

He watched as you stepped into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft click that seemed to seal you both away from the rest of the world. Your movements were deliberate, almost predatory, as you approached his desk. Soshiro couldn't help but be reminded of a lioness stalking her prey, and he wasn't entirely sure he minded being caught.

"'Fraid so, darlin'," he replied, his voice low and tinged with regret. "Got a mountain of paperwork that ain't gonna finish itself." Even as the words left his mouth, Soshiro felt a pang of longing. He wanted nothing more than to abandon his work and lose himself in you, but duty weighed heavily on his shoulders.

You reached his desk, your fingers trailing along the polished wood grain. Soshiro's eyes followed the movement, mesmerized by the play of light on your skin. When you spoke again, your voice had taken on a sultry quality that sent shivers down his spine.

"But Soshiro," you purred, leaning over his desk in a way that gave him a tantalizing view, "don't you think you deserve a little break? After all, you've been working so hard."

Soshiro swallowed hard, his eyes inadvertently drawn to the way your shirt strained across your chest as you leaned forward. The memory of your shared shower that morning flashed vividly in his mind - the taste of your lips, the feel of your body pressed against his, the sweet noises you made when he slipped his fingers inside you. The tightness in his pants increased, and he shifted uncomfortably. He knew it hadn't been enough, not for either of you, but especially not for your seemingly insatiable appetite.

"Ya know I can't, sweetheart," he managed, his voice rougher than he intended. "This needs to be done by mornin'." Even as he spoke, Soshiro's body betrayed him, his cock straining against the confines of his pants.

You huffed, a pout forming on your lips that Soshiro found both adorable and dangerously tempting. "But 'Shiro," you whined, using the pet name you knew he couldn't resist, "I've barely seen you all week. This morning was nice, but..." You trailed off, your eyes dark with unspoken desire.

Soshiro's pen creaked in his grip as he fought to maintain his composure. "I know, darlin'," he said, his tone a mixture of apology and firmness. "But ya know how important this is. I can't just leave it unfinished."

For a moment, you seemed to relent, straightening up with a sigh. "Fine," you said, a hint of mischief in your tone that Soshiro knew all too well. "I guess I'll just have to find some other way to pass the time."

Soshiro watched warily as you sauntered around his desk, your hips swaying in a way that drew his gaze like a magnet. He forced his attention back to the papers before him, trying desperately to focus on the words that now seemed to blur together. The heat of your body radiated against his back as you moved behind him, ostensibly to look at the work over his shoulder.

"My, my," you murmured, your breath hot against his ear. "This does look important. No wonder you can't tear yourself away."

Soshiro's entire body tensed, anticipation thrumming through him. He knew you were up to something, could feel it in the way you leaned closer, your breasts pressing against his back. Just as he opened his mouth to warn you off, he felt the soft brush of your lips against the sensitive skin of his neck.

A shiver ran down his spine, his body responding traitorously to your touch despite his best efforts to remain focused. Your lips traced a burning path along the column of his throat, each kiss sending sparks of electricity through his nerves.

"[Y/N]," he growled, his voice low and strained. "Ya're playin' with fire here." It was a warning, but even to his own ears, it sounded more like a plea.

Your only response was to nip gently at his earlobe, your hands sliding down his chest in a caress that left him breathless. Soshiro's grip on his pen tightened to the point of pain, the only thing anchoring him to his resolve as it rapidly crumbled under your ministrations.

Soshiro remained still, his jaw clenched as he tried to focus on the paperwork before him. Your whispers in his ear and your hands on his chest were severely testing his resolve. He gripped his pen tightly, forcing himself to read the same line over and over, though the words refused to register in his mind.

Suddenly, your hand began to drift lower, and your voice took on a more provocative tone. "You know, if you're too busy, maybe I'll just have to take care of myself..."

In an instant, Soshiro's composure shattered. His hand shot out, grasping your wrist firmly as he tugged you forward harshly to face him. His eyes, usually half-lidded or closed, were now wide and blazing with a mixture of anger and something darker.

"What did ya just say?" he growled, his accent thickening with emotion.

You froze, realizing you'd crossed a line. The playful glint in your eyes dimmed as you met Soshiro's intense gaze. You knew that playing with yourself was strictly off-limits without his permission - a rule he'd made clear early in your relationship.

"I... I didn't mean..." you stammered, but Soshiro cut you off with a sharp look.

"Ya know better than that, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I've told ya before, ya don't touch yerself without my say-so."

The tension in the room was palpable as you stood there, caught in Soshiro's grip and pinned by his gaze. You'd pushed too far, and now you were facing the consequences of your actions.

Soshiro's grip on your wrist tightened, his eyes blazing with barely contained anger. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous, laced with a fury you'd rarely heard from him.

"Ya think ya're bein' cute, don't ya?" he growled, his voice dropping an octave lower. "Pushin' my buttons like that. Well, let me make this real clear for ya, darlin'. Ya've got two choices, and ya better choose wisely."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Ya can either get yer ass to our room right now and wait for me there, or ya can plant yerself in my lap and not make a sound until I'm done. Either way, ya're in for it when I'm finished."

Soshiro's eyes bore into yours, challenging you to defy him further. "So what's it gonna be? Choose now, before I make the choice for ya."

The intensity of his gaze and the huskiness of his voice sent a thrill of arousal through you. You knew you'd pushed too far, and his anger had only served to fuel your desire.

Your voice was barely a whisper when you spoke. "Please, Soshiro, I'll be good, I promise. I'm sorry I-"

"I said, choose. Now."

The command in his voice brooked no argument.

You hesitated for a split second, before giving in. "Lap," you whispered.

Soshiro's mouth twitched slightly at your decision, but he gave no other sign of approval. Without a word, he tugged you closer, forcing you to straddle his lap. The pressure of his hardened cock against your core had you gasping, and he hadn't even begun to touch you yet.

"I want ya to remember this," Soshiro murmured, his voice low and husky. "I want ya to remember how badly ya pushed me. How easily I could've put ya over my knee and spanked ya right here, in my office, for everyone to hear."

His words sent a thrill through you, a combination of fear and arousal that had your heart racing and your pussy clenching. Soshiro knew just how to get to you, and he used that knowledge to his full advantage.

"I could have fucked ya senseless, right on my desk, and made ya beg for more. And ya would've taken it, wouldn't ya, darlin'? Ya would've taken every inch of me and begged for more, all because ya can't control yerself."

His voice was a low growl, full of pent-up frustration and desire. You squirmed in his lap, trying to find relief for the throbbing need between your legs.

"Now, hold still, or I'll tie ya down and leave ya here to suffer," Soshiro warned.

You whimpered at the thought, but obeyed, settling into his lap as best you could. You were already achingly wet, and the pressure of his cock against your pussy was a sweet torture.

Soshiro's hands roamed your body, touching and teasing every inch of bare skin he could reach. His fingers skimmed over your thighs, dipping dangerously close to the apex of your thighs before pulling away, denying you the relief you so desperately craved.

"Now, be a good girl and keep quiet, or I'll gag ya with yer panties," Soshiro threatened, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll use ya like a toy, and yer only purpose will be to satisfy my needs."

The threat only served to arouse you further, and you bit back a moan. The feel of his cock, hard and straining against his pants, was a constant reminder of what he could do to you. You were tempted to disobey, just to see what he would do, but the look in his eyes told you he wasn't joking.

You settled for burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent and savoring the feeling of his skin against yours. Hoshina wasted no time in returning back to the paperwork, his calloused hand gripping the pen once more.

"That's a good girl," Soshiro rasped, his free hand grabbing the back of your neck to pull you closer. "Now, I'm going to finish this work, and you're going to sit here and take it. If ya're a good girl and keep quiet, I'll fuck ya until ya can't walk when I'm done."

His words sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine, and you clung to him, determined to obey. As Soshiro continued working, you buried your face in his neck, your body trembling with the effort to remain silent. You could feel his cock pressing against your pelvis, the delicious friction of his pants rubbing against your clit.

Soshiro's breathing was slow and steady, his concentration completely focused on the paperwork before him. You could feel his muscles flexing beneath his shirt, the heat of his body enveloping you. The combination of his scent and the subtle movements of his body was intoxicating, and you could feel yourself slowly losing control.

It was maddening, sitting there, feeling his cock throb and his body respond, but not being able to do anything about it. It was pure torture, and Soshiro was enjoying every second of it. You knew he was doing this on purpose, and the knowledge only made the ache between your legs intensify.

Hoshina's movements were deliberately slow, his free hand occasionally coming up to stroke your hair or run down your back. He was savoring your submission, drawing out the tension and your agony for as long as he could.

You weren't sure how much more you could take. You were already dripping, the evidence of your arousal soaking through your panties and dampening Soshiro's thigh. Your core ached with need, and you were desperate for some kind of release.

Suddenly, Hoshina shifted beneath you, adjusting his position and pressing his thigh more firmly against your aching clit. A strangled moan escaped your lips, muffled against his neck, but Soshiro showed no reaction. His grip on your neck tightened, a silent warning, and you bit back another groan as his thigh flexed, sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you.

Soshiro was a master at teasing and prolonging your torture, and he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He'd reduced you to a writhing, desperate mess with nothing but his voice and his body, and you were powerless to resist him.

As you sat there, straddling his lap, you could feel his cock growing harder, straining against the confines of his pants. Knowing that he was just as aroused as you were only intensified your desire, and you found yourself rocking against his thigh, seeking relief.

Soshiro's fingers dug into your hip, holding you still. His grip was firm, bordering on painful, but it only added to the delicious mix of sensations.

"Ya're a desperate little thing, aren't ya?" he rasped, his voice husky with desire. "Ridin' my leg like that, soakin' my pants with yer need. I bet ya'd come right here if I let ya, wouldn't ya, darlin'?"

His words were a taunt, a challenge, and you wanted nothing more than to accept it. Your clit throbbed with each flex of his thigh, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level. You were so close, hovering on the edge, but Soshiro's grip on your hip kept you from toppling over.

The tension was almost unbearable, and you clung to him, your hands fisting in his shirt. His breath was warm against your ear, his voice low and taunting. "I can feel how badly ya want to come, how close ya are. Go on, then, darlin'. Use my thigh. At least it’ll get ya nice and creamy for me by the time I'm done."

You hesitated, unsure if you were allowed. Soshiro's hand slid to the small of your back, guiding you against his thigh. You whimpered as you rocked against him, the friction of his pants against your aching clit sending shivers of pleasure through you.

"That's it," he growled, his voice heavy with lust. "Ya're so desperate, ya'd do anythin' to come, wouldn't ya? Just rub yerself off on my leg, darlin'. It's the closest ya're gonna get."

His words were a mixture of command and encouragement, and you obeyed, grinding against him. The pleasure was overwhelming, and you could feel your orgasm approaching. You were so close, just a little more, and then...

"That's enough."

Soshiro's sharp command cut through the haze of pleasure, and you froze, panting. His grip on your hip was bruising, but the ache was nothing compared to the throbbing need between your legs.

You groaned, burying your face in his neck and trying to regain your composure. Your hips continued to rock involuntarily, seeking the release that had been denied. Soshiro's voice was a low growl in your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

"I said, that's enough."

His words were emphasized by a harsh slap to your rear, the sudden sting making you gasp. You bit back a moan, reluctantly stilling your hips. You could feel the evidence of your arousal soaking through your panties and staining Soshiro's pants.

"Good girl," he rumbled, his hand sliding up your spine to rest at the nape of your neck. "Now, keep quiet, or I'll give ya somethin' to be loud about."

With that, he turned his attention back to the paperwork before him. The tension between you was palpable, and you were desperate for relief. Soshiro's grip on your neck was a reminder of his control over you, and you could feel his cock, still hard and straining against his pants, leaking precum onto your thigh.

The knowledge that he was just as aroused as you, and yet completely in control, sent a new wave of desire through you. Your fingers clenched in his shirt, the only thing keeping you anchored in the storm of sensation.

"Ya should’ve known better, darlin'," Soshiro murmured, his tone laced with barely contained desire. "I taught ya better than to test me."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you buried your face in his neck, clinging to him. You knew you'd pushed too far, too hard, and the consequences were just beginning.

"Ya think a little brat like you can handle me, darlin'? Think again," Hoshina hissed, his grip on the back of your neck tightening. You whimpered, squirming in his lap, the pressure of his cock against your aching core making it impossible to think straight. "Yer only job now is to keep quiet, and be a good little fucktoy for me."

His words were punctuated by a sharp bite to your neck, his fangs breaking the skin and sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure through your body. You moaned, unable to stop yourself, the ache between your legs growing to an unbearable level.

Soshiro's tongue traced the mark he'd left, soothing the wound and sending a shiver down your spine. His hand trailed down your back, slipping beneath the waistband of your skirt and cupping your ass. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, a wordless reminder of his control.

"Ya better remember this the next time ya try and get cheeky with me, darlin'," he growled, his accent thickening with lust. "Ya might have me wrapped around yer finger, but I can always remind ya who's really in charge here."

The promise in his voice was unmistakable, and you couldn't help but tremble with anticipation. You knew he wasn't bluffing, and the thought of his punishments was both thrilling and terrifying.

"Now, go sit on that couch and keep that hole of yers ready," Soshiro ordered, his hand sliding out from under your skirt and giving your ass a harsh slap. "Ya won't be needin' those panties anymore, so ya can give 'em to me."

You shivered, reluctantly climbing off his lap and obeying his orders. You knew he wouldn't hesitate to follow through on his threats, and you were eager to see what he had planned. Your hands shook as you tugged down your panties, handing them over without a word.

"Good girl," Soshiro praised, tucking your panties in his pocket. He looked up at you, his gaze heated and full of promises. "Now, spread yer legs and wait."

You swallowed, nodding and moving to obey. As you sat down on the couch, your skirt rode up, exposing the slickness between your legs. Soshiro's eyes roamed over your body, drinking in the sight, before he returned his attention to the paperwork before him.

You sat there, legs spread, waiting for him to finish. Your clit throbbed, and your pussy ached for something, anything, to fill it. The minutes seemed to stretch into eternity, and your arousal only grew as Soshiro worked, your juices soaking the leather of the couch.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he finished the last form and set his pen aside.

"Well, darlin', it looks like I'm all done here," he drawled, standing and stretching. He moved around the desk, his footsteps slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking his prey. You watched him approach, your heart racing in anticipation.

"I think it's about time I take care of ya, don't ya think?" Soshiro murmured, reaching out to run his fingers through your hair. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and you shuddered. "But first, let's make sure ya're ready for me."

Before you could respond, his hand shot out, grabbing your chin and forcing your mouth open. Without warning, his other hand slipped inside his pocket, pulling out the lacy panties you'd given him. Before you could protest, he shoved them inside your mouth, muffling any sound you could make.

"Ya know the rules, darlin'," he chuckled darkly. "If I wanna use ya like a fucktoy, I'm gonna do it however I like."

His fingers tightened around your chin, holding you in place as his free hand dipped between your thighs, tracing along the wetness that had coated your lips. You squirmed, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through you, but Soshiro's grip was firm, his fangs glinting in the dim light as he smiled.

"Ah, look at ya, darlin'," he said softly, his thumb circling your clit and making you moan. "All wet and ready for me, like a good little fucktoy."

His fingers dipped lower, slipping inside your entrance and stretching you. You gasped, the taste of your own juices mingling with the fabric in your mouth. Soshiro's fingers were rough and calloused, his pace unrelenting, and the feel of his knuckles rubbing against your walls was maddening.

"I'm gonna make sure ya're nice and ready for me," he growled, his thumb pressing down on your clit and sending a jolt of pleasure through you. "Ya'd better come quickly, darlin', or I'll leave ya like this, aching and needy, and make ya watch while I jerk off."

His words were a potent combination of threat and promise, and you could feel your orgasm approaching with alarming speed. Your body was already oversensitive from his earlier teasing, and the roughness of his fingers only added to the sensation.

You writhed beneath his touch, your moans muffled by the makeshift gag in your mouth. Soshiro's thumb flicked your clit, his fingers curling inside you, and the pleasure was overwhelming. Your walls clenched around his fingers, and your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt gushing and drenching his hand.

"That's a good girl," Soshiro purred, withdrawing his fingers and wiping them on your skirt. "Now, we can really begin."

With that, he yanked the fabric from your mouth, tossing it aside. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was pulling you up, bending you over his desk and tugging your skirt down to expose your ass.

"Time to make use of this naughty little hole," Soshiro hissed, slapping your ass and making you moan. "And remind ya who's really in charge here."

[halfrican-heat]

Backseat Driver (Ony)

Ony likes when you beg for a ride in his car.

A/N: Yes, I'm high. Hello. I am about to start posting these Onyankopon ideas I have in my head. This is the first one. Enjoy!

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content; Vaginal Fingering, AFAB! Reader (breasts mentioned), Oral Sex (F receiving), Cursing, AAVE/Dialogue with Dialect, Public Sex, Overstimulation, Choking, Minor Oral Fixation, Minor dacryphilia (crying kink), Explicit depiction of Sex (p in v); Not beta'd, barely proofread (will update as needed later)

Pairing: Onyankopon x Black!Reader

WC: 3k

“Ony, please!”

Your voice comes out breathless and high-pitched as another orgasm courses through you. Ony lifts his head from your drenched cunt, a Cheshire grin on his face. He slides two fingers inside your wetness with ease and chuckles at the way your walls clamp around his digits. 

His car is pulled off into a hidden spot on the side of the road— not easily seen from the highway. He has your bodycon dress bunched up to your waist, the top pulled down to expose your breasts as he finger-fucks you.

Ony takes in your tear-streaked face, the sight going straight to his dick.  

“What’s that, mama?” He teases. “I can’t understand you.”

You whimper as his fingers work in and out of you at an agonizingly slow pace.

“You was talkin’ all that shit earlier. Distracting daddy from his business, right? Say somethin’ now.”

Your hand shoots to grip his bicep as the other goes for the car door behind you, nails scratching at it helplessly. 

“Daddy, please,” You whine, tears leaking from your eyes. “Let me ride. Need to feel you this time.”

He smirks, shaking his head. 

“I ain’t tryna hear that. Them pretty tears ain't gonna faze me, baby. Say you sorry to daddy for distracting him.”

His fingers shift position, finding that spot deep inside that makes you see stars. A guttural moan rips itself from your throat, sounding like music to Ony’s ears. His fingers work faster, rushing you toward another finish. 

“Wait, daddy! Wait- I’m sorry, daddy,” you cry, running from his punishing fingers

He yanks you back down using his free hand while his thumb starts to circle your overstimulated clit. 

“For what?” Ony demands, his voice low and sexy. 

“F-for distracting you on your business.”

His fingers stop moving entirely and you can’t decide what’s worse— the overstimulation or nothing happening at all. You clench around his fingers helplessly. 

Ony moves his free hand to your neck, forcing your head up so your dazed eyes meet his. 

“And?”

You take a shaky breath, licking your lips. Ony looks delectable, barely breaking a sweat as he tortures you within an inch of your life. His chain glints in the sunlight and the urge to pull into your mouth rolls through you. He tilts his head, looking at you expectantly. You swallow thickly. 

“For sayin’ I could find someone else to fuck me.”

His hand around your throat tightens slightly. His gaze is darker, more dangerous than before. 

“Why?”

You bite your lip, a soft moan escaping you. 

“‘Cause this pussy is yours, daddy.”

“You damn right,” He rasps, releasing your throat. 

You fall backwards slightly and watch with hooded eyes as his hands go to undo his belt. He frees himself from the confines of his jeans, pulling you over him like it’s nothing. His grip on your hips is tight as he holds you over his length, teasing your folds with his fat tip. 

The sound is lewd and wet as Ony gets himself ready for your creamy cunt. Then, without warning, he pulls you down on his length and grins widely at your scream as he impales you. 

Your head swims as you adjust to him, squeezing tightly around his cock. His jaw clenches as he watches your head loll back, overcome with pleasure. Ony grabs your jaw, pulling your head forward. 

Your gaze is unfocused as he slides his fingers in your mouth, rubbing them against your tongue. You taste your previous orgasms on his fingers. Your lips close around his digits, sucking without being told to. 

“That’s my baby,” Ony groans, barely containing himself. 

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, snaking his hand behind your head. He pulls you in for a nasty kiss, his tongue sliding in your mouth easily. He bites your bottom lip as you separate, his eyes lust blown. His free hand finds your ass cheek, smacking hard before squeezing.

“C’mon,” Ony says. “Ride your dick, mama.”

[kaynothanks]

ROMEO DIED

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader

Summary:  You wouldn’t call Billy Hargrove a friend—but misery sure does love company

Warnings: NO, Billy doesn't die, it's just a title! (18+ mdni), swearing (like a lot), smut, thigh riding, billy being a lil bat shit (personality trait?) crying, angst, smoking, sad shit, domestic violence!, it's dark I ain't gonna lie

Word-Count: 25.9k (I don't know how this keeps happening)

To the vast majority, the very essence of childhood was encapsulated in a singular, formative memory—a bright, indelible mark upon the canvas of their existence. These recollections, oft recounted with a gleam in the eye and warmth in the voice, were predominantly woven from the fabric of joyous days. Days spent in the cherished embrace of dearly loved ones, under the golden sun of endless summers or amidst the cozy dimness of a family room lit only by the flickering images of a movie night. Tales of vacations painted in the vivid hues of adventure, of afternoons spent marveling at the wonders housed within the silent watchfulness of zoo enclosures—these were the stories shared, the common thread binding the tapestry of shared human experience.

Yet, amidst this chorus of reminiscences, not once did a voice falter, not once did the flow of memories stutter into silence—as if each story, each recollection, was a pearl, smoothly rolling off the tongue without a moment's hesitation.

You, however, found yourself adrift in this sea of shared nostalgia. When the spotlight of expectation turned to you, when it was your turn to pluck a gem from the treasury of your past, you found the vault seemingly empty. A heavy silence would envelop you, a thick, tangible thing, punctuated only by the expectant gazes of those around you. In those moments, a flurry of panic would dance behind your eyes, a frantic search through the archives of your memory for something—anything—that could pass as a semblance of the joyous tales so freely offered by others.

And so, you took refuge behind the facade of little white lies, crafting tales of your own. Tales that were never lived but painted with enough detail to pass as truth. You knew, instinctively, that these fabrications were necessary—not for your sake, but for theirs. To preserve the sanctity of their bubble-wrapped worlds, where the possibility of a childhood untainted by the same joys was unthinkable, a harsh discord in the symphony of their understanding.

Thus, you crafted a mask from the clay of necessity, molding an awkward smile upon your lips as you spun a tale from the threads of imagination—a story designed to dance gracefully upon the ears of your audience, a melody in the key of fiction they were all too eager to hear. Beneath this veneer of compliance, however, you waged a silent battle, pressing down the memory that surged forth with the clarity and insistence of an unwanted ghost. It was as if you were condemned to an eternal viewing of a particularly distasteful episode of a show, one that had been replayed in the theater of your mind more times than you cared to count.

In those moments, as the lie unfolded from your tongue like the petals of some strange flower, you were mercifully detached from the raw emotions that had once torn through the small, trembling body of your four-year-old self. You were no longer the child cocooned in the dubious sanctuary of a cabinet, its door cracked just enough to admit a sliver of the world outside—a gap so minimal it might have escaped notice altogether, were it not for the significance of the vantage point it offered.

From this slender aperture, you bore witness to a scene that would forever imprint itself upon the canvas of your memory: the harsh, unforgiving grip of your father's hand as it ensnared your mother's head, the violent arc as he brought it crashing down onto the unforgiving surface of the kitchen table. His voice, a thunderous roar that filled the room and set your very soul to trembling, was a soundtrack to the horror unfolding before your eyes, a cacophony that seemed to fuel your incessant shaking.

The final image that burned itself into your retinas, a haunting tableau, was of your mother's slow, agonizing crawl towards you. A rivulet of red, a stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, traced a path down her forehead, a silent testament to the brutality she had endured. And then, with an act of maternal instinct so profound it bordered on the prescient, she reached out to close the cabinet door, shrouding you in darkness. Somehow, she had known—known that even in this desperate moment, her first instinct was to protect you, to shield you from the ugliness of a reality no child should ever have to witness.

In the immediate aftermath, darkness enveloped you, a shroud of impenetrable black that seemed to swallow every shard of light, leaving you suspended in a void where time itself hesitated. It was a silence so profound, a darkness so complete, that for a fleeting series of seconds, you found space to draw breath—a brief respite in the eye of an ongoing storm.

Then, piercing the stillness, came a watery plea—a voice so drenched in despair it seemed to bleed through the air. This was swiftly followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a step, a harbinger of chaos yet to unfold. What ensued was a cacophony of crashes and screeches, each imbued with such terror that they seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of your bones. Abruptly, it ceased. The ominous drum of your father's steps receded, and the lament of your mother's cries fell silent.

Within the confines of that cabinet, your sanctuary of shadows, you remained hidden. There, amidst the dust and the dark, you had fostered a belief, a child's naive conviction, that no malevolence could ever breach your fortress of solitude.

Time, however, cared little for such beliefs. You had outgrown the cabinet, outgrown the illusion of invulnerability it had once provided. The specters of those bad things, those harbingers of hurt and harrow, had since learned to find you, to ensnare your mind with their inevitable grasp, to sink their cruel claws deep into your psyche, marking you with scars unseen but deeply felt.

This realization pressed upon you with a weight all its own as you stared into the fractured visage reflected in the broken wardrobe mirror. The spiderweb of cracks across the glass seemed to mock, to distort not just your reflection but the very essence of who you had become. With a heavy heart, you diverted your gaze, a tacit acknowledgment that the sight of your own battered being was a reality you were not ready to confront—not now, perhaps not ever. There was no need to etch this image any deeper into your memory, no need to prolong the inevitable reckoning with your reflection, with the visible manifestations of those all-too-invisible wounds.

In that moment of avoidance, of turning away from the broken mirror, you were confronted with a truth as shattering as the glass before you: the realization that some scars run too deep, their roots entwined with the very fibers of your being, a constant reminder of battles fought and yet to be faced.

With a precision born of necessity, you moved—a delicate ballet of careful contortions designed to avoid the sharp bite of pain that lurked, waiting to pounce with each ill-considered twitch. Bending with the grace of a willow swaying in a gentle breeze, you reached beneath the shadowed underbelly of your bed, fingers searching for the familiar, lightweight case of your first aid kit. The ease with which it came into your hands was a small comfort, quickly extinguished by the sinking realization that greeted you upon its opening.

Inside, the remnants of preparedness mocked you: an empty bottle of saline solution stared back, its purpose exhausted, alongside a few band-aids, torn and useless, victims of your past impatience. The other contents, like the tweezers, lay in wait for a need that did not currently exist. You allowed yourself a moment—a brief, piercing inventory of this inadequate arsenal—before pushing the disappointment aside and hoisting yourself back to a stand.

Clad in the remnants of a past encounter, a hooded jacket left behind by a fleeting connection, you approached the window. It was a silent affair, the window yielding to your touch with the stealth of a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within.

The act of escape was nothing short of a physical ordeal. Your limbs, heavy with ache, maneuvered through the small aperture of the trailer window—a testament to both desperation and determination. Once outside, crouched low to avoid unwanted attention, the cool embrace of the night air greeted you. It was a balm, this newfound freedom, a stark contrast to the stifling confines of your room, littered with the debris of broken dreams and shattered expectations. The open air offered a cleanse, a baptism of sorts, from the relentless cycle of cleanup and repair that had become your existence.

Gone were the days of painstakingly removing glass from picture frames before their inevitable destruction; a ritual born from the foresight of their transient nature. The weariness for such tasks clung to you, a cloak woven from threads of frustration and resignation. Yet, here, under the cover of night, with the world stretched wide and open before you, the weight of that cloak seemed, if only for a moment, a little lighter.

As you strode past the silent form of your car, a sigh of irritation escaped your lips, its sound a soft testament to the internal debate you'd just settled. The decision not to awaken the engine into roaring life was not only a tactic to maintain stealth but a silent concession to the fact that walking might just offer the solace and clarity your tangled thoughts so desperately needed. Moreover, it presented an opportunity to prolong your absence from the confines of what was supposed to be home—a place you were increasingly reluctant to return to, especially tonight. He had played his part, an unwelcome performance that assured you of a temporary reprieve from his intrusions, securing you a night free from disturbances, free from his discovery of the emptiness that now characterized your bedroom.

With a sense of resolve, you drew the black hood over your head, plunging your hands into the depths of your pockets as if to anchor yourself to this decision. You embarked on your nocturnal odyssey, leaving the trailer park's dimly lit confines behind. Your path unfolded on the deserted street, feet finding rhythm and balance on the white lines that dissected the asphalt—a tightrope walker in the quiet of the night. A melody, the residue of days spent with the same song on repeat in your car, hummed softly from your lips, a solitary soundtrack to your solitary march.

The gas station, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness, promised to be your oasis—a mere thirty-minute pilgrimage from the trailer park. It was a sanctuary that never closed its doors, a constant in the fluctuating chaos of your life. Behind the counter, the night shift was personified by a young man, his attention more on the beef-flavored Space Raiders he chewed with open abandon than on any potential customer.

With your head bowed, a gesture born of habit more than necessity, you navigated the familiar aisles towards the back. This little corner of the gas station, with its modest array of medical supplies, had become an unlikely ally in times of need. The sound of the entrance bell, a faint chime announcing the arrival or departure of a soul, barely registered as you focused on gathering the items that would serve as tonight's band-aids for both physical and metaphorical wounds.

Items gathered in the crook of your arm, you made your way to the counter, a silent procession of one. The goods—a testament to the night's necessities—were unceremoniously deposited onto the surface, a prelude to the exchange of currency for what passed as care in the small hours of a world that never quite slept.

As the cashier busied himself with the register, a mechanical dance of fingers on keys, you cleared your throat to pierce the silence that had settled between you. "Can I get a pack of Marlboros, too?" The words hung in the air, simple yet laden with an unspoken tension.

He paused, his movements halting as his gaze lifted to scrutinize you. There was a moment, brief yet charged, where his frown deepened, a silent commentary on the obscured view of your face. Nevertheless, his hand moved with practiced ease, reaching behind without hesitation and grasping the familiar green box.

Your response was almost instinctive, an eye roll born of the assumptions wrapped around that particular choice. "Red." The word was clipped, tinged with a mix of amusement and annoyance at the stereotype you were unwillingly cast into. As you handed over the money, pulled from the snug refuge of your jeans' back pocket, his suspicion seemed to spike, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

Money exchanged and items clumsily gathered, you were ready to retreat into the night from whence you came. Yet, a thought anchored you in place, a sudden reminder of a need unaddressed. "Could I have the key for the bathroom?" The question, simple in its asking, seemed to hang precariously in the space between you.

"It’s out," came his reply, short, almost reflexive, a barrier thrown up with the ease of someone who had uttered those words too many times.

Yet, you stood your ground, nodding towards the key that dangled tauntingly over his shoulder, within reach yet seemingly miles away. "It’s right behind you." Your words, firm, carried a weight of certainty, a challenge laid bare.

His response was a study in stillness, a monument to inertia, as if the very act of acknowledging the key's existence was beneath him.

"I need it." The finality in your voice, a blend of resolve and a barely contained plea, echoed in the cramped space of the gas station, a testament to the myriad small battles fought in the dead of night, under the fluorescent glow of a whole other world.

"Toilet's broken," he declared, an excuse worn thin by time and repetition.

Indeed, that very toilet had clung to its broken state for a spell nearing two years—a testament to neglect. "I don’t need to use the toilet. I just need to use the room—” you attempted to clarify, seeking a foothold in a rapidly closing door of opportunity.

"Boss said to not let anyone in," came his rebuttal, a line likely recited from a script of convenience rather than concern.

"Dude—" The word hung in the air, a precursor to the battle you felt brewing within. You inhaled deeply, a silent prayer for patience, your teeth clenching in an invisible grip. "Never mind. Have a terrific night," the words coated in a veneer of nicety that you mustered with all your might, your smile, though sarcastic, was an attempt to bridge the chasm of your frustration, hoping its curve was visible beneath the shadow of your hood. "Dickhead," the insult slipped from your lips in a whisper, a secret shared only with the night as you stepped through the door into the embrace of the outside world.

Tired and tinged with annoyance, your gaze swept the vicinity, seeking a haven for the simplest of human needs—to get cleaned up. Then, like a beacon in the night, your eyes settled on a car stationed at the farthest gas pump. It stood solitary, a silent sentinel in the fluorescent glow. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, a spy's caution, to ensure the car's owner wasn't lurking nearby. The coast appeared clear, save for the presence of the obstinate cashier, now dubbed the idiot in your evening's narrative.

By the dim glow of the gas station's overhead lights, you found a temporary sanctuary beside the car, a silent accomplice to your solitary ritual. With deliberate motions, you placed your newly acquired treasures upon the cold, unforgiving ground and crouched, your body tensing as you prepared to confront the reflection you had been avoiding. The side-view mirror, initially angled to capture the expanse of the road behind, was now coaxed into a new purpose. With a hesitant push, you angled it to reveal your own visage, a canvas marred by the recent past.

The act of lowering your hood felt akin to peeling away a layer of armor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. What greeted you in the reflective glass was a mosaic of bluing bruises and angry red slashes—a testament to a tale you wished remained untold. A grimace twisted your features at the sight, your heart sinking. The reflection bore evidence of a fierce struggle, a physical manifestation of pain that made the concept of beauty a distant, unattainable dream.

With a sigh, you sought solace in the ritualistic lighting of a cigarette, a small act of defiance against the night's events. The pack crinkled as you extracted one, placing it between your lips with a sense of purpose. Yet, as you patted down your pockets in search of a flame, a sinking realization dawned upon you—your lighter was missing, presumably lost amidst the chaos that now defined your living space. Disappointment seeped into your bones, mixing with the lingering adrenaline and fatigue that clung to your skin.

Undeterred, you turned your attention back to the task at hand. The cigarette, forgotten for the moment, dangled unlit as you began to tend to your wounds with the care of a seasoned medic. Each touch to your skin with a damp tissue was a whisper of comfort, a gentle caress amidst the harsh reality of your existence. The application of Neosporin was a balm not just for the physical scars, but a fleeting attempt to soothe the deeper, unseen injuries that lay beneath

As you were about to seal the wounds with plasters, a testament to your resilience and a badge of your suffering, the tranquility of the moment was shattered. A voice, unexpected and jarring, cut through the silence, startling you from your reverie. The sudden intrusion felt like an invasion, a breach of the fragile peace you had managed to carve out for yourself in the shadows of the night.

"Antiseptic works better."

Through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of the silhouette that dared intrude upon your moment of vulnerability. The cigarette perched precariously between your lips bobbed as you spoke, your voice tinged with the weariness of one too acquainted with pain. "You’re wrong," you countered through the cigarette hanging from your lips after grabbing a second plaster and ripping its package. "In fact," you continued, pressing the adhesive over another wound, "there’s a chance it may damage the skin." Your expertise on the subject was born from necessity, not choice—a testament to the scars you bore, both seen and unseen. As you finished tending to your injuries, gathering your things with a finality that marked the end of the unwanted interaction, you turned to face the source of the unsolicited commentary.

The dim light revealed his identity—the new guy, an unwelcome disturbance in your carefully maintained distance from the world. You shot him a look that spoke volumes, laden with the exhaustion of a soul yearning for nothing more than the sanctuary of a warm bed, before you attempted to leave his presence behind. His voice, however, laced with an unmistakable amusement, halted you once more. "Hey," he called out, a grin audible in his tone. "I know you."

The assertion sparked a flicker of irritation within you, a flare in the dimness of your resolve. "You don’t," you corrected sharply and turned halfway, vexed by your exhaustion and the want for a warm bed. "You might have seen me around, but you don’t know me."

"Christ," he swore, wearing a shit-eating grin that made you want to pull out his infuriatingly long eyelashes one by one. "What pissed in your—"

"Bye," you interjected, rolling your eyes as you turned your back on him, the roll of your eye a silent rebuke to his unfinished query.

"You need a lighter for that, sweetheart?"

Your feet anchored themselves on the spot, your shoulders slouching just the littlest bit; you really, really did need one. Aversion in your bones, you slowly turned back to him. Keeping your distance, you placed yourself across from where he was leaning against his car.

The smirk playing on his lips stretched into a full-blown grin, a silent prelude to the audacity that followed. In one fluid, almost theatrical motion, he reached out, plucking the cigarette from your lips and putting it between his with an ease that spoke of practiced finesse. The silver lighter appeared in his hands as if by magic, its flame dancing to life with a flick that carried the flair of showmanship. The lit cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke exhaling in a deliberate stream toward you, enveloping you in a cloud of provocation as he gauged your reaction, almost baiting an outburst.

Yet, instead of the explosion he anticipated, you simply reclaimed the cigarette from his grasp, a silent acceptance of his unsolicited gesture. "Thanks,” you uttered, the words hanging in the air as you resumed walking, leaving the moment behind.

His voice followed, a casual offer laced with an undefined undercurrent. "You want a ride?"

Your steps faltered, a frown creasing your forehead as his words registered. "That is one hell of a random question to ask a stranger. As a stranger,” you retorted, the skepticism in your voice as palpable as the cool night air that enveloped you both.

"You want one or not?" His reply was curt, edged with impatience, a stark contrast to the mysterious offer he had just extended.

"Why would you offer?" Curiosity laced your tone, mixed with a hint of caution. Billy Hargrove’s reputation had preceded him, painting a picture of a Californian rebel whose actions were as unpredictable as the ocean’s waves, and certainly, acts of chivalry seemed as foreign to him as a language unspoken.

"Forget it." His dismissive gesture, a psuh from the car before he swung the door open, spoke volumes of his irritation. Yet, as he made to seal himself within the metal cocoon of his vehicle, your voice pierced the night, a decision made.

"I do want one."

The car door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the car's engine coming to life, a growl in the quiet. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours through the glass. A roll of his eyes served as his acquiescence to your unspoken plea for a ride. The door cracked open, an invitation as gruff as his tone. "Are you getting your ass in the car or do you need a written invite?"

His words, brusque yet oddly inviting, spurred you into action. The interior of the car enveloped you, the scent of leather and the undercurrent of his cologne mingling in the confined space. No sooner had you fastened the seatbelt than the car lurched forward, tires screeching in protest as Billy Hargrove accelerated into the night, propelling both of you toward the unknown that lay in the direction you had originally been heading.

"I live at—" you began, the words barely taking form before they were cut short.

"I know." His interruption was swift, a statement so sure and unfazed.

Confusion momentarily clouded your thoughts, mingling with a spark of irritation. How the fuck could he possibly know? The question danced at the tip of your tongue, but before it could leap into the open air between you, realization dawned. The company he kept at school, the circles he moved in—those were all the answers you needed. Billy Hargrove, with his effortless charisma and an air of danger that clung to him like a second skin, naturally gravitated towards and was embraced by those you had learned to keep at arm's length. Those very individuals, Carol Perkins, Vicki Carmichael, and Tommy Hagan, had painted your world in stark, unflattering colors, branding you 'trailer trash' with their sneers and jeers for a decade.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, thinking of them, their cruelty a constant shadow over your school days. If only they knew the disdain you harbored, so potent and vivid. You wished, not for the first time, that their arrogance and aspirations could be forcibly fed back to them, a grotesque cycle that would see their malice choking them, expelled from their mouths like a vile confession of their true natures.

You adjusted the window, allowing just a sliver of the night air to slip through, and extended your arm, the cigarette perched between your fingers, embers dancing with each inhale.

"What happened to your face?" Billy's voice, laced with a curiosity that didn't match his usual demeanor, cut through the hum of the road beneath the car's tires.

"Fell from heaven, of course," you retorted, the words tinged with sarcasm as your eyes rolled, a silent protest against his prying. His persistence was like a thorn—unwanted and sharp. "Nosy much?"

"Catfight?" His guess was off mark, yet it pricked your patience.

You exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation coloring your tone. "Ran into a tree," the lie smooth on your tongue, as you took another drag, the cigarette's glow a brief flare in the darkness.

He scoffed, disbelief etched in the sound. "And the tree beat you up for that?"

Your agreement came out as a hum, a playful note in the solemn night. "Had a mean right hook, too. Damn birch trees," you quipped, allowing a brief smile to dance on your lips at the absurdity of it all, blowing the smoke out into the night, watching as it dissipated into the cool air.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to swell with each passing second. It was an odd sort of discomfort, more unsettling than the exchange of words had been, wrapping around you like a thick fog. You found yourself almost wishing for his voice again, to break through the quiet that now felt louder than any spoken word. Yet, as the car sped on, devouring the road with eager haste, the lights of the trailer park approached, promising an end to the journey and the silence that had settled between you.

Suddenly, he extended his hand towards you, an unspoken request hanging in the air. You found yourself momentarily puzzled, your gaze fixed on his fingers before realization dawned. After taking a final, lingering drag from the cigarette, you passed the diminishing ember to him. With an effortless flick, he sent it soaring out of the window, watching as it disappeared into the night after taking it down to its last breath.

"Since when are girls like you smokers of the good stuff?" His voice was casual, yet loaded with an unspoken judgment that hung heavily between you.

The implication behind his words, ‘girls like you’ didn't necessitate an explanation. You understood perfectly—the label wasn't about you personally. It was a placeholder, a stereotype applied broadly to any girl who found herself in his car, a commentary not so much on the individual but on the perceived collective. The notion that somehow, despite the vast differences among individuals, there was a uniformity assumed among all those deemed ‘other’ by those who never bothered to look beyond the surface. It was a tired, worn-out perspective, suggesting that understanding, respect, and equality were territories too foreign for those entrenched in their own narratives.

"I'm not a smoker," you retorted, your voice steady, pushing back against the label he tried to affix to you.

He turned to you, an eyebrow arching in skepticism. "Sweetheart, I think the tree might have hit you in the head." His words, meant to tease, danced in the space between you,

"Special occasions only," you finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between you, thick with unvoiced judgments and assumptions. Your voice carried a defiant edge, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability you felt. "Also, fuck you."

Billy's response was a chuckle, the sound low and somewhat amused, as if your resilience added an unexpected flavor to the night's events. "What's the occasion?" he inquired, his tone lighter, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You found yourself hesitating, caught on the precipice of disclosure and reticence. The likelihood of crossing paths with him again felt as remote as the stars dotting the night sky above, their light distant and indifferent. You weighed the ephemeral nature of this encounter against the catharsis of sharing, even if just a sliver, of your reality. "Having choices," you said at last, the words feeling like both a confession and a declaration.

"What choices?" His question followed, simple yet laden with the weight of stories untold.

You offered no reply, merely a shrug, a gesture cloaked in layers of meaning. Your silence was your fortress, safeguarding the complexities of a life marked by pain and defiance. Within you, a habit had taken root, a ritual born from the ashes of violence at the hands of your father. Smoking had become your rebellion, your assertion of control in a life that often felt governed by the whims of a man whose presence was as oppressive as it was destructive. To smoke was to choose the manner of your harm, to claim agency over your own demise, however slow and insidious it might be. It was a twisted form of empowerment, preferring the slow burn of tobacco to the acute brutality of paternal hands. Crushing the extinguished remnants of your defiance under your boots served as a tangible metaphor, a declaration that the man who should have been your protector held no more power over you than the spent cigarettes you ground into oblivion.

Entering Billy's car that night, accepting the ride from someone enveloped in rumors and mystery, was a choice emblematic of your current state of being. Bruised, both physically and spiritually, by the very person who should have been your haven, you found yourself gravitating towards choices that flirted with danger. In the shadow of your father's tyranny, even the potential threat of an unknown like Billy felt like a liberation, a dare to the universe that tonight, of all nights, you were the master of your fate, no matter how recklessly that fate was courted.

Merely blocks away from the shadowed outlines of the trailer park, you felt the tension knot tighter in your gut, prompting you to instruct Billy with an urgency that surprised even yourself. "Stop the car here." It was a calculated measure, a bid to remain unseen should your father's usual stupor be interrupted by a rare moment of vigilance. You couldn't risk him spotting you from the confines of an existence you both shared yet endured on vastly different terms.

"Why?" Billy's inquiry sliced through the hum of the engine, a roaring beast that seemed all too eager to encroach upon the sanctuary you so desperately sought to protect.

"'Cause I said so!" The words burst from you, a mix of fear and insistence, as panic clawed at your chest with icy fingers when he veered dangerously close to the trailer park's entrance. "Stop the damn car!" The command was punctuated by the violent squeal of tires as they ground against the asphalt, the sudden deceleration forcing the seat belt to bite cruelly into your already tender flesh. "Thanks for the ride," you managed to huff out, a terse farewell as you swung the door open and exited with a haste born of desperation, the door slamming shut with a resounding finality. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control over the rapidly fraying edges of your composure.

You had barely taken a few steps when a compulsion, inexplicable and unnerving, urged you to cast a glance over your shoulder. There he was, Billy, his gaze already locked onto your retreating form. Even through the cloak of night, his silhouette was unmistakable, and the distance did little to obscure the wink he sent your way—a gesture that felt both mocking and oddly comforting in its audacity.

With a swift turn of your head, you dismissed the fleeting connection, quickening your pace as if to outstrip the myriad emotions that encounter had stirred within you. The night air, cool and indifferent, seemed to whisper secrets as you disappeared into the labyrinth of shadows that promised both sanctuary and imprisonment.

In the sanctuary of shadow and silence, you made your way to the trailer that bore the dubious honor of being called home. The silver metal shell, tarnished by time and wear, loomed before you, a testament to a life far removed from the dreams you once harbored. With each cautious step, you moved with the stealth of a creature well-versed in the art of invisibility, ensuring that your presence remained undetected by Billy's lingering gaze.

Approaching the window to your room, the cool night air kissed your cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth that awaited inside. Your hands, acting on the instinct honed by countless nights of return, deftly managed the small but significant task before you. The purchases, a meager collection of necessities and small comforts, found their way through the open window with a soft thud against the carpeted interior, a silent testament to your return.

With the grace of a practiced climber, you hoisted yourself up and through the window, your body moving with an economy of motion born from necessity. The interior of the trailer welcomed you back into its cramped but familiar embrace, the air tinged with the scent of a life lived on the margins.

That night, as the world outside continued its indifferent spin, you took a moment to secure the only sanctuary you knew. The lock on your door clicked into place with a finality that spoke of a desire for solitude, or perhaps, a prayer for safety. In the dim light of your room, surrounded by the humble trappings of your existence, you prepared to surrender to sleep.

The act of locking your door was more than a mere precaution; it was a ritual, a whispered plea to the universe for just one night of peace. As the shadows deepened and the trailer park settled into the quiet hum of the night, you lay down, your thoughts a tangled web of hopes, fears, and the stubborn resilience that had carried you this far. In the stillness that followed, sleep arrived, a reluctant visitor, to claim you in its embrace, offering a temporary reprieve from the trials of a world that waited just beyond the thin walls of your silver metal haven.

…

Dawn's first light crept through the cracks of the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred from the uneasy dreams that had plagued your sleep, finding the morning's silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of last night. With a deep breath, you summoned the strength to face another day, one that began with the painstaking task of camouflage.

Seated before a mirror streaked with age, you embarked on the delicate art of concealing the evidence of yesterday's storm. Each brushstroke was a silent battle, each dab of powder a feeble attempt to erase the marks that pain had etched upon your skin. The bruises, a palette of purples and blues, refused to be hidden completely, protesting under the layers of makeup you applied with a desperation born of necessity.

As you dressed, a sharp twinge of pain caught your breath. The mirror revealed a ghastly bloom of purple spreading like a shadow across your side, just below the ribs—a grim reminder of the violence you wished to forget. A lie formed in your mind, a necessary deception for the physical education teacher, claiming the protection of a condition as natural as it was unrelated to the truth.

The ritual of preparing breakfast unfolded with a practiced ease, though your heart was elsewhere. You moved through the kitchen, your gaze carefully avoiding the man who sat at the table, expecting the service you provided as if it were his due. The sizzling bacon and the scramble of eggs filled the silence between you, a silence as heavy and uncomfortable as the bruises hidden beneath your clothes. His expectations hung over you, a constant reminder of the narrow path you were forced to tread to avoid further displeasure.

School offered no respite from the act you were forced to live. With your hood pulled high, you navigated the halls with a deliberate slowness, dreading the moment you would have to enter the classroom and face the day's challenges. The quiet comfort of anonymity was shattered when Mrs. O'Donnell's voice, sharpened by authority, cut through the air. Your heart sank as her words found you, a beacon spotlighting your defiance.

"I do not condone hats or hoods in my lessons," she declared, her tone leaving no room for dissent. In that moment, the weight of the day pressed down upon you, a reminder of the battles yet to be fought, both in the light of day and in the shadows of your own life.

The atmosphere in the classroom thickened, a palpable tension that clung to your skin as you stood at the precipice of decision. Around you, the collective breath of your peers hung suspended, their curiosity mingled with the anticipation of rebellion they'd come to associate with you. Yet, in that moment of scrutiny, you chose compliance over defiance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slid your hood back, exposing the canvas of your pain to the voracious eyes around you.

A collective inhale filled the room, a chorus of shock and disbelief that painted you in a light far removed from the anonymity you craved. Even your teacher, usually so composed and authoritative, faltered under the weight of the revelation, her voice lost to the ticking clock that suddenly seemed deafening in the heavy silence.

She recovered, albeit shakily, her command to continue an attempt to restore normalcy to the disrupted order of her classroom. But the damage was done, the facade cracked. You couldn't wait to escape, and the moment the class was dismissed, your hood resumed its place, a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments.

The day unfolded exactly as you had dreaded. Each class became a battleground, your hood the flag of your defiance and your bruises the wounds of wars fought in the shadows of your life. The whispers followed you like a relentless shadow, and when lunch arrived, you sought solace in the solitude of the cafeteria's farthest corner. Surrounded by the outcasts and the unnoticed, you found a semblance of peace, even if it was the peace of a pariah among peers dreaming of revolutions they did not understand.

You observed them, the future rebels with their leather bracelets and spiky hair, their existence a stark contrast to the battles you fought daily. They wore their rebellion like a badge of honor, unaware of the true cost of surviving a war against the very fabric of one's life. And as you sat there, hidden in plain sight, you couldn't help but wonder about the diverging paths of those destined for a picture-perfect existence and your own, forged in the crucible of pain and resilience.

Stepping out from the confines of the school building as the day bled into the mellow hues of late afternoon was like shedding an invisible shackle, a temporary respite that made your shoulders relax and your breath come easier. This fleeting sense of liberation accompanied you, a silent companion that whispered promises of tranquility, until the familiar sight of the trailer park loomed ahead, shattering the illusion with the harsh reality waiting within.

As you navigated the maze of silver metal homes, the sight of the lights blazing through the windows of your own trailer felt like a physical blow, a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. Your heart, a frantic drummer in the cage of your ribs, seemed to echo ominously with every step you took toward the creaking door that served as the barrier between you and what awaited inside.

He wasn't supposed to be there, not yet. The very thought was a cold hand squeezing around your heart, draining the color from the world. With trepidation lacing each step, you entered, your gaze flitting nervously from the desolate sofa to the ominously closed door of his bedroom. The strap of your school bag became a lifeline, something tangible to anchor you as you tiptoed toward the sanctuary of your room.

But fate, it seemed, was not on your side. The floor beneath you, a traitor clad in aged wood, groaned loudly under your weight, a sound so jarring in the silence that you couldn't help but wince, your entire being tensing in anticipation of the fallout. Time seemed to stand still, a suspended moment filled with the electric charge of impending doom.

Then, movement shattered the silence. The bedroom door was flung open with such force you half expected it to fly off its hinges, revealing the man who stood in the doorway. His presence filled the space, an imposing figure that you could barely reconcile as the one responsible for your existence. In that moment, as you faced the man who should have been your protector but felt more like a looming threat, you realized the fragility of the peace you so desperately sought in the confines of what you called home.

The utterance of your name, whispered with a darkness that cloaked the room, immediately heightened your senses, alerting you to the imminent storm. Instinctively, your feet shuffled backwards, attempting to put distance between you and the tempest that was your father. His voice cracked through the tension like a whip, "What did we talk about?" The words barely left his lips before your body responded with a quiver, the dread manifesting physically.

"You're just as useless as your bitch mother," he bellowed, his hand cutting through the air with predatory speed to clamp around your throat. Your legs struggled to bear the sudden weight of fear and despair as he dragged you, your resistance feeble against his force, through the claustrophobic hallway into the stark light of the kitchen. There, he released you not in mercy but to crash onto the unforgiving floor, his grip morphing into an iron band around your neck. "Now, I know you ain't the smartest but how can anyone be such a dumb cunt?" His eyes flicked toward the refrigerator with a menacing expectation.

Frozen, more by terror than choice, you remained motionless, inciting his fury further until he yanked you upward by the very lifeline he was squeezing. "Open it!" His command was a shout, propelled by anger, as he thrust you toward the cold metal of the fridge. With every fiber of your being screaming to comply just to make it stop, you mustered the strength to lower your shaking head and fumble with the fridge door.

"What did I tell you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear.

"To take care of things," you managed to whimper, your voice barely threading through the tightness of his grip.

"That's right," he confirmed with a dark, rumbling voice. But his next words were like daggers, each one punctuating your worthlessness in his eyes. And then, with a brutality that seemed to echo in the sparse kitchen, your head was forcibly introduced to the side of the fridge. The sudden release from his hands felt as much a punishment as the assault, a clear message that you had once again failed to meet his expectations. "Fucking take care of it," he spat, leaving you with the pain and the cold echo of his disdain.

For a fleeting moment after his departure, you remained motionless on the cold kitchen floor, the echo of his retreating footsteps a temporary relief. As you coughed, savoring the rush of oxygen filling your lungs once more, you rose with shaky resolve. Closing the refrigerator with a soft click, you retrieved some cash from the hidden savings can, each movement automatic, driven by necessity rather than thought. Your feet carried you swiftly to your car, a sanctuary of sorts in the midst of chaos.

With trembling hands, you inserted the keys into the ignition, pausing as you caught sight of their unsteady dance. Just as you were about to press the gas pedal, a different sensation caught your attention. Blood, warm and unsettling, trickled down from your nose to your lips. Instinctively, you reached up to wipe it away, only for a solitary tear to escape, tracing a path down your cheek. In a burst of anger, you struck the steering wheel, imagining for a split second it was his face absorbing the impact, receiving the punishment he so richly deserved.

The drive out of the trailer park felt like an escape, albeit a temporary one, as you headed deeper into town. Your destination was the only supermarket in Hawkins that turned a blind eye to selling alcohol to minors. The cashiers, two souls long since resigned to the monotony and despair of their roles, barely registered your presence, their gazes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the walls of their confinement.

You found yourself wiping your face again, this time checking the rearview mirror to assess the damage. The sight of your bloodshot eyes was a grim reminder. Physical blows you had learned to endure, but the insults, the verbal lashings that cut deeper than any fist, remained wounds that refused to heal. The most painful barbs were those aimed at your mother, a woman who had possessed nothing in terms of material wealth but had fought valiantly, albeit futilely, to escape the tyranny of your father. She was a woman of courage, standing between you and his wrath, even as cancer waged its own merciless battle within her. Your admiration for her was boundless; on her deathbed, she had worn a smile, radiant and victorious, for in her passing, she had finally escaped the man who had sought to break her spirit.

As you entered the supermarket, you smoothly plucked a basket from the stack beside the entrance, weaving your way through the aisles with a practiced ease. With each step, you carefully selected items, filling the basket with an assortment of goods that you knew would appease your father's palate. The basket grew heavier, a testament to your meticulous effort, until you reached the final checkpoint: the beverage section.

The coolers stood before you, a chilled barrier between thirst and satisfaction. You reached for the door, the cold air brushing against your skin as you grabbed a six-pack of your father's preferred beer. It was then you noticed him, a figure barely three weeks familiar with Hawkins, yet here he was, navigating the town's veins as if born to them. His friends had evidently provided a thorough briefing. Your attempt at a discreet observation failed miserably, as his attention snapped to you, an unspoken acknowledgment between strangers.

Your brows arched in involuntary surprise, not at his presence but at the sight of fresh cuts and bruises marring his face — wounds absent just the night before. A silent question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but before it could take flight, he dismissed the moment with a roll of his eyes and brushed past you, leaving a trail of unspoken stories and a fleeting connection dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

The line at the checkout moved slowly, a trivial inconvenience, yet it granted you a few more moments of anonymity. The store's quaint little bell announced Billy's departure, a sound that seemed to echo the finality of a moment passing. When it was finally your turn, you engaged in the mechanical transaction with the cashier, your mind elsewhere. Stepping out into the waning light, the sight of Billy Hargrove, casually nursing a can of beer against the cool metal of his car, intruded upon your thoughts. His car parked nonchalantly beside yours felt like a deliberate coincidence. The brown paper bag, a temporary vessel for your burdens, found its place in the backseat as you closed the door, acutely aware of his gaze tracing your movements, an invisible tether pulling at the edge of your consciousness.

You cleared your throat, a prelude to breaking the silence as you stood by your car, the keys dancing a nervous ballet in your hand. "Birch tree got you too, huh?" The words slipped out, a tentative bridge spanning the gap between you two.

Billy's scrutiny lingered, a silent appraisal, before his eyes dropped to the testament of violence painted on your skin, eventually locking with yours. "You want a smoke?" His voice broke the tension, an offer hanging in the balance.

Surprised, yet intrigued, you glanced around before nodding, a silent agreement forged in the twilight. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to the supermarket's side where the guardians of refuse, a row of large dumpsters, stood in solemn assembly. Climbing atop one with an ease born of necessity, you found a perch, waiting for him to join you in this makeshift sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Billy, with a nonchalance that seemed to cloak him like a second skin, produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, its silver surface catching the last rays of the sun. With a practiced flick, he ignited a flame, bringing it to the cigarette perched between his lips. The glow of the ember briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced with the smoke. Taking a drag, he then passed the cigarette to you. As you inhaled, the sharp, acrid taste of tobacco filled your lungs, a bitter reminder of choices made, of moments shared in silence and smoke.

As the minutes melted away under the haze of shared smoke and silent camaraderie, the cigarette passed between you became a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding in the twilight of shared solitude. Eventually, Billy broke the silence, his voice rasping slightly from the smoke. "You have blood on your nose."

"Yeah?" Your response was tinged with a nonchalance that belied the undercurrent of tension between you. You accepted the cigarette once more, its ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. "You have some on your lip." Another drag, a momentary escape, then silence enveloped you both once again. The final act of discarding the cigarette to the ground felt almost ceremonial, as you crushed the lingering spark beneath your boot, a definitive end to the fleeting respite. "See you 'round, Hargrove."

Your words hung in the air as you turned to leave, a tentative goodbye to a shared moment of vulnerability. His voice reached out, halting your retreat. "You hungry?"

The question paused you in your tracks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as you turned to face him. There was something in his gaze, a reflection of weariness and something unspoken, that mirrored your own. For a fleeting second, pity stirred within you, its target unclear, as empathy blurred the lines between self and other.

"I am," you conceded, the admission heavy with an unspoken understanding of the complications it invited. Yet, the reality of your own circumstances pulled you back from the precipice of further entanglement. "But I have to get home, actually." Your smile was a feeble attempt at normalcy, a polite curtain falling on the scene. "Bye, Billy."

His acknowledgment was a silent nod, a mutual recognition of the distance being placed between you once more. As you drove away, the rearview mirror captured the solitary figure of Billy Hargrove, a temporary companion in your shared narrative of survival and solitude, fading into the background of your departing world.

…

An unsettling sense of change lingered in the air, a silent shift that had settled over Hawkins High like a thick fog, imperceptible yet undeniably present. This peculiar feeling began to wrap around you, a subtle yet persistent presence, in the days following your second encounter with Billy Hargrove. As you stepped through the school's doors, braced for the usual barrage of sneers and the biting sting of ‘trailer trash’ hurled in your direction, you found instead a surprising void where hostility once thrived.

This newfound anonymity was strangely soothing, a reprieve wrapped in the unexpected guise of indifference. For once, the hallways that had felt like gauntlets now offered passage free from judgment, allowing you a semblance of peace amidst the storm of daily life. It was an odd sort of liberation, moving unseen and unmarked by the cruel jibes that had once shadowed your steps. For the first time in your tumultuous high school saga, the final bell did not signal a hasty retreat but a deliberate detour to the sanctuary of the art room.

The art class assignment, a canvas awaiting the touch of inspiration, became your excuse to linger in the quiet aftermath of the school day. While your peers carried their artwork home, eager to splash their visions across the canvas in the comfort of their own spaces, such a luxury was a distant dream for you. Home was no haven for creativity; your trailer, a place where art met its end not in completion, but in destruction—torn, smashed, a casualty of the chaos that waited beyond the school's gates.

There, amidst the smell of paint and the soft light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, you found solace. The art room, with its clutter of brushes and the palette of possibilities, offered not just an escape but a moment of creation untainted by the harsh realities that lay in wait outside its doors. It was in these stolen hours, surrounded by the silent witness of unfinished projects and the ghosts of inspiration, that you dared to believe, even if just for a fleeting moment, in the possibility of a world shaped by the stroke of a brush, rather than the sharpness of words.

As the day waned into evening, the corridors of Hawkins High slowly emptied, leaving behind a tranquility punctuated only by the distant hum of the cleaning crew making their final rounds. The fading light cast long shadows across the halls, painting everything in a soft, melancholic glow. You glanced at the hallway clock, a silent reminder of the hours you needed to kill to ensure you'd return to an empty, quiet home, free from the looming presence of your father.

Chewing thoughtfully on your lip, you diverted towards your locker, thoughts swirling with the prospect of solitude. It was then that a wave of laughter and lively banter washed over you, as a group of jocks, fresh from the showers and glowing with the invincibility of youth, breezed past, oblivious to your existence. Their jubilance, a stark contrast to your solitude, left a fleeting shadow across your spirit, one you shook off as you reached your sanctuary—a small, metal locker.

The ritual was familiar and comforting: exchange the day's burdens for the evening's necessities. But as your hand lingered on the locker door, preparing to seal away the day, another hand, unexpected and swift, slammed it shut. Startled, you spun around, only to find yourself inches away from a familiar face framed by a blond mullet, a figure who had become an unexpected constant in the landscape of your days.

"That was rude," slipped from your lips, a feeble attempt to assert some distance between you and the uninvited closeness. Yet, Billy Hargrove stood unyielding, a smirk playing on his lips, evidently amused by the discomfort flickering across your face. The proximity was overwhelming; his presence, a force that seemed to challenge the very air between you. You yearned to retreat, to press back into the cold, indifferent metal of your locker as you had so many times before. But something within, a spark of defiance or perhaps a curiosity yet unnamed, anchored you firmly in place. His gaze, intense and searching, held a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer, igniting a silent standoff in the dimming light of the nearly deserted hallway.

"Oh, I might just disagree with you on that one, sweetheart," Billy chuckled. "In fact, I found it was rather chivalrous of me to spare you from having to close the locker." Billy's grin unfurled like a flag of both charm and challenge, hovering in the nebulous space between disarmingly sweet and maddeningly smug. It was as if his every gesture, every flicker of expression, had been honed to perfection before an audience of his own reflection, each nuance calculated for effect. Whether your suspicion held water mattered little; the notion that behind his practiced ease lay a carefully maintained facade wasn't far-fetched. After all, mastering the art of the mask was a survival skill in its own right.

You responded to his teasing not with retreat, but with a stance of quiet defiance, arms crossed as if to ward off the sway of his charm. Your chin lifted slightly, an unspoken challenge, while a reluctant smile threatened to betray your composure. "I was actually talking about you trying to scare me into having a heart attack, but sure, let's go with your excuse," you retorted, your voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

His laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space between you, a sound that seemed too genuine for someone so practiced in artifice. The hand that had been a casual claim on the locker next to your head shifted slightly, drawing your gaze despite yourself. It was an involuntary flicker of attention, pulled momentarily to the subtle play of his tongue across his lips—a gesture that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, you felt a sudden, inexplicable connection, framed by lashes any starlet would envy. Yet, as quickly as it came, you shook off the allure, the momentary weakness. With a willful effort, you pulled away, stepping back from the invisible line that had drawn you dangerously close to his orbit. The air seemed to clear as you moved, dispelling the strange spell that had momentarily tethered you to him.

"Do you have any… plans for tonight?" His inquiry floated into the space between you, his hand retreating from the locker, leaving behind an echo of warmth where it once rested.

You found yourself momentarily caught in the headlights of his question. Friday evenings were the realm of raucous parties and cozy gatherings among friends, a social tapestry you found yourself conspicuously absent from. Your plans, if they could even be called that, consisted of nothing more than acquiring a solitary snack and retreating to the quiet of your car's hood in some forgotten corner of a parking lot.

"I'm more the spontaneous type," you offered, a deflection born of necessity as you idly scratched at your elbow. The admission of your solitude, especially in front of Hawkins' newest import, the effortlessly cool Californian, seemed a bridge too far.

"Good," he cut in, a word punctuated with decision as he turned on his heel towards the exit. You watched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling within you as you followed him, your steps a beat behind, to his car. He performed the gentlemanly act of unlocking and holding open the passenger door, an invitation hanging silently in the air.

With a gesture towards the parking lot, you demurred, "I got my car here." Your thumb jabbed backward, signaling the aged Volkswagen that wore its rust and verdigris like badges of endurance, a relic from a bygone era now under the scrutiny of his oceanic gaze.

The tapestry of scars your car bore was a map of your tumultuous journey thus far. The rear windows, obscured by patches of duct tape, were a testament to a violent shove that had sent you crashing into them. The dented trunk narrated another tale of youthful recklessness, a collision with a telephone pole just weeks after your sixteenth birthday had granted you the freedom of the road. But it was the scar on your hip, hidden beneath fabric yet forever etched in your flesh, that told the most painful story. A vase, hurled in anger by your father, had shattered upon impact, embedding its fragments into your skin. Alone, you had navigated the sterile lights of the emergency room, weaving a tale of clumsy mishap to explain the glass shards that had to be meticulously extracted from your body.

Billy's gaze on you felt like a searchlight, probing for a jest or a convincing argument as to why you wouldn't abandon your car to join him. "I can’t just leave my car here, Billy," you found yourself protesting, even as part of you yearned for the escape he offered.

His response was a casual shrug, his posture relaxed against the frame of his open car door, the denim fabric of his jacket accentuating the lean muscles beneath. "Sure, you can," he countered with an easy confidence. "I can drive you back here after."

The word lingered between you, a mystery yet to unfold. "After what?"

Another shrug, the gesture becoming a signature of his nonchalance. "After." His reply hung in the air, an invitation to an undefined adventure, sparking a blend of apprehension and exhilaration within you.

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with a dark humor that twisted your words into a sinister prediction. "You know, that kind of sounds like you are going to hack me up and then just dump my severed limbs here. After."

Billy's reaction was instantaneous, his voice laced with feigned hurt, "I would never do that." For a moment, you almost believed him, almost extended an apology, until the glint of mischief in his ice-blue gaze betrayed his jest. "You would get blood all over my car seats."

Your response was an eye roll, the tension easing into a grin at the absurdity of it all. "Fine," you declared, your resolve melting as you approached his car. "But don't you dare take me to someplace with all that healthy stuff," you added, a playful warning in your tone as he stepped aside, allowing you to claim the passenger seat as your own. Pausing, one leg already inside, you issued your culinary demands. "I want a burger, some greasy as fuck chili-cheese fries." You paused, a thought occurring. "And maybe a milkshake."

Billy's smirk was a beacon of complicity in the fading light, his teeth a flash of white as he gently closed the door behind you. Circumventing the vehicle with a swagger, he slid into the driver's seat, igniting the engine and bringing the car to life. The sudden eruption of Ted Nugent's distinct voice filled the cabin, the volume dialed to an almost reckless level. You recognized the voice, not out of personal preference, but thanks to a neighbor's musical obsession which had mercifully shifted from Nugent's raspy rock to the heady depths of heavy metal.

As the car pulled away, the world outside blended into a blur, the soundscape within dominated by Nugent's growling melodies. You found yourself enveloped in the paradox of Billy's world, where the threat of fictional dismemberment faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, vivid reality of a quest for the perfect greasy meal.

As Billy caught the wrinkled disapproval on your face, a chuckle escaped him, tinged with amusement. With a swift movement, he dialed the volume down, though the music still filled the car with a lively barrier against silence. It was loud enough to keep the void of conversation at bay, ensuring that the ride was enveloped in a continuous melody rather than awkward pauses.

You found a brief escape as you rolled down the window, extending your hand into the open air, mimicking the actions of your childhood adventures. The wind battled against your palm, inviting you to sway your hand rhythmically, an instinctive dance of freedom and nostalgia. Your eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the flood of memories that washed over you. Those adventures, as your mother had fondly termed them, were simple yet profoundly magical. They consisted of visits to art museums where she would craft whimsical stories behind each painting, imbuing them with life and laughter. There were hikes through dense woods, where she spun tales of bear hunts, making you believe in the thrill of the chase and the glory of imaginary conquests. On the rare occasion, she would navigate the aisles of thrift stores with you in tow. Financial constraints made these trips bittersweet, as the allure of unattainable treasures tugged at your young heart, a reminder of desires just beyond reach.

These excursions, modest in their execution but rich in imagination, formed a tapestry of cherished moments. They were escapes from the mundane, where every outing with your mother became a venture into the extraordinary, a testament to the power of love and storytelling to transform the ordinary into the unforgettable.

As Billy brought the car to a halt in front of the neon-lit facade of the arcade, you couldn't help but turn to him, an eyebrow arching in silent query. He responded with a heavy sigh, the weight of reluctance in his voice as he confessed the need to pick someone up. A brief glance at the digital watch strapped to his wrist revealed a clenched jaw, a silent testament to his impatience or perhaps something deeper, an annoyance or an obligation weighing heavily on him.

Before you could voice the questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, Billy's hand darted forward, retrieving a cigarette from the pack nestled within the confines of the glove compartment. The swift flick of his lighter brought the cigarette to life, its ember glowing fiercely with each inhalation, a beacon of his momentary escape. Exhaling a cloud of smoke through the window, he extended the cigarette towards you, a gesture of sharing in his solace, yet his eyes never met yours, as if the offer was made out of habit rather than genuine intent.

"I don’t smoke," you stated, a gentle reminder of your stance. His reaction was almost immediate, his gaze shifting to you, eyes searching for any sign of jest. Finding none, only the earnest clarity of your refusal, he muttered a blend of resignation and a half-hearted vow never to offer again, his attention quickly diverting to the arcade's entrance with a stare sharp enough to bore holes through the walls. "Are you trying to open the doors with your mind?" Your teasing broke the silence, a playful nudge against his intensity. As you sank deeper into the embrace of the leather seat, the corners of your lips tugged upwards. "I tried moving a pen once. I swear, I almost had it." Your words floated between you, a light-hearted attempt to pierce the seriousness that had enveloped him, inviting him back to a moment of shared levity amidst the unexpected pause in your night.

"She's late again," Billy grumbled under his breath, a tinge of irritation lacing his voice as his gaze flickered to his wristwatch once more, a silent sentinel of his impatience. "Little dipshit can skate home." His hand moved decisively towards the gear shift, ready to abandon the wait and drive off into the night, but you intervened, placing your hand gently over his, a silent plea for patience.

"We've been waiting here for barely five minutes." Your eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and curiosity as you met his gaze, attempting to understand the rush. "We can wait a little longer. I don't mind." Your words were soft, an offering of compassion in the face of his growing frustration.

At that exact moment, as if summoned by your willingness to wait, a figure emerged from the glowing entrance of the arcade. A ginger-haired girl, her face flushed and breathless from her rush, her relief palpable as her eyes locked onto the familiar blue Camaro. With her skateboard tucked securely under her arm, she hastened her steps, almost speed-walking towards the safety and promise of a ride home that the vehicle represented.

As the ginger-haired girl approached, you smoothly exited the Camaro, your movements fluid and deliberate. Pulling forward the seat to allow her access, she clambered into the back with a graceless smile, her eyes flicking briefly to Billy with a mix of gratitude and irritation. You caught the exchange, a silent laugh hidden behind your facade as you adjusted the seat back into place and reclaimed your spot beside Billy.

The tension in the car was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the small confines of the vehicle. Billy's gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the girl through the rearview mirror, anchoring her with a look that brooked no argument, yet he made no move to merge into the street's flow.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, a fragile attempt to quell the storm. Her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in any corner that wasn't filled with Billy's imposing presence.

"You remember what we talked about?" Billy's voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. His question, more an ultimatum than a query, hung heavy in the air.

"I said, I'm sorry," the girl retorted, her defensiveness surfacing with her words. A scowl began to form on your face, mirroring the growing frustration and discomfort that swirled inside you as Billy remained stationary, his focus unbroken.

His eyes never left her. "What did I tell you?" The gravity in his voice pulled at you, a painful wrench in your heart as you felt the weight of his words. "What did I tell you, Max?" At his question, your emotions teetered on the edge of a precipice, a quiver on your lip the only hint of the turmoil within.

Suddenly, the confined space of the car became too much, the air too thick to breathe. With a surge of resolve, you tore open the door, the sound of it closing behind you a silent scream for escape. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, a futile attempt to steady their shaking, as the silence from within the car enveloped you like a cold embrace, as his voice haunted your mind.

Billy emerged from the car, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he rounded the hood with measured steps. You stood there, amidst the quiet chaos, closing your eyes to gather the shards of calm scattered by the storm. A deep breath filled your lungs, an attempt to cleanse the tumult within. When his voice broke through the silence, a soft yet piercing inquiry, "You all right, sweetheart?" it felt different this time. Where once the pet names he draped you in felt like silk, now they scratched against your skin like burlap.

The glare you returned was loaded with an unspoken dialogue, a debate raging within you about the wisdom of diving into depths where perhaps you had no place. Yet, the image of the girl, her spirit dimmed in the rearview mirror, tipped the scales. "You didn't have to berate her like that," the words tumbled out, laced with conviction, while your arms folded defensively across your chest. "She said she was sorry twice."

Observing him, you saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a physical manifestation of his rising defensiveness, and his nostrils flared, a silent herald of the storm to come. "How about you stay out of my fucking business?" The words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision, meant to wound and warn.

As your scoff broke the tense air between you, it carried with it a bewildering sense of revelation. You found yourself staring, almost in disbelief, as the layers of Billy's persona peeled back to reveal the hot-tempered core you had only heard whispers of. Rumors of his impulsive shoves in crowded hallways and aggressive dominance on the basketball court had reached your ears, painting a picture of a boy who wielded his temper as carelessly as he did his charm. The teenage girls of Hawkins High had not been shy in sharing tales of his less savory deeds, and yet, in a strange twist of fate, they still crowned him with their affections, blinded perhaps by the handsome mask he wore. To you, until this moment, he had shown a different face—one that hinted at kindness beneath the rugged exterior.

"I don't think I can come with you. No, actually, I don't want to anymore." The words emerged from your lips, firm and irrevocable, sealing the fate of the evening that had taken an unexpected turn.

At your declaration, a storm seemed to gather on Billy's brow, his forehead creasing with anger as he teetered on the brink of letting loose a venomous retort. "Why are you being such a bi—" His words faltered, clogging the air between you as the realization of his near slip clamped down on his tongue. A sudden shift overtook his features, the anger washing out as if drained by an unseen force, leaving behind a pallid mask of instant regret.

"You know what, Billy?" you threw the words into the thickening twilight, not seeking an answer but rather casting them as a final verdict. Your feet started to retreat, each step a defiant dance away from the scene. "Fuck you. Oh, and while you're at it, why don't you shove those burgers up where the sun never shines, yeah?" With those parting shots, you spun on your heel, the world spinning momentarily before settling as you marched back toward the familiar silhouette of Hawkins High.

"You don't have your car!" His voice chased after you, a mixture of frustration and incredulity painting each syllable.

"And, still, I'd rather walk!" Your voice rang clear into the fading day, a declaration of independence. For good measure, and perhaps for the sake of your bruised pride, you flung one of your favorite gestures over your shoulder, hoping it would catch him in a moment of speechless observation.

Fucking men.

…

A month had woven itself into the fabric of your life since that tumultuous encounter with Billy Hargrove. His existence had become a silent shadow in your days, marked only by the occasional glimpse of his step-sister, a ghostly reminder of the confrontation that had severed whatever thread had begun to tie you to him. It was ironic, really, how the absence of someone could teach you so much about them. Your days flowed on, untouched by his presence, yet whispers of his life seemed to find you.

You learned of his origins, not through any desire of your own but through the idle chatter of classmates, their words painting a picture of a life you hadn't asked to understand. Billy Hargrove, the boy from California, now residing at 4819 Cherry Lane, wrapped in a scent that lingered in the halls—and apparently his pack—long after he had passed through. These snippets of his existence, caught in passing, seemed to stitch a portrait of a person you no longer knew, if indeed you ever really did.

Each revelation, each accidental eavesdrop, added layers to the image of Billy Hargrove, filling in gaps with colors you hadn't chosen. Yet, for all the unrequested knowledge that had found its way to you, the essence of the boy remained elusive, a puzzle pieced together from fragments overheard in passing. The tendrils of your past, entangled with dreams of a future beyond the confines of Hawkins, whispered to you in moments of solitude. Your aspirations reached far beyond the town's limits, aiming for the hallowed halls of college—a beacon of escape from a life mapped out by circumstances rather than choice. Each rejection letter that found its way to you felt like a door slamming shut, while the solitary acceptance, devoid of the golden ticket of a scholarship, seemed a cruel tease of what could be. College represented more than an education; it was your lifeline out of Hawkins, a chance to evade the shadows that lingered there, including him.

Financial realities cast long shadows over your dreams. The fruits of years spent toiling in odd jobs had been whittled away by the necessities of life and the unending demands of medical supplies, a silent testament to the sacrifices made. The money that didn't vanish into the bottomless pit of healthcare needs was swallowed by the mundane yet essential needs for gas and food, leaving nothing for the luxuries that others might take for granted. The memory of purchasing something solely for the joy it brought, something as simple as a new mascara or a piece of clothing in your favorite color, had faded into the realm of distant dreams.

Yet, as you maneuvered the car out of the school's parking lot, a resolve took root within you—a quiet declaration of self-kindness. The day's burdens lifted slightly at the thought of indulging in a small luxury, a token of appreciation for yourself after so long. The thrift store's familiar aisles offered sanctuary and the possibility of finding something uniquely yours. Amidst the labyrinth of second-hand garments, a splash of yellow caught your eye, halting your aimless search. Your fingers grazed the fabric of a flowy yellow dress, the color a vivid echo of happier times.

In that moment, a memory blossomed, vivid and sweet—a day at the lake with your mother, her laughter mingling with the breeze, her own yellow dress a mirror to the one now in your hands. Despite the harsh realities that awaited back home, her smile in that instant had been a beacon of pure joy, untainted by the shadows of daily struggles. The memory, so sharply beautiful, tugged at your heart with a mixture of longing and sorrow. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by the whispers of past lives encapsulated in the thrift store's treasures, you allowed yourself the luxury of reminiscence and the hope of brighter days, fueled by the simple act of choosing something that sparked joy in your heart.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping the dress, lifting it from its crowded perch among forgotten stories and second chances. As you queued for purchase, the monotony of waiting nudged your attention toward the world beyond the thrift store's window. Your eyes traced the ebb and flow of life on the sidewalk—a tableau of youthful laughter and the disgruntled expressions of passing adults, caught in a silent battle over public decorum.

Your gaze was about to retreat back to the cashier's call when the distinct rumble of a familiar engine sliced through the ambient noise, capturing your attention. A blue Camaro, unmistakable in its assertive presence, blazed past the window, a fleeting shadow in your line of sight. The timing hinted at a routine you'd inadvertently memorized, perhaps Billy Hargrove on his way to collect Max from the arcade. Despite the distance you'd placed between yourself and him, his existence still managed to weave its way into the fabric of your thoughts, an uninvited yet persistent presence.

Groceries, bought with the remnants of your carefully hoarded finances, soon occupied the passenger seat of your car, a tangible reminder of the practical concerns that governed your life. You returned to the trailer park, your vehicle coming to a rest beside the rusted silhouette of home. The neighborhood was alive with the small, personal escapes of those around you—barbecues, beers, and the semblance of community in the individualistic survival of trailer park living. You offered a half-hearted wave to the scattered acknowledgments from your neighbors, a gesture of civility in the shared anonymity of your lives.

One neighbor, a boy around your age with a habitual distance from the trailer park's confines, returned your wave with a shy, fleeting smile. His presence was a rarity, his time usually spent in the freedom of friendships beyond the park's boundaries. A pang of longing touched you at the thought, a wistful wish for connections you hadn't the luxury to foster.

Stepping out of your car, the dress in hand and groceries by your side, you couldn't help but reflect on the paths not taken, the friendships not formed. The trailer park, with its rusted dreams and patchwork communities, held both the weight of your realities and the whispers of what might have been, had circumstances been kinder.

The descent of twilight had always carried a particular solemnity in the trailer park, a silent herald of the end of another day's labors and the beginning of the park's nocturnal repose. As you ascended the weathered steps, the weight of the grocery bags in your hands was a tangible reminder of the day's responsibilities, a mundane yet necessary burden. Your father's gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, met you through the window, his eyes flickering with a mix of wariness and disapproval between you and the neighbor boy who had offered a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. His expression, a familiar tapestry of anger and suspicion, caused you to avert your gaze and hasten your steps, seeking refuge in the relative safety of the indoors.

The call to the living room came at an hour when the world outside had surrendered to the darkness, the only witnesses to its secrets being the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. The neighbors, those transient figures of your day-to-day existence, had retreated behind their doors, driven by the sudden onset of rain. It was in this secluded setting that your father awaited, ensconced in the worn embrace of his brown-leathered armchair, a throne from which he observed the small dominion of your shared living space.

You paused at a cautious distance, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension, a testament to the delicate balance of your relationship. In the dim light, your fingers absently traced the familiar imperfections in your nails, a diversion from the intensity of his scrutiny. Your father, a man whose actions were measured and deliberate, had managed to maintain a facade of normalcy to the outside world. Whatever speculations might have circulated among the neighbors about the dynamics within your trailer, they remained just that—speculations, with no concrete evidence to breach the veil of privacy that curtained your shared existence.

In that moment, standing in the living room's subdued light, the distance between you felt more than just physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and stifled emotions, a silent battleground where every gesture and glance held weight.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he spoke, orbs glued to your face which was turned to the carpeted floors. "I give you so much and don't expect a lot in return, now, do I?" You closed your eyes, teeth catching your lips as you shook your head no. "That's right." He lifted himself up from his seat, stepping closer. You stilled. "What I can't have, is my daughter whoring herself out to some boys."

You flinched as a hand gripped your jaw. "I don't—"

His hold tightened, warm alcohol-tinges breath hitting your cheek. "And to have so much disrespect to lie to my face."

"Please, Dad, I don't even know his nam—"

"Shut up!" You winced at his harsh tone, a trembling falling into your bones. "How long have you been going around spreading your fucking legs, huh? You think you can just do that while you're living under my roof?" He shoved you back into the kitchen counter, its edges digging into your skin painfully. "Fucking whore," he hissed. "If I ever see you looking at him again, I'm not going to be so nice."

Your voice was a mere whisper. "But I didn't—" A slap echoed and a jarring stinging spread across your cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare to talk back to me!" His fingers dug into your skin further as he yanked you forward and smashed you to the floor. "Who do you think you are, huh?" He ripped you upwards at the roots of your hair, wrenching you across the floor to the front door. Your head smashed into the wood as your father tore it open with no regard for you. His hand fell from your hair as he shoved you forward with his foot. As you didn't do as he pleased fast enough, he kicked you onwards and again until you tumbled down the stairs of your home.

"I don't want no disrespectful whore under my roof.” The night air was heavy with the scent of rain, a foreboding cloak that seemed to amplify your isolation as your father's anger found its final expression in the harsh, definitive sound of the door slamming shut behind you. Stranded in the aftermath, you lay there for a moment, sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground, every breath a testament to the throbbing pain in your ribs. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you managed to pull yourself into a seated position, the tears that you hadn't invited nor could contain stinging your eyes, mingling with the rain that began to drench you in its cold embrace.

The world around you felt alien, a labyrinth of uncertainties and fears about where the night might take you. Trust, a commodity you found in short supply, left you without a door to knock on, without a sanctuary in which to seek refuge. Even the shelter of your car was denied to you, the keys a distant, unreachable comfort. Your heart heavy, you stood, the direction of your feet a mystery even to yourself as you meandered through the dimly lit streets of Hawkins. It was as if some unseen force guided you, leading you on a path paved with desperation and silent pleas for solace.

Cherry Lane materialized before you almost as if by magic, the familiarity of the surroundings doing little to ease the tumult in your heart. The houses stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of those who dwelled within, until the sight of a blue Camaro, parked with an air of silent expectation, caught your eye. It was a beacon in the gloom, a signpost pointing towards a possibility you hadn't dared to consider until now.

With hesitant steps, you ascended the porch, each footfall a declaration of your vulnerability. The house before you was a tableau of quiet domesticity, its windows glowing softly in the night, yet betraying no hint of the lives unfolding behind them. For a moment, you allowed yourself the small comfort of shelter, the porch a temporary haven from the relentless rain. Gathering the remnants of your courage, you reached out, your hand pausing in mid-air as you braced yourself to bridge the distance between desperation and hope, between solitude and the possibility of finding an ally in the most unexpected of places.

Hesitation gripped you as the absurdity of your situation fully dawned upon you. What madness had driven you to seek refuge here, of all places? It had been over a month since any words had passed between you and Billy, and the possibility of him not being the one to answer the door loomed large in your mind, a specter of potential embarrassment you hadn't fully considered until now. Imagining the awkwardness of explaining your presence to his stepmother or father sent a shiver down your spine. Perhaps the familiar discomfort of your own leaky porch, where sleep would undoubtedly elude you amidst the elements, would have been preferable to the risk of utter humiliation here.

As you turned to make a hasty retreat, a clumsy misstep sent one of the plant pots clattering to the ground, the sound of shattering pottery piercing the steady drum of rain. Mortification washed over you as you knelt, frantically trying to salvage the situation by scooping the spilled soil back into its home, muttering curses under your breath for your own clumsiness.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Billy's voice, laced with confusion and rising over the roar of the rain, caused you to startle, nearly toppling the pot once more in your sudden panic.

You stood, hands smeared with dirt against the fabric of your wet pants, words tripping over themselves in a clumsy attempt to explain. "I'm sorry," was the simple, inadequate conclusion you reached. A nervous laugh escaped you, highlighting the absurdity of your predicament. "I... I don't even know what I'm doing here," you admitted, your voice tinged with the realization of your own folly. "I—I'm going to go. Sorry about the plant."

Billy's gaze drifted past you to the empty street, a silent question in his eyes before returning to you. "Where's your car?" The inquiry was straightforward, yet it left you grappling with the decision of whether to fabricate a lie about its whereabouts.

"I walked," you confessed, the truth slipping out with a hesitance that betrayed your vulnerability.

"In the rain?" His question hung unfinished in the air as his attention abruptly shifted, focusing intently on your face. Whatever he saw there caused a transformation in his demeanor, his previously questioning gaze hardening with resolve. He swung the door wider, an unspoken invitation hanging between you. "Get in," he commanded, a mixture of concern and command in his tone. Your uncertainty was palpable, a silent question mark in your stance until his impatience broke through your indecision. "Do you always need a second invitation? Get inside." His words, more a directive than a suggestion, propelled you forward, his intense stare ushering you into the warmth and shelter of his home. No sooner had the front door clicked shut behind you than Billy’s hand enveloped yours, his grip firm and unexpectedly warm. He led you through the hallway with a sense of urgency, the sound of your sodden shoes squelching against the floor marking your passage. The door to his room was next, closing with a definitive thud that seemed to isolate the world outside. Releasing your hand as though he suddenly remembered the protocol of personal space, Billy turned his attention to the task of decluttering his room with an efficiency that left his clothes arching through the air to land perfectly in a hamper across the space.

You found yourself standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, the chill of your drenched clothes causing you to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, you crossed your arms in an attempt to preserve warmth, your gaze drifting downwards before curiosity prompted a survey of your surroundings. The room was a capsule of Billy's world – his bed, a stark island in the chaos, lay opposite the door, while a white dresser burdened with an assortment of items claimed territory to your left. A stereo system and a mirror positioned at the foot of his bed stood guard in front of his closet, serving as silent sentinels of his privacy. The walls were an eclectic gallery featuring a mix of band posters—Metallica's ‘Kill 'Em All’ and Tank's ‘Filth Hounds of Hades’ among them—and a singular, provocatively posed woman adorning a minuscule bikini set.

A cough from Billy broke the silence, his posture shifting uncomfortably as he planted a hand on his hip, mirroring your own awkwardness. "Do you wanna take a hot shower?" His voice, hesitant yet earnest, sliced through the tension.

You matched his earlier gesture, clearing your throat before responding with a nod, your smile timid yet sincere, a silent thank you. "If you don't mind."

His response was quick, almost reflexive. "I wouldn't be asking if I did." The briefest flicker of something akin to regret crossed his features, a look that suggested he found the current situation less than ideal. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to dismiss his own thoughts, he guided you to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Handing you a towel with an awkwardness that seemed out of place on him, he promised to find you some dry clothes, leaving you with the comforting prospect of warmth and a momentary escape from the night's chaos. Peeling away the layers of your drenched attire felt like shedding a second, clammy skin, each piece a testament to the frugality that necessity had imposed upon your life. The fabric, cheap and worn, clung to you with a stubborn chill, and even as you stood bare in the relative warmth of the bathroom, shivers danced across your skin, relentless in their embrace.

You stepped over the edge of the tub with a cautious grace, turning the faucet with hands that trembled not just from the cold but from the uncertainty of the moment. As the water sputtered to life, you drew the shower curtain with a swift motion, sealing yourself away from the world for a brief interlude. The array of bottles lining the tub's edge caught your eye, prompting an involuntary snort of amusement.

Billy, it seemed, defied the stereotype of masculine simplicity in skincare, the stereotype that suggested a preference for efficiency over variety. Your father, with his staunch allegiance to three-in-one products, had been your benchmark for male grooming habits. Yet here, in Billy's shower, was a collection that spoke of a different creed. You couldn't help but smirk, a playful curiosity lifting your brows as you inspected the labels one by one. Shampoos, more than one might expect, each bottle worn from use, nestled beside conditioners—one clearly favored, its contents more depleted.

The body wash, singular in its presence, was an olfactory enigma. Unscrewing the cap, you were met with an assault of scents, as if the essence of every cologne and deodorant had been distilled into this one vessel. The smell was overpowering, undeniably masculine, a concentrated embodiment of Billy's presence. You searched for the words to describe it but landed on the singularly fitting—manly.

As the warm water cascaded over you, washing away the layers of the day—the sweat, the remnants of makeup that had survived the downpour—you moved with haste. There was a keen awareness of not overstaying your welcome in this unexpected sanctuary. Gratitude for Billy's kindness mingled with a sense of urgency; such generosity was a rare currency in your world, and you were acutely conscious of its value. In these moments, under the stream of cleansing water, you found a temporary reprieve, a fleeting sense of solace amid the turbulence of your life. The moment your skin felt the cool air of the bathroom, a soft knock echoed against the door, a gentle but unexpected intrusion into your solitude. Clutching the towel around yourself with a sudden modesty, you cracked the door open just enough to extend a hand into the gap. Billy's presence on the other side was palpable, his chuckle a low, soft sound that fluttered through the air as he passed a bundle of clothes to you. "Thanks," you murmured, a rush of words barely escaping before you retreated behind the door once more.

Dressed in the clothes Billy had chosen—socks, boxers, sweats, and a shirt—you paused at the threshold of his room, suddenly conscious of the absence of your bra and acutely aware that he was, too. With a final act of tidiness, you folded the towel meticulously and flicked off the lights, leaving behind the sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty that lay beyond.

You found yourself lingering in the doorway, arms wrapped defensively across your chest, the fabric of his shirt a poor shield against the vulnerability you felt. Billy's gaze upon you was indescribable, heavy with an unspoken expectation as if he wished to peel back the layers of your being and examine the hidden scars that lay beneath.

Mustering what little composure you had, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed, confusion and something else—was it concern?—etching lines into his forehead. "For what?" he queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and something softer.

You diverted your gaze, a sense of intrusion overwhelming you despite the sanctuary he'd provided. "Bothering you. It's late," you admitted, feeling the weight of your unwelcome presence.

The sound of his movement pulled your eyes upward, half-expecting, half-hoping he might bridge the distance between you. Instead, you were met with the sight of his back as he rifled through his nightstand, the tension in the room palpable. "Sit," he commanded, and though under any other circumstance you might have bristled at the order, the exhaustion and gratitude mingling within you coaxed compliance.

Without protest, you perched on the edge of the bed, a silent observer to his actions, the room around you filled with an unspoken dialogue made of glances and gestures, a fragile understanding hanging in the balance. As he pivoted towards you, a black box in his grasp, an electric tension filled the air. He chose not to sit beside you on the bed; instead, he knelt before you, an unexpected intimacy in the space between your parted knees. Your breath caught, a silent gasp lost in the moment, and irritation flared within you as you noticed the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a mix of curiosity and wariness lacing your words, your gaze sharply tracking his movements.

"If I remember correctly, Sweetheart, you gave me a lecture on using Neosporin or otherwise you get scars, right?" His voice held a playful rebuke, cutting off any response you might have mustered. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen, huh?"

His attention fixed on a spot on your forehead, drawing your own hand reflexively to the area he observed, only to flinch at the tender reminder of a wound you hadn't registered until now. The memory of the collision with your trailer door flickered through your mind, a painful blur in the chaos of the night. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he attended to the wound, a carefulness in his actions that surprised you, challenging what you thought you knew of him. Despite the months you'd spent in his orbit, this moment revealed layers you hadn't glimpsed before.

"You don't have to do that," you found yourself saying as he procured a tube of Neosporin—a recent addition to his kit, no doubt on your advice. "I can do it, too."

"Never said you couldn't," he hummed back, undeterred as he meticulously applied the ointment, his focus undivided. With deliberate care, he placed two butterfly plasters across the cleaned wound, a silent testament to his unspoken concern. Gathering the discarded wrappers and used items, he compressed them in his hand and rose, moving to dispose of the trash. In that small, enclosed space, with the sound of rain a distant murmur against the windows, a different side of Billy was illuminated under the soft glow of the room's lighting — a side tender, careful, and starkly at odds with the rough edges of his usual demeanor. You cleared your throat, a gesture so small yet so loaded with the weight of the evening's events.

"Thank you," you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. He paused in his motions, turning towards you with a smile so radiant it threatened to stop your heart in its tracks.

"No problem, Sweetheart," he replied, his voice a smooth salve over the jagged edges of the night. As he moved to dispose of the trash, a sudden, inexplicable tumult stirred within you. With a hand pressed against your chest, you sought to quell the storm brewing beneath your ribs, a futile attempt to calm the chaos his mere presence invoked.

Rising to your feet, you drifted towards the window, seeking solace in the steady downpour that mirrored your inner turmoil. The rain continued to fall, now more fiercely than before, a relentless deluge that held you captive in this moment. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the glass.

"Didn't get much of this in California, huh?" you ventured, an attempt to bridge the chasm of silence between you.

He let your question hang in the air, unanswered, yet the fleeting shadow that crossed his face spoke volumes, a bitterness that matched the storm outside. His gaze shifted, momentarily caught in the past before refocusing on the present — on the wound that marred your forehead. "What happened?" he asked, the question simple yet loaded with unspoken concern.

You shrugged, a movement laden with the weight of untold stories. "Nothing," you replied, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breath, a practiced deception you had mastered over time. "I tripped."

"And that had you walking through the rain in the middle of the night?" His skepticism was palpable, a challenge to the facade you'd constructed.

A battle raged within you, the urge to confess warring with the instinct to conceal. You bit back the tears threatening to spill, the pain of admission too great to bear. "I locked myself out and didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah?" he pressed, his disbelief a tangible force.

"Yeah." Your affirmation was a whisper in the storm, a feeble attempt to maintain the crumbling walls around your heart.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, trapping you between the solid reality of his form and the immovable barrier of his closet. "If you don't want to talk about it then say so," he declared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "Don't lie and pretend to be fine when clearly you aren't."

In that charged moment, with the rain as your sole witness, the space between you became a battleground of unspoken words and concealed wounds, a testament to the complexity of human connection. Your jaw clenched tightly, a tangible manifestation of your frustration and defiance. The notion of receiving unsolicited advice, particularly from him, was almost laughable. Gratitude for his shelter in the storm did not extend to welcoming painful truths. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Billy. It's not like you aren't just fine all the time," you retorted, your words sharp, laden with a bitterness born of too many hidden truths.

The shift in him was immediate, his anger dissipating as though your words had pierced a veil, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability he so meticulously guarded. When he raised his hand, the gentle brush of his forefinger against the stray tear on your cheek sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "I never said I wanted to talk about it," he murmured, his voice soft, revealing a hint of his own battles fought in silence. Your heart fluttered uncontrollably, his touch igniting a flurry of sensations, momentarily tethering you to a moment of raw connection.

The sudden crack of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, jolted you back to reality, breaking the spell that had momentarily bound you. The urge to flee, to return to the semblance of normalcy that awaited at home, surged within you. "I should probably go," you whispered, hoping against hope that your father's drunken stupor would erase the night's events by morning, that a simple act of domestic normality could smooth over the fractures in your life. "Do you have an umbrella or something?"

His response was instant, a resolute rejection of your plan. "Do you really think I'll let you get back there now? So, you can flash a cut lip and a blue eye tomorrow at school, too?" His words, though posed as a question, left no room for argument. In his refusal to allow you to venture back into the storm, both literal and metaphorical, lay an unspoken pledge of protection, a sanctuary against the tempest that raged beyond his door. "What does it matter?" you found yourself arguing, feeling the weight of your own arms as they fell limply by your sides. The sense of defeat was palpable in the air. "So, I stay tonight, then what, Billy? I'll have to go back eventually, and it's only until the school year's over. Then, I'm gone anyway."

His response came in the form of a growl, though you could tell his anger wasn't directed at you. It stemmed from a place of shared desperation, from having clung to the same sliver of hope himself. "So, you're just gonna let him beat you for the rest of the year?"

Your response was a snort, laced with sarcasm, as you tilted your head, challenging him. "Aren't you doing the same thing?" The silence that followed was telling, even if no words were spoken, until he dared to step closer.

"It does matter, you know," he said, his voice softer now, reducing the physical distance between you yet careful not to invade your personal space.

"Why?" The question came out more as a whisper of disbelief. For the past month, he had acted as if you were barely visible, and suddenly, he seemed to care deeply. "Why now?"

His hesitation was palpable, as if the words he was about to utter could scorch his tongue. "I like you." The simplicity of his confession hung between you, fraught with unspoken complexities.

You bit your lip, a sad, resigned smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lowered your head. "Don't do that to yourself." The words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime. Tears threatened to spill over, a testament to a sentiment you had never expected to receive. The idea that someone could not just tolerate but actually like you was foreign, almost too much to bear. All your life, you had erected walls to keep people at a distance, for their affection meant empathy, and with empathy came pain. The sight of your wounds would become their agony, and in a twisted way, their suffering would become yours, completing a circle of shared hurt you had always sought to avoid.

"Who do you think I am, Billy?" You backed away slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of distance between you and Billy, but the inevitable happened—your retreat was abruptly stopped by the wall. A wave of unfamiliar pressure washed over you. Was it fear? Or perhaps vulnerability? You couldn't quite place the emotion. "I'm not the kind of person to have around. I won't complete you, won't enrich your life,” you stammered out, your voice a mix of warning and fear. These words were your feeble attempt to shield him, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment that seemed to follow you like a shadow. "I—I'm just so fucked up and stuck trying to put everything... everything broken back into place. I... I can't look for your shards, too."

When your eyes finally dared to meet his, you expected to see annoyance, maybe even rejection. Instead, what you found was empathy, his expression softened, recognizing the turmoil within you as something he too understood. "I don't want you to try and fix me," he said, his tone gentle, soothing the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. His hand reached for yours, not as a claim but as a gesture of companionship, of solidarity. "But searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together." In the dimly lit room, where shadows danced across the walls with a life of their own, Billy Hargrove revealed himself in a way that words could scarcely capture. The man you thought you knew, encased in layers of protective anger and a cocksure swagger, allowed those defenses to melt away in your presence. It was as if he peeled back the veneer of bravado, exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his soul—a mosaic of past hurts and present struggles laid bare for only your eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against your cheek, a cascade of sensations unfurled within you. It was more than a touch; it was an electric current that surged through your veins, rendering you speechless, breathless. As you locked gazes with him, drowning in the ocean of his bright blue eyes, the world seemed to pause. Every attempt at drawing breath felt like an insurmountable task, and yet, paradoxically, you felt more grounded than ever, as if an invisible force tethered you to the very core of the earth. Simultaneously, there lingered an exhilarating sense of lightness, a curious wonder if you might suddenly break free from gravity's embrace and ascend into the ether. The effect Billy had on you was profound, leaving you to ponder if perhaps, in some small way, you affected him similarly.

Did you trouble his thoughts as he did yours? Did your presence steal his breath and unsettle him to his core? Within the quiet chambers of your heart, a small, worn, and lonely piece of you clung to the hope that he might feel the same.

As his index finger traced the contours of your face with reverence, from the softness of your cheek to the furrowed worry lines on your forehead, and finally to the tender vulnerability of your lips, you sensed a hesitancy in him. His other hand, which had been a mere whisper away from yours against the wall, dropped slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he had lent you. With a subtle tug, influenced by a brief flare of his nostrils, it was as if he was battling a storm of desire within, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from crossing a line from which there was no return. In that moment, Billy Hargrove was no longer just a name or a face; he was a force, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, threatening to unravel the very fabric of your being.

The words stumbled from your lips, frail and unsteady, shattering the facade of indifference you had desperately clung to. "So—" you began, only to have your voice fracture cruelly midway, exposing the turbulence beneath your calm exterior. "You want to be friends…like officially?"

A crooked smile unfurled across his face, his deep-set eyes twinkling with a blend of amusement and an unexpected trace of shyness. His grip on the fabric of the shirt intensified, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Trust me, Sweetheart, friends isn’t what I had in mind," he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent a wave of heat cascading down your spine, igniting a flurry of desire that pooled in the depths of your stomach.

You stood petrified, a statue of anticipation, as an inexplicable longing surged within you, compelling your fingers to twitch at your sides. You yearned to weave your fingers through the silky strands of his meticulously styled hair, to explore the contours of his being with a touch. Yet, as he retreated, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jeans, you found yourself anchored in place, watching him with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning disappointment. It wasn't the withdrawal you had anticipated that took you by surprise, but rather the keen sense of letdown that he didn't pursue the tension crackling between you further.

When he turned his back to you momentarily in search of an ashtray, a childish pout began to form on your lips, a silent testament to your discontent. Billy, however, remained oblivious to your turmoil, opting instead to lean casually against the wall by the open window, exhaling smoke into the tempestuous embrace of the rainy night. You pondered over his actions, the deviation from his usual indifference to smoking indoors. The scent of tobacco, which had once been a source of discomfort, had, over time, woven itself into the tapestry of comforts associated with Billy's presence. It was an aroma that, in the context of his room—a sanctuary of chaotic tranquility—had become oddly reassuring. Mixed with the other, more elusive scents that lingered in the corners of his space, it crafted an ambiance that was undeniably Billy, and in that moment, you realized how deeply entwined your senses had become with the essence of his existence. The array of colognes that enveloped him carried none of the hallmarks of the cheap fragrances that typically permeated the crowded hallways of Hawkins High. His presence, and indeed his room, was suffused with a complex aroma—slightly woody, perhaps a hint of leather, and beneath it all, a subtle undertone of sweetness that floated gently in the air. It was an olfactory melody that intrigued you, a scent that you found unexpectedly comforting.

Wrapped in your own arms, you approached him, a silent figure against the tumult of your thoughts, pressing your back to the wardrobe adjacent to his window. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to you, a gesture that halted you momentarily. As you reached out, the brief touch of his warm fingers against yours sent an inexplicable shiver down your spine, a sensation that seemed to echo on your skin long after the contact had ended. Drawing in the acrid taste of the smoke, you allowed yourself a moment to indulge in the bitterness, your eyes lifting to meet his.

There he was, a grin playing on his lips, watching you with an intensity that rendered you momentarily breathless. The world around you narrowed to the space between you two, your senses hyper-aware of his proximity. The cigarette, now a forgotten prop in your hand, no longer demanded your attention as you found yourself irresistibly drawn into the depths of his blue gaze. An unconscious bite to your lip betrayed your thoughts as your eyes darted to his lips and back again.

He closed the distance with a single, purposeful step, igniting a trail of warmth that flickered to life within you. Billy leaned in, his breath—a mix of smoke and something indefinably sweet—brushed against your cheek, sending ripples of anticipation through you. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his voice a blend of amusement and challenge. "You gonna smoke that, Sweetheart, or are you just gonna keep staring?"

In that moment, under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath, you realized the cigarette was merely a bystander in a dance of tension and unspoken desires, a dance that had you captivated and wanting more. A blush crept up your neck, a vivid testimony to the turmoil within, as you extended the cigarette towards him, a silent plea for normalcy. Yet, instead of simply taking it, he lingered, his chuckle a low rumble against the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. He leaned back, his movements languid yet deliberate, eyes locked on yours as he accepted the cigarette, drawing in a slow, purposeful drag. Under the weight of his gaze, your heart raced, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. His lips twitched into a smirk, and in that moment, the tether of your restraint snapped.

Driven by a surge of boldness, you seized the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a collision of lips. The world narrowed to the point of contact, where fear and desire mingled in a single breath. But as quickly as the impulse came, it retreated, leaving you to recoil in a mix of surprise and mortification. "I'm so sor—"

But your apology was cut short, his hand finding the nape of your neck, an anchor pulling you back into the storm. His lips sealed over yours with a fervor that spoke of raw need and simmering frustration. The sensation in your stomach exploded into a wildfire, racing through your veins, igniting every fiber of your being. His hands, emboldened and roaming, traced paths filled with longing and anticipation, his grip on your hip a silent command that spurred a sharp intake of breath. Yet, as Billy drew you closer, melding your body to his with a hunger that spoke of endless waiting, the kiss deepened, transcending the confines of time and space. The world outside this embrace dissolved into insignificance, leaving nothing but the intensity of your connection, a thirst quenched in the meeting of lips, finally stilled in the embrace of shared desire. Emerging first from the embrace, you found yourself ensnared in a heady daze, breathless from a mixture of oxygen deprivation and the intoxicating effect of Billy's touch. Your hands clung to his shirt collar, a desperate bid to maintain the closeness, the electricity that buzzed between you. Yet, Billy harbored no intention of releasing you into the cold reality just yet. As your eyelids fluttered shut again, his lips embarked on a fervent exploration along the tender expanse of your neck. Each kiss was a brand, igniting fires within your veins, stirring a wild rush of blood that screamed for more.

In his ministrations, Billy was anything but tentative, his actions painting the strokes of your silent wishes with bold, assertive colors. You reveled in the sensation, a glorious chaos made of his fervent kisses and the playful nip of teeth against your skin, eliciting a hitch in your breath that morphed into a soft whine. This sound drew a triumphant grin across his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he wielded over you.

The moment shifted as he gently maneuvered you backward, only to ease himself onto the edge of his bed, pulling you into his orbit with an unspoken command. You remained on your feet, a silent statue, until he chastised you with a playful tilt of his head and a tug on the waistband of the pants he had lent you. "You do always need a second invitation, huh?" he teased, his voice a blend of amusement and desire.

His hands, firm and insistent, found your thighs, drawing you irresistibly onto his lap. Positioned intimately close, your breath caught as the proximity sparked a fresh surge of desire. Your gaze flitted over his features, captivated by the intensity in his eyes before inevitably being drawn to the smug curve of his lips. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze and the promise of his smile, you teetered on the edge of surrender, every fiber of your being alight with anticipation.

In the charged silence of the room, your voice was a mere whisper, a soft breeze that dared not disturb the delicate sphere of intimacy that encased you both. "Is anyone else home?" The words barely left your lips, a testament to the fragile moment you were so afraid to shatter.

Billy's response was a grin, one that spoke volumes of the thoughts he'd kept at bay, now unchained in the privacy of his domain. "No," he breathed, a single syllable heavy with unspoken promises. His hands, emboldened by the assurance of solitude, resumed their exploratory journey with renewed vigor. They ascended your thighs, ventured over the curve of your behind, and continued upwards until the rough warmth of his calloused palms met the smooth expanse of your waist. "Concerned you won't be able to stay quiet, Sweetheart?" he teased, a playful challenge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head, a flush of warmth crawling up your neck, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just curious," you managed to say, your fingers finding solace in the soft strands of his blonde hair. Under your gaze, something flickered in his eyes—was it adoration?—a fleeting glimpse into the depths of Billy Hargrove that few were privy to. The realization that you were witnessing the unguarded essence of the man beneath the facade was both exhilarating and daunting, a secret you cherished deep within your heart.

In an unexpected move, he drew you against him, erasing any distance that remained. The gasp that escaped your lips mingled with the air as you became acutely aware of his desire pressing insistently against you. His lips found yours in a seal of fervent need, prompting an involuntary arch of your hips against his. A groan, laced with curses and unbridled yearning, vibrated against your mouth as Billy's restraint began to unravel. And then, with a fluidity that left you breathless, the world flipped—Billy loomed above you, a figure of strength and passionate intent, casting a shadow that promised an escape from the confines of reality. One arm kept him propped up above you, the other sliding beneath your butt, lifting you to meet his movements. A delicate moan fled your tongue, almost lost in the kiss as he sealed his lips onto yours, excitement thrumming in your core. As Billy's lips departed from yours, a reluctant retreat that sent a pang through your chest, you were left gasping beneath him, the room spinning slightly in the absence of his touch. For a brief moment, the world outside the cocoon of his room ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths hanging in the air. Your eyelids fluttered open only when the tender caress of his thumb traced your bottom lip, drawing your gaze upwards to meet his. In his eyes, a storm of emotions hinted at a struggle, a reluctance to break the connection that had so fiercely ignited between you.

Silently, he rolled away, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark. The soft click of the light switch plunged the room into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon's glow filtering through the curtains. "Night, Sweetheart," he murmured, a term of endearment that now seemed to carry a weight of unspoken words between you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion and a myriad of unanswered questions swirling in your mind. The impulse to voice your bewilderment, to ask why he had halted the crescendo of your shared passion, rose sharply within you. Yet, each time your lips parted, no words emerged, as if the gravity of the moment held your voice captive. With a heavy heart, you turned away, presenting your back to him, a silent testament to the tumult within.

As the minutes trickled by, Billy's breaths deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, a testament to his drift into tranquility. Left alone with your thoughts, the questions continued to dance at the edges of your consciousness, unanswered, echoing in the quiet of the night. Despite the turmoil, the pull of exhaustion proved stronger, and eventually, your eyes closed, surrendering to the elusive promise of rest, even as the mystery of his actions lingered, a shadow at the back of your mind. Upon awakening, you found yourself momentarily lost in the fog of disorientation, the remnants of sleep clouding your senses. As your consciousness gradually sharpened, the events of the night prior began to piece themselves together, painting a vivid picture of unexpected solace. For the first time in what felt like eons, you had been gifted with the luxury of a deep, undisturbed sleep, free from the clutches of anxiety that so often held you captive. The sensation of safety enveloped you, a cocoon of warmth that was both foreign and immensely comforting.

As awareness seeped further into your waking mind, you became acutely conscious of the presence beside you. An arm, strong and reassuring, draped across your middle, its weight a silent promise of protection. A leg, muscular and firm, intertwined with your own, anchoring you to this moment of peace. The thought of disrupting this tranquil intimacy, of stirring him from sleep and thus dissolving the delicate bubble of comfort you found yourself in, was unbearable. So, you settled back down, surrendering to the warmth, allowing yourself a moment more of this rare contentment.

However, reality was never far behind, its relentless march signaled by the crimson digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. A quiet groan escaped your lips as you registered the time—6:30 a.m. The demands of the day loomed large, a reminder that the sanctuary you found in Billy's arms was but a temporary reprieve. School awaited, a stark return to the routines and expectations that defined your everyday life.

The fragile silence of the morning was shattered abruptly by the growl of an engine cutting through the calm, a harbinger of the chaos to come. The sound of car doors slamming, followed by the rise and fall of angry voices, punctured the tranquility of dawn. A woman's pleading tones, desperate for discretion, clashed with the male fury, an unwelcome intrusion into the peacefulness of the early hours. Footsteps, heavy and ominous, approached the house, the finality of the front door slamming open a jarring wake-up call.

In an instant, Billy was alert, his body tensing as he sat up, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the gentle stillness that had enveloped you moments before. The reality you had momentarily escaped was crashing back down with undeniable force, the impending confrontation a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond the haven of his room. You cursed under your breath, a sharp departure from the warmth and safety that had enveloped you just moments ago. The bed suddenly felt too large and cold as you distanced yourself, your presence—a constant source of comfort—receding with each step you took. Alarmed, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching your silhouette navigate the dimly lit room. You paused at the door, an unmistakable tension in your posture as you strained to listen to the cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing through the house. It was a dance of shadows and sounds, one you knew all too well, having played the same game of anticipation and fear in your own life.

The voices crescendoed then waned, the storm outside your sanctuary dissipating momentarily. A male voice, harsh and demanding, cut through the relative calm, summoning you with a ferocity that made the air in the room heavier. You watched as the boy before you transformed, your body stiffening, every muscle coiling in dread. It was as if you could see the gears turning in your head, a frantic search for any misstep that could have incited this wrath.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a ripple in the tense atmosphere as you moved to join him. But his arm shot out, a barrier between you, a silent plea for you to keep your distance.

The impending confrontation burst into your room with the force of a storm. Your father, a tempest of anger, filled the doorway, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck bulging with every shouted word. His rage was palpable, a living entity that sought to crush everything in its path. And then his eyes found you. In that instant, the fury that had contorted his features melted away, replaced by a facade as thin and fragile as ice over a winter lake. It was a look you recognized, one your own father adopted in the presence of outsiders, a mask that barely concealed the storm raging beneath. His gaze flicked between you and Billy, a silent accusation in the shift of his eyes.

"I thought we agreed on no more... guests?" His voice, though softer, still carried the undercurrent of a threat. You remained silent, a statue in the eye of the storm, your resignation more telling than words could ever be. Your father straightened, adopting a veneer of civility that did nothing to ease the tension clawing at your insides.

"I'm sorry, but my son isn't allowed nightly visitors. Why don't you show your lady friend the door, hm?" The words were spoken with a superficial politeness that did nothing to mask the disdain and control that simmered beneath the surface. It was a moment suspended in time, a crossroads between the sanctuary of the night past and the harsh daylight reality of your present. Billy remained motionless, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on his father. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken threats and long-standing grievances. It was in this tense tableau that he uttered your name, a sound so rarely heard in such a context that it jolted you. “Why don’t you get dressed?” His voice, though soft, carried an uncharacteristic gravity.

With a nod that was more reflex than conscious agreement, you skirted past the palpable tension in the room, escaping to the sanctuary of the bathroom where your clothes awaited, still bearing the chill of being slightly damp. Once enveloped in the privacy it offered, the murmur of voices beckoned you closer, curiosity and concern pressing you to eavesdrop.

“You’re gonna say goodbye to your whore and then you and I are going to have a talk,” you heard, the venom in the elder Hargrove’s voice unmistakable.

Billy’s reply was a shadow of his usual defiance, “She isn’t—”

“What was that?” The threat in his father’s voice was sharp, a warning that brooked no argument.

Unable to bear the thought of the situation escalating in your absence, you stepped back into the fray, positioning yourself as a physical barrier between Billy and his father. The air was electric with tension, a tangible force that seemed to test the very limits of endurance. Yet, your voice, when it came, was steady. “Billy, you promised to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, but Billy can’t right now,” his father interjected smoothly, a sneer barely concealed beneath his veneer of civility.

“But I have no other way of getting home, sir,” you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance born of necessity.

“I’m sure it’s close enough to walk. It’s Hawkins, after all,” he dismissed, his tone laced with condescension.

“See, sir, I live just outside of Hawkins, actually.” Your reply was calm, measured, even as you laid bare the stakes of the situation.

“Is that so?” His skepticism was palpable, a challenge thrown down between you.

“Yes, and Billy assured me he would take me home, otherwise I’ll miss school, sir.” Your words, carefully chosen, were a gambit, one that played on his momentary hesitation.

The standoff that followed was a testament to the complex web of power and defiance that characterized the Hargrove household. Eventually, he took a step back, conceding ground with visible reluctance. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?” His once-over was dismissive, reducing you to nothing more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be dispatched.

“We will talk when you get back,” he finally said to Billy, his words heavy with unspoken threats.

“I’ll have to drive straight to school after dropping her off, otherwise I’ll miss first period.” Billy’s response was a careful negotiation, a bid for time and a brief reprieve from the confrontation that awaited him. His father’s glare could have scorched the earth, a silent vow of retribution that hung in the air long after he had left the room. Billy closed the door with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. He leaned against it, a solitary figure momentarily bowed by the weight of his father’s expectations. The sigh that escaped him was one of relief, a brief respite in the eye of an ever-present storm.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was laced with trepidation, the words barely a whisper in the charged atmosphere of the room. A part of you feared his anger, worried that your intervention might have only served to escalate the already volatile situation. Maybe, in his eyes, you were to blame for exacerbating the tension. He turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that halted your breath. The silence that followed was thick, a tangible entity that seemed to pulse with your racing heart. When he remained motionless, the void of his response sent a spike of panic through you. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make things worse. I should have stayed quiet—"

But before you could further berate yourself, his lips crashed against yours, an urgent, fierce motion that swept away the remnants of the confrontation like debris in a storm. His arms encircled you, pulling you into the eye of his tempest, while your hands found the solid wall of his chest, a grounding point amid the whirlwind. Billy's grin, felt rather than seen, infused the kiss with a defiance, a silent declaration that no force, no matter how daunting, could intrude upon this moment he claimed as solely yours. His hands shamelessly groped at your hips and behind, tongue dominating yours. You pulled away in desperate need for air, panting and dazed. Billy’s lips fell to your neck, sucking and licking at the saltiness of your skin. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” Squeezing your ass again, he let go of you and, with one last kiss, went to get dressed.

You found yourself adrift in the center of his room, each breath a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that had carried you from silence to this uncharted territory. How, you pondered, had the distance between you closed so swiftly, transforming into an intimacy that left you both breathless and bewildered?

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, revealing Billy. His readiness was astonishing, his preparation swift beyond anticipation. With a nonchalant ease, he emerged, the very image of casual confidence. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's the hell outta here," he beckoned, his voice a mix of warmth and urgency. Grasping your hand, he guided you towards the promise of freedom beyond these walls. Yet, as fate would have it, his father's voice shattered the brief illusion of escape, calling out to him once more. Instantly, you felt the change in Billy, a tension coiling within him, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, a silent plea for respite, an attempt to shield his spirit from the weight of reality. Casting a fleeting, half-hearted glance your way, his fingers slipped from yours, leaving a cold absence in their wake as he turned to face whatever storm awaited him.

Left in limbo near the front door, you strained your ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the exchange, but silence was your only companion. With a soft sigh of resignation, you turned your gaze outward, taking in the Hargrove residence bathed in the soft glow of morning light, nestled among the uniformity of Cherry Lane, Hawkins, Indiana.

The neighborhood was a palette of similarity, each house a variation on a theme, distinguished only by the creativity or neglect of its occupants. Some lawns bore the scars of a relentless summer, patches of grass striving towards life amidst the drought, while others lay untamed, a testament to indifference. The Hargrove's lawn, though touched by the season's harshness, was neatly trimmed, a small rebellion against the decay. The path leading to their home was worn, stones cracked and yielding to time, yet adorned with recent attempts at beauty—flowers and bushes planted with hope at their edges.

It was a scene markedly different from the chaos of the trailer park, where the dance of avoidance was a daily routine—sidestepping the debris of forgotten nights and broken dreams. Here, in the relative tranquility of Billy's world, such hazards were absent, a small mercy in the grand tapestry of his life. When Billy reappeared, his stormy demeanor spoke volumes before a word was uttered. The disheveled state of his collar hinted at a confrontation, a silent testament to his father's harsh grasp. He breezed past you, the air crackling with the tension that followed him, his gaze barely grazing yours. You trailed behind, a frown etching your features, though you kept your thoughts to yourself. Settling into the passenger seat of his Camaro, you fastened the seatbelt, a silent barrier between you and the world outside. The cozy sanctuary that had briefly cocooned you both seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving a palpable distance. Billy had begun to wall himself off once more, retreating from the fragile bridge of intimacy that had been tentatively constructed between you. His words echoed hollowly in the cramped space of the car.

‘Searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together.’

The Camaro's engine roared to life, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil unfolding within. Your lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The sharp pang of regret and what-ifs punctured your heart with relentless precision. Had Billy not halted his advances, you might have found solace in his arms, seduced by the illusion of safety he offered. Alone, you might have scoffed at your own gullibility, labeling it as sheer desperation or foolishness. Yet, it was Billy's words that had resonated so deeply with you, mirroring the silent pleas that had haunted your thoughts for far too long. The desire to escape the solitude that clung to you like a second skin was overpowering. You yearned for something more, something profound to anchor you to this world, beyond the fleeting dream of liberation that the future promised. You sought a connection that bore significance, a beacon to guide you through the shadowed corridors of your existence. With the final stretch of senior year unfurling before you, the promise of college lingered on the horizon, a beacon of hope that signaled a departure from the shadows of your past. It was a chance to shed the oppressive weight of your father's legacy, to carve out a space in the world where his influence couldn't reach. You clung to this future with a desperation that was silent yet palpable, the prospect of freedom a balm to the wounds of your upbringing.

Billy, however, wasn't afforded the luxury of such dreams. The grim reality of his situation was a constant companion, a reminder that not all paths led away from hardship. College, a beacon for some, remained a distant, unattainable star for him. Influenced by the harsh criticisms that had echoed from his father's lips, he had internalized a belief in his own inadequacy. Education, a potential key to unlocking doors to a brighter future, held little allure for someone who had been taught to expect nothing from life. Instead, Billy had embraced a different kind of dream—a painstaking accumulation of savings with the hope of one day returning to California, to start anew on terms of his own making.

Yet, a shadow lurked in the recesses of his mind, a specter of doubt that cast long, dark silhouettes across his aspirations. On some days, it was but a whisper, easily ignored. On others, it roared to life, a cruel reminder that perhaps his dreams were just that—figments of wishful thinking, doomed to remain unfulfilled.

The journey to your trailer park passed in silence, each lost in their own reverie. As Billy's car rolled to a halt, you murmured a terse ‘bye’ and exited, the finality of the gesture marking the end of an era. Retrieving your spare key from its hiding spot beneath an empty vase, you slipped inside, intent on changing clothes and gathering your belongings. You assumed Billy would have driven off by then, his presence a chapter closed as abruptly as it had opened.

However, upon emerging from your room, you found him rooted in place in the heart of your kitchen, his gaze transfixed by something beyond the window. The sight of him, so unexpectedly still and contemplative, caught you off guard. In that moment, the kitchen—a space so familiar and yet suddenly imbued with a new, unspoken significance—became a silent witness to the complexities of connection and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, some dreams refuse to be confined by the shadows that chase them. In the fading light of the afternoon, the question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, "Doesn't that one drug dealer live around here?" It was an innocuous inquiry, perhaps, but in the context of your shared silence, it felt charged with an undercurrent of concern.

Billy's presence, both imposing and unexpectedly comforting, loomed beside you, a steadfast figure in the shifting sands of your tumultuous life. Your voice, laced with a hint of surprise at its own firmness, broke the stillness. "Why are you still here?" The question was more than just words; it was an expression of the myriad emotions swirling within you, a mix of confusion, desperation, and a fragile glimmer of hope.

He seemed taken aback, as if your tone had shattered an invisible barrier between you. The moment stretched, filled with an unspoken tension that danced in the air, palpable yet elusive. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a warmth, a promise, "I thought I had made myself clear, Sweetheart. I'm not gonna put you up to that shit alone anymore." His words, sincere and unwavering, offered a beacon of solidarity in the chaos that had become your existence.

You found yourself at a crossroads, teetering between skepticism and the yearning to believe in the possibility of an ally. It was a delicate balance, the choice to trust, to lean into the uncertainty rather than retreat into the familiar embrace of solitude. With a quiet resolve, you chose hope over despair. "Let's get out of here," you agreed, stepping into a future uncertain yet suddenly less daunting with Billy by your side.

The journey to Hawkins High was a study in contrasts, the roar of Billy's Camaro slicing through the quiet streets, a herald of change. Anxiety gnawed at you, the prospect of walking into school with Billy Hargrove by your side—a notion so fraught with implications, real and imagined. His presence was a double-edged sword, offering protection yet drawing attention, the weight of countless eyes a tangible pressure against your skin.

Yet, as you emerged from the car, Billy's protective aura enveloped you, his glares warding off the curious and the judgmental alike. He became your shield, a guardian against the world's harsh judgments, his reluctance to leave your side a testament to a burgeoning bond, forged in adversity and softened in moments of shared vulnerability.

The day passed in a blur, the rhythm of school life punctuated by Billy's steadfast companionship, a promise kept. And when the final bell rang, it was his car that awaited, Max in the backseat, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics of your intertwined lives.

The drive home was a brief interlude, a moment of calm before the next chapter. Billy's insistence on ensuring your safety, his promise to meet at the Hawkins Community Pool, was a new thread in the tapestry of your unfolding story.

…

The pool, a place of childhood traumas and lost innocence, loomed large in your memories. Yet, as you drove towards it, the realization that Billy had carved out a space for himself there, as a lifeguard, offered a glimpse into his own attempts at navigating life's turbulent waters. The parking lot was deserted, save for the familiar silhouette of Billy's Camaro. The unlocked gate stood as an invitation, a threshold to cross into a space that was both familiar and fraught with the echoes of past fears.

Yet, in this moment, it was not the specter of childhood bullies that filled your thoughts but the prospect of standing beside Billy in this quiet, abandoned sanctuary. It was an opportunity to redefine the spaces that had once defined you, to reclaim a piece of yourself in the company of someone who was, against all odds, becoming an integral part of your journey. As you navigated through the dimly lit gates, the air hung heavy with the anticipation of the evening. Your voice, laced with a mix of irritation and playful defiance, cut through the quiet, "Billy?" The words fell into the silence, unanswered, as you moved deeper into the shadowy expanse of the pool area. The setting sun cast a soft, yellowish hue over everything, the lights around the pool flickering to life in a welcoming yet eerie glow.

Again, you called out, a whisper tinged with exasperation. "Billy?" It seemed ridiculous, this cat-and-mouse game, and yet, there was a part of you that couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete as you approached the locker rooms, the sound a solitary reminder of your presence in the vast, empty space. With a mix of annoyance and determination, you halted, the frustration evident in your voice as you threatened the unseen presence of Billy Hargrove with playful retribution. “Billy Hargrove, you had better get your butt out here now, or imma kick it when I see it.” No sooner had the words left your lips than you found yourself abruptly pulled backward, a gasp escaping you as you collided with a solid, reassuringly warm chest.

"Damn, Sweetheart," came Billy's hushed voice, a smile evident in its timbre, sending shivers down your spine. "Didn’t know you would be so violent."

The annoyance you felt dissolved into an electrifying tension as you turned within his grasp, your gaze lifting to meet his. The grin adorning his face was infectious, his fingers gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with an intimacy that set your heart racing. There he was, inches away, the warmth of his breath caressing your cheek in the cool air of the locker room. The proximity was intoxicating, a mere tilt of your head away from a kiss that seemed both inevitable and yet delicately suspended in the space between you.

You stood there, caught in his gaze, the world outside the locker room melting away. The anticipation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer without moving. It was a dance of moments and possibilities, each second stretching out as you waited for him to bridge the final distance.

In the soft, flickering light, the realization dawned on you how swiftly and completely Billy Hargrove had ensnared you, his presence alone enough to tilt your world off its axis. And there, in the silence that enveloped you both, you wondered if he too felt the gravity of this moment, this turning point that seemed poised to redefine everything. His hand, a warm presence against your skin, retreated, leaving a cool trail of longing in its wake. As he stepped back, the absence of his touch was immediate and stark, a silent protest forming in the back of your mind, yearning for the connection you were on the cusp of deepening. You watched him, a mix of emotions swirling within you. The situation had spiraled into a realm of the ridiculous—a term that barely scratched the surface of this intricate dance you both found yourselves entangled in.

"What are we doing here, Billy? It's still way too cold to go swimming." Your voice carried a hint of bewilderment, laced with a curiosity that refused to be quelled.

His response came with that signature grin, a look that promised mischief and excitement in equal measure. "Who said anything about hopping into the pool, Sweetheart?" The question hung between you, playful and inviting. As he pulled you along, a sense of adventure bubbled within you, despite the confusion that furrowed your brow.

The sauna loomed ahead, a promise of warmth and perhaps something more—an intimacy yet explored. Billy's excitement was palpable, his enthusiasm for the job and its perks infectious. "Since I'm going to be working here, I thought I'd show you what kind of privileges you could have over the summer."

"Privileges I could have?" The concept seemed foreign, amusing even. A sauna, of all things, wasn't exactly on your list of desired amenities. The skepticism must have been clear upon your face as you questioned the appeal, the idea of sweating in a small room hardly enticing.

"You'll see what I'm talking about," he assured you, his confidence unwavering.

As he opened the door to the sauna, a wave of heat greeted you, enveloping your senses in a cocoon of warmth that was surprisingly welcoming. The wood-paneled room, with its benches lining the walls and the gentle hum of heat radiating from the stones, offered a retreat from the world outside. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the chaos of daily life could not penetrate.

Billy's hand found yours once again, his touch grounding as he led you inside. The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in this haven of warmth and whispered promises. As you took a seat, the heat began to work its magic, loosening muscles and easing tensions you hadn't even realized you carried.

The air, thick with warmth, seemed to draw you both closer, an unspoken invitation to explore the connection that had been building between you. Here, in the seclusion of the sauna, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in a space where time seemed to slow, where every breath and heartbeat felt magnified.

Billy's gaze met yours, a question lingering in the depth of his eyes, a silent query if you were ready to dive into the unknown together. In that moment, the sauna became more than just a room—it became a crucible for whatever was simmering between you, a place where the heat wasn't just physical but emotional, a catalyst for desires and confessions yet unspoken.

The air vibrated with anticipation, each moment stretching, filled with the promise of revelations and a closeness that went beyond the physical. In the dim light and enveloping warmth of the sauna, you realized that this wasn't just about the privileges of summer or the novelty of a new experience. It was about discovering each other, about unraveling the layers of connection that had drawn you together.

Pent-up was merely one of many ways to describe what you were feeling, with his fingers dancing beneath your shirt and withdrawing as quickly as they had come—a teasing grin on his face, making you aware that Billy knew exactly of the effect he had on you. “You’re such an asshole, you know?” You hissed, frown deepening as he pulled his shirt over his head and put it down on the bench, using it to sit on.

He chuckled lowly, hands threading through his wild locks, tongue running over the sharp edges of his teeth. “’C’mere,” he simply stated, fingers moving in a lazy motion to accompany his words. You hesitated for a second, lips catching between your teeth as you moved forward and into his grasp. “You gotta be so hot, Sweetheart,” he started, fingers already working at removing your top. “Let’s take this off, hm?”

Words vanishing from your lips, just as quick as your common sense, you nodded, letting him pull the shirt over your head. You didn’t know where it ended up, didn’t—couldn’t—care when his hands started unbuttoning your pants with swift movements. The loose article of clothing fell from your form and Billy’s hands instantly went forward, grasping your thighs and pulling you closer. He groaned greedily, fingers digging deeper into your flesh as he nosed along your stomach and the line of your panties. There was an incessant fluttering in your stomach as his tongue slowly slid from your naval lower.

 “Billy,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shot, as his teeth pulled on the fabric of your panties, your hands falling to his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He mused, fingers sliding to the sides of your panties, before hooking his thumbs in the cotton. Flashing a grin up to your dizzy frame, he started pulling the fabric down your legs. “S’there something you wanna ask me, baby?” You shook your head in answer, swallowing heavily as you felt the cotton drop at your feet. “Had me so hard the whole day,” he groaned, pressing a sudden kiss to your core and you went rigid in anticipation. Heat gathered low in your stomach, down to your unsatisfied center.

“Kept thinking ‘bout pulling you into the locker room and fucking you stupid.” At the moan that tumbled from your throat, a dark chuckle fell from his lips. “Yeah, you’d have liked that, Sweetheart, ain’t that right?”

You whispered again, “Billy,” you tone edged with want.

“Hm?” He hummed, raising a casual brow at you as though his fingers weren’t trailing along the seams of your core. Even if he seemed utterly unaffected by the moment, you noticed the slight shift in his hips, as he adjusted himself. You forced yourself to swallow, eyes straying to the hardening bulge in his tight jeans. So terribly affected by only the thought of him, another rush of heat slithered to the pit of your stomach and lower. “C’mere here,” Billy said again, leading you onto his thigh with a quiet wickedness that set your chest aflame. He chuckled at your hesitance as you slowly settled on his thigh, the pressure against your core immediately pulling a whimper from you. His rough hand slid back to your hips, gripping tightly as the other one found your neck and brought your lips to his.

Sweat was leisurely building at the nape of your neck, a result of not only the sauna’s heat but Billy’s unhinged action, as he started to move you on his thigh. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck with a low moan, desire overshadowing your humiliation as you started to follow the pressure of his hand. Your head was starting to float with pleasure when Billy lifted his leg a little, the rough material of his jeans hitting your small bundle of nerves. A whimper slipped from your lips and onto Billy’s glistening skin. His thigh beneath your core felt so thick and sturdy, as he was whispering words so terribly vile they shook your being. One of his palms snapped harshly against the bared skin of your ass, the slap echoing in the small confinement of the sauna.

“Look at you,” Billy cooed, moving you back on his thigh before he jerked you back forward, your chest flush again his as he held you still. “Making such a mess for me, Sweetheart.” With a particularly hard grin of your hips, you felt his bulge pressing into the side of your thigh, straining beneath the blue fabric of his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, the graze pushing a low groan from Billy’s reddened lips. Trying to move again against his thigh, his arm gripped you closer against him, a broad grin flashing at the needy whine that came from you in response. “Tell me what you need, Sweetheart,” he hushed in such a sinister tone, the devil couldn’t have said it any sweeter.

“You,” you said with no second of hesitation. It wasn’t just an admission of the desire lingering in your core, but a promise of not wanting to fight the world alone anymore. You had done it long enough, both of you.

[delopsia]

stalling | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, hand jobs, a men's masturbation sleeve, PBR! Rhett, implied marriage. (But also, Rhett Abbott being needy.) Exhibitionism, if you wanna be technical about it. Brief Summary: You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

It's the obnoxious squelch of his drooling tongue gliding over your clit that's going to give him away. 

Wet little noises punctuate his every movement. So sharp that they bounce off the walls, running round and round the room and in your ears until it's all you can hear. Has your shivering fingers pulling harder on his hair, yanking him away just enough for one of those deep groans to escape, and oh god, it's only making things worse.

The last thing you need to do is give someone a reason to open the bathroom door. Walk in and catch sight of Rhett's knees against the concrete floor, between another pair of legs. Unzipped jeans pooling around his ass, one-of-a-kind rodeo buckle glinting in the light, right next to where his neglected cock rests in his lap, so heavy that it can no longer stand upright. 

Cheers roar outside. A buzzer sounds, chased by the muffled shout of an announcer you've already forgotten the name of—another eight-second ride. But it's not going to be enough to steal the number one slot. No, not with that shiny new record, not even thirty minutes old yet. 

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble.  "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting. But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there. 

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof. 

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room. 

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you. 

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open. 

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent. The sharp sound of a zipper sliding down kisses your ears. Whoever it is, they're only here for the urinal. 

But Rhett Abbott doesn't care what they're here to do. Opening his mouth to lick a long, fat stripe up your pussy, so content with himself that his eyes close midway. And there's not a damn thing that you can do about it. Hands flying up to clamp over your mouth, stifling a whimper that would surely give you away. 

That big, dumb idiot is pointing his tongue now. The soft tip of it delicately dancing across you, like too much pressure will cause the walls of this bathroom to come crumbling down. Diligently rolling your clit around like you're a piece of candy that he can just idly toy with. A cry squeaks out of you, hardly masked by the loud flush of the toilet.

There's no reason that this should be causing heat to pool in your lower belly, but it is. Winding tighter and tighter, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. So close to snapping that every step this stranger takes is too slow. Thunking closer and closer to the door, until finally...

It screeches open. Then, begins to close once more. 

You've never been so thankful for someone not washing their hands. Already reaching down to tangle your fingers in Rhett's hair and yanking. Forcing that sinful mouth of his away from your sex before—

"No, no, no," Rhett's babbling, whining, like his life depends on it. "Please, I want y' to cum on my tongue. Please, please, I want, I want..."

You can't even begin to argue with him. Because he's already wriggling himself loose, and his dripping tongue is back on you, and his stubble is scratching against you in the most mind-numbing fashion, and your whole world goes silent. 

Nothing but a faint ringing in your ears as your thighs clamp down around his skull, cumming without the slightest bit of warning. Head tilting back, thunking against the wall. A wildfire rushing across your skin in the form of a shiver. And Rhett just can't help himself, humming, licking you through it until the involuntary spasm of your pussy devolves into oversensitive, full-body jolts. 

"You..." sucking in a gasp, "have a problem." 

Understatement of the century. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was being paid. 

Rhett leans back onto his haunches, scruffy, unshaven chin glistening in the light. Dripping, even. "But I'm your problem." You don't know who taught him that, but they're going to get an earful when you catch them.

"That you are," weak, you pull on his hair, hardly enough to even sway his head. "Come up here, dummy."

There's hardly a bit of strength left in your body, and yet, somehow, your little motion is enough to get him moving, knees creaking and all, as he rises to his feet. Wet nose bumping into your cheek, nuzzling you in some odd, dog-like fashion that has you succumbing to the urge to slide your hand down and scratch him behind the ear. 

Eyelashes flutter. Pushing back into your hand. "You pettin' me?" 

"You gonna do something about it if I am?" Taunting, beneath your breath. 

His eyes roll, but he doesn't need to open his mouth for you to know what his answer is. Not when he's smiling like that, a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes. So laid back and content that he hardly seems to realize that both of your hands are making their way down to his waist, grabbing hold of it and forcing him to spin around. 

Boots chirp against the floor. And you're reaching toward your purse with one hand, blindly feeling against the stall door until you can find where it's hanging. The other arm slips around his belly, cinching him to you. His back knocks into your chest, so close that his hair tickles your cheek. 

"Y' ain't gotta..." he starts, but whatever he's trying to tell you dies in his throat. Shut up by the clear object you're drawing out of your bag. The new stroker sleeve you've been saying you'll try out but have never had the patience to dig it out of the drawer. Inconspicuous at first glance, just a rubber cylinder, textured with little nubs on the inside. 

"Can you do something for me?" Ghosting your lips over the shell of his ear. 

It's impossible to miss the shiver that rattles down his spine. "Uhuh." Nodding dumbly. 

"Touch yourself." Comes out as more of an order than a request, but that doesn't matter because Rhett's already reaching for himself. Big hand wrapping around his neglected cock, sucking in an audible breath from that alone.

You can't dig the lube out fast enough, popping open the cap and blindly pouring it into the toy. So half-assed that some of it winds up spilling out the side, running over your fingers and dripping to the floor. But you don't care; a mess is worth the sight of Rhett stroking himself, twisting his wrist just how he likes it, hips greedily leaning up into his own touch.

Lazy, you drizzle some of the lube right onto his hand, uncaring of the mess you're making. Almost entranced as he spreads it over himself, shimmering in the dull bathroom light. 

But then he's reaching out, sticky hand impatiently curling around yours, trying to guide the toy toward himself. "I want..." his head shakes, searching for words. "Want..." 

If this were any other day, you like to imagine you'd play dumb. Force him to put into words exactly what he wants and how. But the rodeo crowd and the booming voice of the announcer are still out there, anticipating his celebratory return, and that new, sparkling record ought to warrant him a reward. 

He knows that he's getting what he wants, too. Hand sliding back to his base, holding himself still as you lower that dripping toy onto him.

His head tilts backward with a gasp, falling onto your shoulder.

All that and you've hardly slid the thing past his flushed tip, almost have to squeeze him to you in order to keep him still, working down him inch by devastating inch. 

"Oh my god," a little waver in his voice, hips involuntarily jerking up into the sleeve. Those knees buckle, knocking into each other. "Fuck."

A giggle rumbles out of him, and you don't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks have turned a nice shade of strawberry, set off by the sound of his own voice. One of these days, you'll get him to believe that he sounds pretty like this, but right now, you've got a different agenda on your plate.

"Tell me how it feels," you whisper, slowly drawing that toy back up, squeezing your fist past his cock head, then beginning to draw down again. 

"Feels..." but he's forgotten how to talk, mouth floundering without a sound. "'s tight...and—mmh!"

Maybe it's your fault for twisting back up so quickly, but you just can't help it. Not when his ass is squirming back into you, unsure if he wants to push into the toy or wriggle away, mouth hardly muffling that long, drawn-out groan. Even through the thick silicone, you can feel the way he twitches, jerking in your hand like a live wire. 

So, so sensitive after a couple days of no fun.

Your hand is already quickening. Too eager to hear those breathy little oh, oh, oh's, set off by the flick of your wrist when you pass over his head. Thighs squeeze together, one of his hands flying out to brace himself against the mirror. The one that you can't quit looking at. Downright obsessed with the sight of this clear silicone hugging tight around his cock. The way precum is already spilling out of him and dripping onto the floor below. 

"Feels—feels good," tripping over his own words, voice so high that you hardly recognize it. "Fuck." 

And just like that, your hand stops. Squeezing firm at his base as he involuntarily jolts forward. 

A whine echoes through the bathroom. Pitchy. Frustrated. "Why...why did you..." He tilts his head to meet your eye. "You stopped." Speaking dumbly.

"I know." Grinning. Your hand loosens just enough for him to move again. "Try and fuck it by yourself."

Almost automatically, he tries to jerk forward. Boots stumbling across the floor, forearm flying up to catch himself as his upper body falls forward. Forehead against the mirror, dark blue eyes locked on the sight of that sleeve wrapped around his cock. 

Weak, his hips begin to move. 

Hissing as he draws back, almost hesitant to move, like he's afraid to slip out of the toy entirely. And it's...fuck that's a sight you haven't seen before. The obscenity of Rhett fucking a cock sleeve, how his balls sway with the motion of his body, perfect for you to reach down and grab. Heavy in your palm, so full that you worry what may happen if you do anything more than run your thumb up and down them. 

"This ain't—I can't," Rhett croaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "This is hard." 

The hand around his dick tightens, sends him jumping. "You can do it." 

And he just can't help himself. Feet shifting the slightest bit, trying again. Quicker this time, the lube squelching so loudly that it bounces off the wall. His mouth falls open, fogging up the mirror, panting like a dog on a summer day. Soft noises tumbling out of him, unable to stop a single one of them. 

"There you go," you murmur directly into his ear. "That's a good boy."

Pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip. Eyes squeezing shut. 

He's trying. 

He's trying so, so hard. But he just can't move quickly enough. Trapped in the crevices of this awkward position, fucking himself into your hand, arms braced over his head, legs too close together. So frustrating that you can hear it in his little grunts, bubbling out of him with every thrust.

"Please," he rasps, head thunking against the mirror. "Please, please, please." 

You've got a feeling you know what he's after. "What do you want?"

"I wanna cum!" He's blurting before you've even finished talking. "Please—please let me cum." 

The buzz of yet another eight-second ride sounds. Loud. Booming through the walls and into this little bathroom. But it's not enough to cover up Rhett's sob as your hand begins to move once more. Pumping him in tandem with his frantic hips. Drinking in those airy cries rolling off his tongue, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"This what you were wanting?" Coy, your teeth find the lobe of his ear, tugging gently. 

"Mhm," is all you're getting out of him. And he's reaching down between his own legs, dragging your hand out from where it's still toying with his balls and squeezing it tight. Needs something to cling to. Anything that isn't this cold mirror in front of him. 

Those darkened eyes peel open, locking with yours through the reflection, and his mouth is shaping around what you think is your name, but not a syllable is escaping. Almost immediately, they flicker shut once more. Your wrist flicks once. 

Rhett cums with a strangled moan. Body jerking against yours. Feet stumbling. And your hand is moving so fast that the toy catches that first rope of cum before it can splatter on the mirror, then the second. Smearing it across his spasming cock, creates a dizzying mess with the lube, so much of it that he's dripping, little spots of it scattering on the floor and the toe of his left boot. 

"Fuck," his breath fogs the glass. "That was...oh."

Your hand freezes halfway down his length. Almost forgot it was moving to begin with. 

"No, no, no," lazily tilting his head to peer over his shoulder, "keep goin' for a second."

And so you do. 

Slow as you can possibly manage, dragging the mess of a toy up and down his cock. He's sensitive. You know he is because he's shifting his weight onto the tips of his toes, fist tightening until his knuckles whiten, but there's a shiver visibly running up his spine. Cum spills out of his swollen tip. Hardly enough to count, but it's something. 

"'s good," Rhett murmurs after a moment. You've hardly got to do anything; he's already pulling away on his own, drawing that softening cock of his out of the toy altogether. Falls limp against his thigh, that sickly mixture of cum and lube already beginning to stain his jeans. 

It's a mess that'll have to be dealt with in the privacy of your hotel room because he's already tucking himself away. Pulling up his zipper and fastening that gaudy championship buckle. One of a kind. 

A selfish part of you hopes that tonight's buckle is a little easier on the eyes. 

One of his knees buckles as he turns, a big hand flying out to catch himself against the wall. "Shit," he's giggling, peering at you through the hair that's fallen into his face, "y' got me all weak in the knees, doll."

"Don't tell me you need to be carried," you're saying as if you're not intrigued by the idea of giving it a shot. 

"Nah," shaking his head, smile so big that his teeth glint in the overhead light. "Might need a few kisses to get me through the night, though." 

Eyeroll. Your free hand darts out, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and hauling him in, meeting those pale, swollen lips for a sloppy smooch. The first one lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth, both of you leaning in the wrong damn direction. But then Rhett's tilting his head, nose bumping into yours, and he's meeting you properly. One little chaste kiss after another. 

A muffled voice creeps through the walls. Distorted, but you can still hear those two little words all the same. 

"They're calling for you, Abbott," speaking against his lips, making no real effort to pull away. It'll be a few hours before you get to steal this many kisses again. 

He hums. "Which one?" Kiss. "There's two of us standin' here." Kiss.

Weak, your hand thunks against his chest. "The dumb one who climbs on dangerous animals for fun."

"That's both of us, sweetheart," he had to have been storing that. There's no way he could have come up with that so quickly on his own, grinning like a cat that's gotten the cream.

"You're not a wild animal," adjusting the hem of your shorts, blindly feeling about to make sure that they've fallen back into place. 

Nobody will know what you've been up to, so long as they don't see the bite mark on your inner thigh. 

"I can be," Rhett winks. 

That's an argument that you'll have to settle in the hotel room. Before you can even say another word, he's darting for the door, sliding open the latch, a melody of laughter trailing behind.

"Hurry!" He's barricading himself up against the entryway. Feet dug into the ground, hair sticking up every which way. "Before Archie comes lookin' and figures out 'm not actually sick." 

You can't get to the sink quickly enough. 

And if anyone notices that Rhett is a little looser than usual when he climbs that stage to accept his award, nobody says a word. Too focused on the hoopla of a brand new record, the glimmer of a brand new belt buckle, tacky as all hell and a lifetime worse than the one that sits sideways against his belly. 

...but they might notice when he turns his head and flashes a ruby red bruise lurking just below his ear. 

Sure wonder where that came from.

[il3x]

One thing I really like about "love" in LH songs is when they depict a wish to pursue love, to give love, almost separate from the wish to receive that love reciprocally.

"I'd give it all to love that girl"

"I have been trying to find her, want to give what I got"

"I'm hummin' like a revved-up truck Never mind the odds, I'm gonna try my luck with her"

(Belle Fleur Sauvage, She Lit a Fire, Fool for Love)

I say "almost" separately, because more or less every song that explores a yearning to give love also engages with a yearning to recieve. They are depicted as two desires in conversation, but arguably, on a larger scale, two facets of a whole. LH also don't put "yearning to give" on a pedestal: they depict both of these elements as verging into possessiveness.

"And when I die, I want her lying by my side In my grave, in my grave (...) I'll be the one to pluck that fleur"

"Before I commence my ride I'm askin' Lily to be my bride I know there's another man But he ain't gonna delay my plans [Chorus] I know she gonna be my wife Gonna fall in love, I'm gonna live my life with her"

(La Belle Fleur Sauvage, Fool for Love)

LH's overarching subject of searching for a lost loved one is also relevant here. Particularly its status as a solo subject - the search itself is worth commemorating in song.

In separating yearning for love and yearning to love, LH acknowledge that the chance to even offer your love is not always a given. We're obstructed by distance in space and time, by circumstance, by all sorts of incompatibility. Often, we're obstructed by loss. LH validate that just loving someone can, in itself, be something to yearn for or strive towards. They commemorate that striving in all its complexity and emotional importance; and man, I adore them for it.

[omghallucinations]

aspects and chart patterns for ateez

number one reason why i decided to write this: mingi has a grand cross.

bro this chart goes crazy. a grand cross is a SHIT TON of energy. act right now, think NEVER (or later, obsessively, full of regrets). for mingi the 4 players are uranus "manic pixie dream girl" (14 aquarius), mars "she's cute but a psycho" (15 scorpio), sun "ME! by taylor swift" (16 leo) and saturn "i work so i can go home" (16 taurus). they're all in fixed signs so that can be a rough ride! these guys ain't gonna move. it's easy to not make any progress because he feels really stuck here. the fire is blazing away, but the walls are staying put. it creates a fixed idea of how things are, a relentless energy that can eat itself. terrified of losing security. strength becomes an identity. he's both 100% always sure he is right about everything and staggeringly aware of the multiplicity of life and that no one knows what truth is, since a grand cross has one of each element so the energy is split.

it's like

his sun, in its rulership in leo, so very strong: have you SEEN ME LATELY, i want to LOVE you and come let me SHINE MY RAYS UPON YOU and you can be like wow you're so pretty!! and i'll be like yeah i am!! you're so pretty too!! i love expressing myself through dance and music!! i am 100% embracing my identity i can't be anyone other than me!! (this depends on his rising) versus uranus in aquarius, also rulership if you do modern rulers which i don't usually: uhHHHHH girl. being different is really. hard. also i don't want to join the party and i don't believe in that and also i want to leave and this is giving me anxiety. have you considered that the self is a construct and constantly changing???

meanwhile, on the other side of his chart:

mars strong in its rulership in scorpio if you do traditional rulers, which i do: i'm so sexy and intense and everyone looks at me all the time. i want to act boldly and with power and sexuality and loyalty and i'm not afraid of anyone have you considered that! if you cross me you'll fucking regret it. i'm full of deep powerful desires and i want to act to achieve them!! versus saturn in taurus: sit the hell down and be responsible, you asshole. stop doing that. stop thinking that. stop desiring that. it's not helpful. stop wanting that it's not practical. i'm the ensemble cast in stick to the status quo!! no no no! stick to the stuff you know!!

which produces these big bursts of passionate action and not a lot of follow through. there's also sub arguments, which are fun too.

sun square saturn: father saturn is always haranguing the sun/self/ego that he has to PRODUCE that he has to SUCCEED or what is the POINT, and sometimes the sun is like fuck it... i give up ballet is YOUR dream dad

father saturn is also haranguing gay cousin uranus which has the fun effect of making him both insanely stubborn/rigid and insanely chaotic at the same time

uranus is like the devil on the shoulder of mars encouraging it to do more, be more extreme, move on, hit da BRICKS

mars passes a lot of that message on to the sun, being like you gotta be move and make a decision right now and who gives a shit what the consequences are! let's jump off this building!!

thank god mingi has an "easy opposition" planet that offshoots his saturn-mars opposition! depending on his birth time his moon likely sextiles saturn and trines mars to some degree. the way out of this all or nothing mentality is through his cancer moon (so many of ateez have cancer moons). his moon is basically like... girl go home. learn to garden or knit or something. get out of the club girl what are u doing

san's mars opposes his jupiter exactly. no like. exactly exactly. 0.00 orb which i almost have never seen in my life. so she's a strong and intense opposition! the two sides of the seesaw:

his mars in scorpio: i'll die for you, i'll kill for you, i have deeply internalized so much red hot rage that i am afraid of being angry but also unable to not be angry. haha i'm fine, he said, his eyes shooting fire. let's go deep and dark right now, i can handle any weight and get though anything also if you betray me i will never forget so write that down, i love two things powerful soul-penetrating intimacy and holding on to my grudges. do you remember that one time you did that one thing because i do versus... taurus jupiter: you know what i love? nature. humanity. my ideals. bro you're really harshing my mellow so bad. i want to focus on acquiring my cool items and comfort. have you tried just like... letting go? transform yourself into a more benevolent being! i'm managing my money, other people's money, whatever, my investments go crazy and i have great intimate partnerships and that's enjoy to bring me fulfillment and joy :)

thankfully his leo venus is there! leo venus trines his scorpio mars and sextiles his jupiter, softening each one with that optimistic romance, the creativity, the passion. venus is not always acting perfectly--she sure can be an egomaniac--but it can certainly smooth out the rough edges of mars and connects the two extremes. it's also in the 12th, the pisces-y house, so it's sort of quieter, more introverted, very compassionate and sympathetic to others.

hongjoong also has an almost exact opposition (0.07, so close!) with a softening planet to the side.

jupiter in pisces: have you ever thought about humanity? we have a responsibility to help the less fortunate! do you think ghosts are real? do you want to join a cult? also i'm so sad :( about people being sad :(. also i really really want to spend all my money! right now!! it's fine i'll make more money whatever, what is important is look at my beautiful gorgeous items (2nd house). versus... mars in virgo: gotta WORK. gotta make that mONEY make PURSE. and the way you do that is by killing yourself working :). i can look at every situation logically and critically and i will cross every t and dot every i in the entire world by thursday at the latest. god i love solving weird problems so much. yes i will be reachable by phone :) or text :) or slack :) please feel free to zoom :) no i will not be on vacation ever in my life :)

thankfully he can bridge that gap with his venus in scorpio in the 9th house (think art/values/beauty/romance that is unafraid of darkness and eager to get to the heart of shit often about philosophy/religion/art/travel). his sun and mc also contribute to that--so his ego/identity and his career. they trine/sextile the two planets themselves, just not exactly.

on the other side of that opposition, we have... a t-square :(. his gemini moon in the 5th house squares both jupiter and mars. a t-square is often like--bro you've repressed some shit but here's some red hot raw potential if u work through it. it can help and hurt, like all aspects. the moon makes sure the chart is like HEY. LOOK AT MARS AND JUPITER. THERE IS A BIG DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MARS AND JUPITER RIGHT. it anchors the difference. it can mean his emotions go zoom zoom from one side to the other--moon/jupiter of benevolence, so many feelings, philosophy, the meaning of life on one side, and then on the other side i have NEVER had a FEELING in my LIFE how DARE you i gotta WORK and THINK ABOUT STUFF what do you mean "don't intellectualize" and "feel my feelings" LMAO sounds fake.

seonghwa interestingly enough has no oppositions at all between planets--he's not going to seesaw within himself. he's gonna make a choice and not understand why other people are making such a big deal out of it. i bet he doesn't even have an internal monologue, lucky bitch. goddamnit.

he does have some interesting conjunctions--he has an exact conjunction with saturn and mars in aries in the 10th house. saturn gives mars a capricorn-ish, earth sign flavor. the way he asserts himself is going to be logical, practical, he does not like change, there's a lot of anxiety with action. this is amplified by them being in the 10th house. saturn gets a boost here because the 10th house is the capricorn house--it likes it here. they are more loosely conjunct his retrograde mercury (some trouble communicating) and his sun. they all get that same practical capricorn flavor.

mars in aries: you cannot kill me in any way that matters :) capricorn in aries: hm. technically. they can. what if, for example, your local coffee shop rearranges the furniture mars in aries: 1 fear

his cancer rising (22 cancer) exactly squares mars and saturn (22 aries) and more loosely mercury and his sun. it's like his identity/his life purpose/life direction as a nurturing, healing person who also struggles with vulnerability and being a bit judgmental sometimes shut up about it runs up against his 10th house work self, for better or worse. fire (aries) and water (cancer) don't get along, their goals are different.

he has other interesting things in his chart but i'm really trying to just to aspects right now lmao this is so long!!

jongho has an exact opposition between jupiter and pluto, so that's a fun bounce between

jupiter in gemini: man i love to be social, free, not taking shit serious, talking to people about whatever, and pluto in sagittarius: get AWAY from me i am LEAVING goodBYYYYYE

if you are extremely generous with your orbs, he could have uranus to quote unquote soften that--sort of like, idek i do my shit my way and it's chill. it's a big orb though so i don't really count it hardcore.

he also loosely has his virgo mars anchoring the opposition into a t-square--it creates sort of a versus situation. like hongjoong, he has a virgo mars (the gotta WORK (but not in a showy capricorn way, i'm genuinely doing the work stop showing off)) struggling to balance the opposing impulses of pluto and jupiter.

gotta wORK... on what? gotta work with people in a social way? or gotta work by getting the hell out of here independently? he can vacillate between the two extremes, avoid one of the points until his saturn return clomps up to say heyyyy girlllllll or some mixture of the two.

wooyoung has one opposition between planets!

mercury in scorpio (15) in the second house: i wanna get into the deep weeds with people, i want to skip the small talk and trauma dump on each other, i wanna say the TRUTH i don't CARE if it's "nice" also i'm fairly practical and critical, in contrast to how i am all or nothing motherfucker anyway i need to passionately argue my ideas and also i need to ice you out, i'm complex okay!! gOD you just don't UNDERSTAND the exhilarating highs and perilous lows of LIFE like I DOOO versus saturn in taurus (15) in the eighth house: oh shit i gotta keep myself in check and be normal so i can handle other people's problems and not lose all my money and not transform too much it will make people uncomfortable fuck i'm afraid of death i need to have a stable foundation jesus christ stop being so emotional and focus on what is practical!! god!!!!

there is no easy way out of that one i'm afraid.

instead, there's a t-square!!! the action point is his uranus in aquarius in the fifth house so there's issues with feeling like being his own unique person is in itself disruptive. he fears rejection--probably went through that a lot as a child (5th house). on the bright side, having to deal with the squares will help him gain resolution in this seesaw. the vibes are:

i have to restrict myself and be a normal bitch gotta WORK, gotta make that MONEY make PURSE

no wait. i have to be my weird ass self and express that creatively! my uniqueness is my charming point! it is so fun and awesome to be a little weirdo!

u know what actually let's connect deeply i wanna talk about emotional TRUTHS i wanna bear my SOUL i'm so RIGHT about everything and if i talk at you enough you will learn the truth!!

oops changed my mind goodbye everyone, i have reinvented myself again and i need to run away forever i'm a manic pixie dream girl and i've ghosted you. :)

yeosang has a grand trine! with a generous orb, so it's less strong than it could be. a rare aspect that is all about ease. again, like all aspects and chart patterns, there are pros and cons. a grand trine is a big ole triangle with 3 planets or points in the same element and they all get along great. yeosang's ascendant in aries is trine pluto in sagittarius is trine venus in leo. his life purpose/direction, his understanding of power death and rebirth and his desire for love, what he likes, his values, etc are always chatting away in endless circles and it's very cohesive but it can really lack direction.

pluto: i don't know where do u wanna go ascendant: idk were do u wanna go venus: idk where do u wanna go

like that. there's a lot of potential here: the newness and excitement and babyness of an aries rising, the intensity and passion of pluto, the love and harmony and creativity of venus, but it lacks direction in a major way.

like san and hongjoong, yeosang also has a mars and jupiter opposition. san and hongjoong's are exact, though (so like jupiter at 18 pisces is exactly opposite mars at 18 virgo), so they are stronger. yeosang's is more chill but still present.

jupiter in aries in the 1st house: i love being alive! i feel fresh and brand new. optimism is so easy for me! i act quickly and i want what i want but also if you want something i'll get it for you! i have strong values and i'm super honest and i'm not afraid of that in any way :). everything will work out!! mars in libra in the 7th house: haha... a decision? never heard of her hahah.... it's fine whatever u want is cool.... .. . i don't really wanna get it myself so uh. well if u think it's okay???? do you think it's okay?????? does everyone else think it's okay???? i'm very stressed and mars is in detriment here so i am uncomfortable but it's okay i'll be fine whatever u want is okay with me so long as the group is happy right???

it's also interesting because as an aries rising, his chart ruler is mars in libra--it's gonna flavor his whole personality strongly. normally in that opposition jupiter would overrule mars in its detriment, but because mars is the chart ruler that side of his personality gets emphasized more.

yunho has a locomotive chart pattern--that's like when 3/4 parts of the wheel have planets in them. hongjoong also has this. these people tend to be more driven towards goals, and there's one planet that acts as the engine--for hongjoong it's his virgo mars, which makes sense, and yunho's is his gemini moon in the eighth house. his engine is social-emotional in a light gemini sort of way not in an intense water moon sort of way. it's also square his pisces mercury in the 4th house (the cancer house, home/roots/foundation). to me that's like

gemini moon in the 8th: emotions are interesting to me in an abstract way but they don't really affect me that much, i'm always able to see the logical side of things. i'm really good at talking people through their feelings and i love to talk about mine too--but i do not want to actually feel them, ew gross that does not make me feel safe and feeling safe is extremely important to me! anyway what feeling i don't know what you're talking about my mood is totally different now i don't remember her? yeah i was upset but that was thirty seconds ago catch up! pisces mercury in the 4th: that person over there is sad i can feel it :( be nice to them :( i am gonna be really careful so i don't offend them :( anyway there is no one right answer i could be wrong idk i'm used to everything changing all the time so it's not a big deal do u think that person needs a hug :( gemini moon, trying to not feel anything: what are u doing here

this seems like a very helpful and productive square that keeps pisces and gemini--both mutable signs--from going too far in either direction. the house placements feel more unstable though.

uranus is also trine the moon so that weighs the scale more on the detachment side. uranus in aquarius in the 3rd (gemini house) is air on air on air, but also very stubborn and obsessed with being free. goodBYYYYEYYEE in a planet.

his sun is also conjunct jupiter in aries which makes his personality larger-than-life or like, expanded in some way. known. success comes easier. it's also in the fifth house of creativity and self expression which is a fun, carefree vibe, youthful leo energy. can get an ego, but he's friendly!

venus at home in taurus in the 6th conjunct saturn in taurus in the 6th--that's like saturn squeezing the life out of venus a little bit. holding it down.

venus in taurus: everyone likes me i'm cute and lovable and things come so easy to me! i love items and feeling safe and at home! man this is a soft hoodie i have achieved fulfillment. i know the perfect thing to smooth over this awkward social situation because things gotta stay stable it's insanely important to me but u know it's cool, i'm so friendly and personable :) saturn in taurus: have u ever considered that everyone betrays u venus in taurus: everyone.... could betray me. i... could betray me...... ... . better not let anyone in emotionally!!! i don't trust that shit! but if you do stay we're for life, so. ride or die.

anyway i'm interested in doing more astrology for ateez, these bitches go crazy. almost all of them have very active uranus and they have either a gemini moon (yunho, san, hongjoong) or a cancer moon (wooyoung, seonghwa, mingi, yeosang) or they are jongho, who has either an aries or a pisces moon depending on when he was born. what the hell bro. wild.

[the-fiction-witch]

Worship My God

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating SMUT AF LIKE SERIOUS SMUT

Writes Notes: Okay! I know I don't often do this but this ain't a normal fic right here, that rating up there, that SMUT AF is not enough for this! is there was another level above SMUT AF I'm not even sure this would come under that it would be a bit to intense, So! I'm serious! Head my warning, this is gonna be serious! if your still in... enjoy the ride I guess.

I stood in my chamber and got myself into my frock for the day, as this day was to be a very remarkable day indeed if I had the strength to go through with it. I had been waiting for this day for longer than I could face and now it truly was here, I could scarcely believe it. Often pinching my arms to check I was not still in the cling of sleep.

"Will that be all Miss Y/l/n?" My Maid Isa asked as she finished up,

"Of course, head home Isa, I'll be just fine tonight," I told her,

She nodded and gathered up her things before she left my house.

I watched the clock's hands move agonizingly slow as I waited for this afternoon, The mere concept of what will soon transpire was beyond my own heart's reckoning. I could not help but bite my bottom lip, I held it between my teeth for the mere thought that he would be on his way here, the sound of his steps, the shift of his garments, the bounce of his hair all of it exhilarated me more than anything else in this world. The visual of him within my mind was enough to fill me with heart-racing adrenaline. I found each tick to be agony to wait as a tightness grew between my legs and a throbbing sensation that I knew I could not resist. 

I moved my body to my bed, I enveloped my arms around my wooden bedpost my fingers caressed the shapes in the wood. I forced myself closer and closer as I held the bedpost tighter until I felt the gentle curve of the spherical section make itself known against the petticoats of my frock. I adjusted myself in such a way, that my legs were on either side of the bedpost and my grip tightened as I absentmindedly and uncontrollably began to thrust my hips. 

Immediately I began to whine as the stiff wood rubbed through my dress onto where so desperately required attention, my fingers finding cubbies and sections to rest as my grip only tightened, my breath hitched and my mind flooded with ecstasy as I only got more and more frantic. My whines had by now turned to pleads and mutterings between moans "Uhhh! uuuhh!" I tried to restrain but these sounds came from me uncontrollably as did he whom had caused me to be this way. "Dr Dawkins... Ummmm..." I began to grow more merciless on myself but no matter how hard I tried, I could not reach the heights I needed leaving myself only to wallow in rising frustrations. 

I forced myself away and sighed, I spritzed my perfume and let my face cool down unable to quell these horrific frustrations. But I hoped that today may be the day. I headed downstairs and adjusted things in my living room, I made sure the windows were all tightly locked shuttered tight and curtains pulled, I threw a log on the fire to keep it burning gently, I lit a few candles around my room and adjusted pillows on the chamise and chair giving them a fair plump. 

My heart jumped into my throat as I heard a knock on the door, I almost wanted to scream.

I didn't want to wait but I didn't want to seem too eager, so I slowly went to the door and fixed myself in the mirror before I opened it. To the reveal the handsome sight. 

There on my doorstep stood Dr Dawkins, in his usual brown shoes, washed-out brown trousers with a hint of a darker brown plaid pattern to them but they had been so worn and washed it was almost unnoticeable, a long sleeve white shirt with well-worn slightly stained sleeves, a blue textured waistcoat in need of a good dust wack, a washed out green tie around his neck tucked into the waistcoat, a sort of purplish jacket over him unbuttoned and ill measured as the cuffs of his shirts could be seen beyond his sleeves, a black velvet hat sat upon his dirty blonde hair. In his hand his usual doctor's leather bag filled with various... instruments of torment and betterment. 

He saw me and a pleasant smile came across his lips, "Miss Y/l/n, Dr Dawkins." he smiled, 

"Yes, I was expecting you doctor," I blushed, "Do come in," I quickly opened my door to usher him in as fast as I could, the moment he was inside I shut the door and locked it tight in the hope no one saw him arrive, as who knows the kind of questions the town would mutter if people saw him come to my home. 

"Thank you, no Isa today?" he asked as he made his way to the living room, and set his bag on the table,

"No, no I gave her the evening off," I answered as I followed him in,

"Aww, what a lovely kind mistress you must be to her," he smiled, "I do apologize of course for you having to wait so long for this appointment, I have been strangely very busy of late."

"That's alright," I nodded, "Can't be helped,"

"No, of course, you're more than welcome to have Dr Sneed or Prof do your appointments if it's urgent." He explained,

"That's quite alright Dr Dawkins, you're worth the wait." 

"You're too kind," he smiled, as he slipped off his jacket and hat and sat them on the chair, as he often did, "You're my last one for the day, so we can take as long as we need,"

"That's good then," 

"Aww, no cakes today?" He fake pouted, "You almost always make cakes for me, I was looking forward to them." 

"I can make you some if you'd -"

"It's alright, I'm only kidding," he playfully chuckled, "Now, am I to take it this is regarding the muscle pain?" 

"Yes Doctor," I nodded,

"Right, still all over?"

"Mhm," I nodded, 

"Alright, no problem..." he explained as he made a note on his paperwork, "This is getting to be quite often now."

"it is,"

"You taking hot baths like I asked?"

"Yes Doctor, Daily."

"Daily! Ohh my, you really are bad." He said, "You still taking the medication I prescribed?" 

"Yes, Doctor,"

"Good," He nodded, "Alright," He said as he stood up and stiffened himself he adjusted his waistcoat with a tug on its bottom hem, "I'll give you a look over, see what I can do about your muscles see if anything sticks out at me and then we'll go from there alright?" 

"Yes, doctor." I nodded excitedly moved close to the fire and held my hands as I tried not to bite my lip or squeal with excitement, 

He chuckled a moment as he came over and pushed up his sleeves to his elbows, "See that's why you're one of my favourites," He smiled, and I tried not to explode at the thought I was one of his favourites, "such an accommodating little thing," He cooed, 

"Ohh you don't know how accommodating I'll be for you doctor..." I muttered,

"What?"

"What?!" I gulped as I realised I said that out loud, "I uhh I said of course I'll be accommodating for you doctor." 

"Good," he chuckled, "Now turn around for me," he asked, I nodded and turned to face the fire, "May I touch your neck?" He asked in an almost hushed tone, 

"Yes doctor Dawkins," I blushed, 

"Just relax for me," he cooed as his hands graced the skin of my neck, he was so gentle and slow as if touching a wounded frightened cat, his fingers traced the muscles of my neck stroking them and lightly massaging them, "May I touch your shoulders?" 

"Yes doctor Dawkins," I nodded as I bit my lip unable to prevent myself from looking in the mirror above my fireplace to watch his hands move over me, his hands callus and his nails short, a strength to his thin hands, his hands familiar enough with my body to know where he was going, for a second out eyes met in the reflection of the mirror as he glanced up into the mirror to see my face and we caught eyes, Immediately I put my eyes back to the fire's flame, even if I saw a smirk curl up on the corner of his lips. 

"Are you feeling some tightness?" he asked,

"Yes, Doctor,"

"Any stiffness?"

"Yes, doctor,"

"Any, tingling perhaps?"

"Yes. Very much." I nodded biting my lip harder 

"I see," He nodded, and his hands moved to my back slightly he massaged the top of my back which was enough for me to whine,

"Uhh!"

"It's alright I'll be gentle," He reassured, 

I did my best to remain composed as his hands travelled the length and breadth of my body almost every muscle felt his hands touch, his sweet massage enough to force noises from me not unlike what the bedpost had forced from me but these were far quieter as I attempted to conceal them or at least play them off as pain rather the of pleasure. I did my best to relax and enjoy every moment of it but my legs were so weak and between my legs so desperate. 

"Good, that's perfect." He nodded, "Now, open your mouth for me." 

I didn't hesitate to open my mouth as wide as I could and even stick out my tongue with my eyes closed, He came to face me and investigated a moment 

"Not painful is it?" he asked, I shook my head, "Good. That's very good." he nodded, "In." he demanded, so I did as he asked and moved my tongue back into my mouth and his hand came to my chin and shut my mouth for me, before he headed back to his bag, "Your pain doesn't seem to be getting any worse, which is good, I am a little concerned about your legs the muscles there seem to be a little more finicky but I think I'll up your medication and we'll see how you go," he explained as he made notes on his paperwork, 

Immediately I felt disappointed that this was all that was to happen, I mean it's all that ever happened but I had grown so sick of this waiting, that my impatience toppled over, this wasn't fair, he couldn't just leave, he can't be serious that he can't see what he's doing to me, he surely cannot be so cruel to just leave me like this. 

"Is that all?" I asked as I turned to him, 

He stopped a moment and looked up at me with a questionable look,

"I mean we've just been trying medications, and treatments over and over and nothing seems to be working, and I'm having to wait so long to even see you, surely there must be more you can do Doctor."

"It's muscle pain unless there's something you're not telling me there's not all that much I can do for you miss Y/l/n," he chuckled, 

"Don't you have any theories at least as to the course of my pain?"

For a moment there was silence between us, "I have a theory yes." 

"Which is?" 

"I'm almost convinced you have a very common condition, often seen in women your age." he explained, "Not much I can say about it, or do about it I'm afraid," 

"And what is it?" I asked, 

He chuckled, "In my professional opinion. There's nothing wrong with you." he said, and I froze up, "There's nothing wrong with you, no muscle pain, nothing of the sort, you're faking it. Have been for weeks."

"I uhh I see how uhh how did you reach such a conclusion?"

"Becuase I've been giving you sugar pills." He said and my jaw almost dropped, "You've had no medication for two months, plus the fact that your... whines of 'pain' don't match up to what my hands are doing, if you had muscle pain me rubbing on your back should have made you scream, not moan. The fact you are even able to get dressed into that dress let alone go out and wander about town tells me you're fine." He explained, "But... you do have a condition."

"I do?"

"Yes, it's called Woman in Need of a Man syndrome." He explained, "You're not hurt, you're horny." 

"I uhhhh I see." I blushed, "And in uhh your professional opinion what should I do to cure this need of a man?"

"Get married." He answered, 

"I see, yes I absolutely must but uhh... until then," I spoke up, "Is there anything you could do for me doctor Dawkins," 

"Really?" He smirked,

"I'm sure you know just the things to fix me, make me all better."

He chuckled, "You seem very confident in me. I do appreciate that Miss Y/l/n. I suppose I could provide... something for you if that would help?"

"Yes!" I yelped, but clamped my hand over my mouth given I didn't expect to be so loud, 

he chuckled again, "My, my, you seem so very energetic all of a sudden." He smirked, "You really are in need of a man." He smirked as he moved closer 

"Mhm," I whined, "I am very very badly in need of a man, I am in utter desperation for a man, in anguish, misery, need, deprivation for a man such as yourself doctor dawkins." 

"Never seen a lady with quite such enthusiasm for treatment?" He smirked as he rested his hand on his hip,

"Well, I uhh I wanna get better." 

"And would I be correct in assuming that you'd be willing to do... anything to get better?" 

"Anything you ask of me doctor Dawkins," I gasped, 

"Anything?" He smirked, "and what if I... had some particular tastes that would, require very specific things from you miss Y/l/n?" he asked in hushed tone inches from my face,

"I would have no objections." 

"Well then, are you... sure this is what you want?"

"Positive."

"and are you willing to keep our, treatment between us and your bedpost?" 

"Well, I uhh my bedpost may get jealous,"

"Might it?" he smirked, "Oh... Humm, I take it your bedpost is how you've been curving your hormones before?"

"Yes doctor, and my baths you so sweetly percribed." 

"I thought as much," He nodded, "Well then, just between us then?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Good, now... I must warn you, care for this condition can be a little, Explict I'd need to be looking at you very closely for a good while, I'd need to be touching places I would not normal, I'd need to be very... particular. But of course, you do understand this is purely for medical reasons?" 

"yes, medical reasons of course." 

"So, you won't get me in trouble?"

"Of course not doctor Dawkins." 

"Good girl," He cooed and immediately I wanted to faint, "Now you may be a little anxious or embarrassed but I promise I'm going to take good care of you, just try and remain nice and calm for me Y/n."

"I'll do my best Doctor." I nodded, 

"Now turn around and we'll begin your treatment," He smirked,

I did as he asked without question to stand face the mirror again but this time I couldn't dare look away from the reflection, as he came up behind me moved his lips to my ear, "May I touch you now?" 

"uhhh... Yes Doctor Dawkins," I moaned, 

he chuckled biting his bottom lip his brown eyes seemed to smile with the rest of his face in a wicked sly way, as he kissed my ears tragus before he spoke "Good girl, hold still for me," He demanded in a sly whisper as he nibbled on my ear lobe, his hands moved to my hips his thumbs rubbed on them hard which only caused his sly laughs to deepen, as his arms slowly enfolded my body his hands now on the opposite hip crossed over my stomach, "You're excitement is quite noticeable Y/n."

"Yes I uhhh I uhhh yes I'm sure my excitement is uhh noticeable to you Dr Dawkins, I uhh I'm sorry I'll do my best to be still," I answered as I stuttered like crazy,

"I never said it was a problem," he smirked, "You can be excited, you just have to be a good girl for me."

"I'll be good, I'll be very very good." I nodded,

He smirked his hands moved up my waist before he pulled back his eyes staring down at my ass as he held my waist, slowly his hands moved to stroke my curves his middle finger stroked under the curve of my ass slightly picked up the weight of me in his hand and let it drop again caused it to jiggle, which caused him even more amusement, before he slapped me firmly with an open hand,

"ohh!" I gulped, 

"Yes?"

"Nothing, nothing." I blushed, 

"That wasn't a protest from my good little girl was it?"

"No! no never. Doctor." 

"Good," He nodded, his hands snaked around my body caressed under my breasts his fingers traced the bones of my corset, "take off your dress."

"I-"

"I need to examine you, take off your dress." He demanded and snapped the button off that held the back of my dress which left me with no choice but to remove it, 

"Yes doctor," I blushed getting my dress off me as quickly as I could leaving me in my corset and underdress, he chuckled slyly and ran his hands over my corset,

He laughed wickedly as his hands stroked my shoulders before they dove into my corset and cupped my breasts in his hands "Pretty little thing aren't you?" 

By now I was a moaning mess, I didn't care what noises came out of me my heart racing fast, and my whole body throbbed with desire as he squeezed and fondled my bare skin pressing his body against my own, one hand left my breast to sit on my hip pulled my hips against his own and then stroking my thigh which only made me moan more,

"Humm Calm down Y/n." He smirked,

"I- I can't Doctor-"

"Relax for me... that's a good girl." He cooed his hand moving higher up my thigh and softly massaged my thigh and my breast in his hand,

"Please Doctor Dawkins,"

"Please what Y/n?" He whispered in my ear,

"Please... Touch me." I begged,

"I am touching you Y/n," he smirked, "Where would you like me to touch you?" He whispered,

I didn't even hesitate I grabbed the wrist of his hand that had been on my thigh and moved it over to between my legs,

"Oh." he smiled slyly, "Are you sure this is where you want me to touch you?" his fingers began to stroke my mound through my underdress, 

"Yes! Yes! Please! Please, Doctor Dawkins...." I begged, 

"Humm... You really are horny aren't you?" he bit my ear lobe a little hard as his thumb rubbed my mound through my underdress his other hand now shifted the weight of my breast in his hand as he plaid with it, "You want me to touch you, don't you?" he smirked, 

"uuuhhhh! yes! yes Please Doctor Daskins! Please! I'm begging you." 

"Begging me are you?"

"Yes! Yes! I'm begging you please," I whined and tried to push his hand where I so needed him but he slapped my hand away, 

"Beg for me." he whispered, "Beg for my hand Y/n." 

"uhhh! Please, please, please, please, please, please! Please, Dr Dawkins! Please! I'll do anything! Anything! I'll do anything you ask! Anything you want! I'll be yours just touch me please!"

"Anything? Really?"

"Anything! Anything! Anything!"

"Anything?" He asked milking the word for all it was worth, 

"Anything! I'll be yours! I'll be your toy! Your pet! I'll let you do anything you want just please let me have your hand!"

"what a good girl," he cooed, "Anything at all? Even if that included-" 

"Anything!" I screamed, "Physical, emotional, intimate, anything you desire of me, Dr Dawkins."

He chuckled again "You are very willing." he smirked, "What a poor desperate little girl," 

"yes! Just please please im- I'm-" I moaned "Uhh Dr Dawkins, please! I'm desperate! I'll do anything, anything you ask just please!"

"Tell me how bad you want me," he growled, 

"Uhhh! Dr Dawkins!" I moaned, "I want you! I need you! I worship you! I'm begging you for your mercy please!"

"Worship me?"

"Yes! Yes! I worship you, I beg for your mercy, I adore you so utterly, I worship your voice, your body, your very existence, I will be your adoring worshiper, your slave if you so asked it of me If my god would only give me what I do desire."

He moaned into my ear as he heard me say that, "Ummm, How the fuck have you never got a man when you talk like that..." He groaned, "Uhh Be a good girl, and worship your god. Show me how desperate you are, price to me how willing you are to serve me." 

I didn't hesitate Immediately I turned to face him and moved to my knees on the cold wooden floor the moment I did he gave me a look questionable but not like he was going to stop me, I set my hands on the floor between my knees and looked up at him with a wide innocent smile, "ohh my sweet sweet doctor, please let me worship all of you doctor," I pleaded, "let me prove to my doctor what I will do for him"

"Then prove it. Prove to me what a good girl you can be." He smiled as he stroked my jaw, "Show your god how you worship him." 

I blushed but began to kiss the top hem of his trousers felt the soft cotton against my lips, felt his breaths through his stomach, I tugged a little on his trousers and felt the resistance of his suspenders, so I undid them which forced a moan from his lips, I tugged them apart and tugged down his white underwear and I was taken back immediately as the size of him, certainly more then I expected and now it was truly revealed to me that he too was desperate as he couldn't conceal just how hard his cock stood, his stiff his shaft staid, how he throbbed with the desire for attention, "ohh my sweet sweet doctor, please let me worship all of you doctor" I plead "May I-" I began

"Yes." He gasped, not even waiting for me to finish the question, I blushed to think he was so needy for me and I pouted my lips and blew air across his shaft, "Uhh! don't tease your god Y/n." 

"Ohh? Will I face your wrath?"

"You might," he smirked, 

I smiled and gently began to press soft kisses to his shaft, I began at his hilt and slowly peppered kisses to his head and back again, he began to gasp more often and squeeze his eyes tight, "Ohh Dr Dawkins, Dr Dawkins," I muttered between kisses, which only seemed to tease him more, but I couldn't wait any longer I sat back a moment and opened my mouth as wide as I could stick out my tongue out for him before I took his cock into my mouth completely and gently began to suck,

"Ughhhhh!" He groaned his hands came to my head and held my hair, I did my best to insure I pleased him sucking him slowly, moved my head back and forth down the length of his shaft, and licked my tongue around his head, I was so fueled by his moans and groans above me being very vocal for me, his head thrown back and his jaw hung low, "Ughhhh! Uuuhhh! fuck! uuuummm! Yes Yes! Like that! Uhhhhhh!" he moaned, I often opened back allowed my sweet sounds to be heard my little moans and whines vibrated his cock which only seemed to make him more desperate, "Ughhh! Good girl, such a good good girl," he cooed and stroked my jaw he glanced down at me so I made the most innocent of eye contact which drove him insane, "Ughhhhh! fuck! Ummm you look so good when you worship me Y/n!" he groans "Uhghhhh- Please please-" He begged and I felt so so lovely to hear him plead for me so I continued I made sure I didn't change anything, "Just... keep... Go- UGhhhhhhhh!" He grabbed my hair hard and dug his fingers into my head as his hips jolted himself to deep throat me almost made me gag but I stayed still as the warm slightly salty liquid sputtered around my mouth, he quickly pulled out of my mouth and slowly began to soften the moment he released, he gasped, and groaned between his breaths as he tried to calm himself down after such a rush of pleasure, but with a satisfied smile, 

I giggled a little while still sat on my knees my hands between my knees, in my white underdress and cream corset, my mouth hung open wide enough he could see but not wide enough to lose anything that I held in my mouth, I slightly stuck out my tongue as I had earlier and allowed him to see the mess he had made of my mouth, made sure to make the most seductive eye contact I could, 

"Good girl," he smirked, "what are you gonna do with all that then?"

I smiled and licked my lips before I swirled my tongue around my teeth and the sides of my mouth before finally shut my mouth and swallowed and I made sure I made a loud enough gulp that he heard me. 

"A very good girl indeed," He cooed and stroked my jaw again, "I'm surprised just how eager you are to worship me Y/n." 

 "My doctor wants more?" I cooed as I opened my mouth again, 

"More?" He asked a little breathy, 

"Again?"

"humm again? You want to do it again?"

"I want to prove how much I need my doctor and how much I adore him, I will do anything you ask, if you wish for me to do it again I will do it as many times as you ask"

"Well, well, what a very good girl to praise me so." he smirked, "but I think I want to reward my sweet girl for all her worship would you like that?"

"Yes, doctor Dawkins." 

"On the chair, with your legs open. Now." He demanded as he pulled on my hair to force me in the direction of the chair, 

"Ughhh Yes! Doctor Dawkins!" 

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

The Dutchess of Camden

Hobie wants to take Diane to her first punk show. And she has just the outfit. (a.k.a How Diane got her punk battlejacket - aka I saw this photo of Fran Fine and laughed so hard.)

DiscoPunk - DiscoSpider!Diane x Hobie Brown - PURE FLUFF. More fluff than a cappucino with extra foam. FLUFFY

Also this post was largely inspired by @spidey-bie and their post about Ansi & Hobie!!

______________________________________

Diane isn't punk.

With chiffon skirts and silk shirts and glittery nails and light up roller-wheels - if anything, she was the farthest thing from it. But that never stopped her, did it?

Without a doubt, she was still Hobie's #1 fan.

Hobie had only known Diane a couple of weeks - and it was only four months ago that he'd met her that in that darkened club, a Daiquiri on her lips and a joint at her fingertips.

And since then, the party hadn't stopped.

Hobie didn't have an explanation for it - but for some reason, Diane seemed to like him. If anything, she seemed to adore him. And that in itself wasn't a rarity -

She just wasn't afraid to show it.

Out of a room full of people, she'd be the one to approach him first. In a cafeteria full of tables, she was the one to ask if she could sit at his, just because 'y'all seem like you're having fun'.

And regardless of what anyone had to say about it, to Hobie - that only added to the appeal. Because Diane said it all the time -

'Closed mouths don't get fed - Ain't that right?'

Over the weeks, he'd gotten used to her face, front row at SpiderBand's every show. He'd gotten use to her laugh, and the way she'd smile every time he told a joke - no matter how unoriginal. How he could make her laugh without fail.

He'd gotten use to the way he felt when he knew she was there, safe somewhere nearby.

Like praying for someone to turn up to school that day, and then hearing that they did.

And did having her on his arm, his voice in her ear, an inside joke between the two of them - mean them anything?

Hobie didn't know. And he didn't care.

It didn't matter what Diane being at his side made her - as long as she wasn't going anywhere.

And so he'd bring her along for the ride, as long as she'd let him.

Hobie and Diane had known weeks, and she was never shy to invite herself, asking for permission to tag along any place that sounded funky enough for her to find it far out.

And he was never one to tell her 'No'.

But there was one place she'd yet to go - and that was 138.

"Oi, I'm taking you to a rock show tonight. It's in 138, so try to blend in, alright?"

"Of course!" she says. "I've been waiting for this! I have just the outfit."

And then she turns up in this.

Diane looks at him and goes "What'd I tell ya!"

She's so proud of herself. She thinks she's killing it. She brought that outfit the month she met him and she's been waiting for this moment.

She's like -

Hobie has to cover his face. Because if he looks at her - he's gonna start laughing. Cause what iN THE HELL-

Hobie looks at her like -

"Di, where'd you get that?"

She's like "Malala (Spider-UK). It's SO CUTE right. I look all posh!"

Hobie is like "You look like a Spice Girl. You look like Scary Spice and Ginger Spice had a baby."

Diane takes a moment to assess the situation. She reads his body language. And of course she's like "I feel very complimented but your tone of voice is saying otherwise, Hobart."

Cause what do you mean??? she absolutely understood the assignment!!!

Hobie takes a moment. He loves the enthusiasm, but still, he considers a way to break it to her softly, before telling her "Yo, me and my mates be setting that flag on fire-"

"Good cause it looks fire on ME."

And.. She's not lying. So what's the problem?!?

Hobie doesn't have one. And it'll be a frigid day in hell before he tells Diane to change - for any reason, clothes or otherwise.

He asks her if she'd dead set on wearing it, and she's goes "What- do you think the skirt is too tight to dance in? I can. Don't worry, I checked."

If she's going to have a good time, that's all he cares about. And Hobie just smiles, telling her if that's the case then the outfit is bloody perfect.

Because somehow Diane finding the most perfectly coordinated outfit regardless of crowd, vibe, occasion, or time of day, seemed so entirely her.

Not faking it for him in ripped fishnets or studded clothes. Turning up in her perfect black stockings and the most painfully British outfit she could find.

And it wasn't until she pointed to him, that he understood why. "I wanted to match - you know, your pin." she says, pressing a manicured nail to his lapel. "It's my favorite one."

To him, the outfit is perfect. Funny as hell, but perfect.

"Brilliant taste you have." "Couldn't you tell from my taste in boys?"

The whole 'blending in' thing went out the window. But the outfit is a hit.

People couldn't help but notice the 6 foot girl who wore stilettos and a Union Jack to the function. A regular in the circuit, Hobie couldn't help but stay by her side - watching amused as she looked around the shitty backalley venue like it was a palace.

It was so different from the discos.

Diane couldn't help but marvel at how 'Hobie' the world seemed. "You're still the coolest thing here, though." She tells him over and over.

Hobie makes sure to keep an arm over her shoulder, not out of possessiveness, but the fact that Diane was liable to drifting off, eyes dazzled at how cool and punk and textured and rough everything seemed, how vibrant people were.

And Hobie loved it.

He wants her to love it, to enjoy herself. To smile and laugh and go on and on about how funky everything was. "But like - in a you way."

He wanted her to have a good time, but Hobie knew eventually, someone would say something.

And it came with a laugh.

"Christ, that's gotta be the funniest thing I've seen tonight." A guy wearing red liberty spikes said, and Hobie recognized him as Ned, a guitarist in some straight edge band.

And the girl at his side, Betty, grinned as she laughed along.

And Hobie wondered if he should scare them off, or give Diane a chance to bite their heads off first. Until Betty said-

"Fuck. I wish I'd thought of that."

"Huh?" Diane asked pointedly, seemingly more annoyed at the distribution of her Hobie-induced haze than anything else.

"Ain't that a giant 'fuck you' to the fascists - a black chick wearing their 'heritage' like it's the new spring collection - I'd pay to see the first skinhead that had a butchers at you," Betty said and she was a black girl herself, hair in neat boxbraids. "They'd be fucking fuming."

Diane side-eyed Hobie for a translation, and Hobie smirked, leaning in closer to her ear. "That's a good thing," he assured her, voice teeming with pride as he gave her shoulder a squeeze.

Because pissing off skinheads was very much a compliment.

Diane raised her eyebrows, because she surely couldn't tell. But, if Hobie said it, she was willing to take his word on it.

"Thank you..?" She chuckled, a hand on Hobie's arm. "Sorry, I ain't that good at speaking British. Hobie usually translates for me - Thank God he speaks American or I'd be so lost -"

"And she's American - that's fucking hilarious. No wonder she doesn't give a fuck." Ned said, grinning, pointing to her top.

And finally, Diane looked down - as if she'd just noticed what they meant.

"The flag?" She questioned, pouting her lips in confusion. "Am I supposed to give a fuck about the flag?"

"You aren't." Betty said. "That's what's so punk about it."

Her face lit up. Diane didn't speak British, but that she understood.

And she had to turn her face into Hobie's shoulder to not squeal. They said her perfect outfit was punk!

They said she was Punk!

Hobie stiffled his laughter, pulling Diane closer as he reached up to ruffle her perfectly curled hair.

Diane bit back her euphoria as she composed herself, flattered beyond belief. And to the pair in front of her, Diane said -

"Why, thank you!" mimicking a curtsey, head bowed and knees bent.

The pair burst out laughing.

And then, they did the same, playing along.

"Pleasure is ours, Your Majesty.~" Betty snickered, nudging Ned to get him to play along, and the dark-skinned boy did the same. "And to whom do we owe the honor?" he asked.

"Diane." Hobie said, squeezing her at the waist for a moment, and before she could tell them otherwise, Hobie said. "Call her Dutchess, yeah?"

Betty held back a snort. "Dutchess - She the Dutchess of Camden then?"

"Brilliant, you two." Ned said. "Leave it to Hobie to find a cheeky one."

Diane was glowing in his arms.

"The Duchess of Camden." Hobie said, a smirk coming to his lips. He adored the sound of it. "That she is. A national treasure, this one." And he believed it.

Hobie couldn't help but drink in the joy on Diane's face.

The name was so prestigious sounding - glamourous even - and Diane had no idea what the hell a Dutchess was, but she damn sure knew what royalty meant.

But nothing could compare to Hobie's words.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, drinking in the flattery. And when she looked at Hobie her eyes were elated, dazzled to share the moment with him.

"Oh my, What a Prince Charming!" Diane laughed, wrapping her arms around Hobie. Who knew people in his universe would be just as cool, as interesting, as kind?

Who knew that not caring or thinking about British culture at all - not trying to make a statement, or say much of anything at all, could be punk? Hobie didn't.

Somehow, though, Diane managed to work miracles.

"Well, Dutchess," Ned said. "I take it you and Prince Charming here fancy a cordial invitation to the pub after this?"

Diane's jaw nearly dropped. "A Pub, like a Tavern?" And she couldn't imagine anything more British than a tavern. "Like the kind that serves pints? Just say the word and I'll call my horse-drawn carriage!"

Dutchess rode carriages, right? Who else would?

Betty shook her head, a grin on her lips. "Enjoy the show, Your Highness." she said, lacing her fingers with Ned's before weaving them back into the crowd.

For a second, Diane didn't say anything - cheeks glowing with the smile she was fighting back. Hobie wished he could make her feel that way forever.

"Well Punk royalty, how do you feel?" he asked, his voice low enough just for her to hear.

"You know," Diane said, turning to look at him, and slowly she laced her arms around his neck. "With this dimension time travel stuff - it's like you're the Punk Doctor Who, and I'm your companion, right? You know that British show, Doctor Who? The watch is like our Tardis-"

"Diane," Hobie said. "Never change."

__________________________

Hobie didn't know what this made him, but he didn't care.

He'd take Diane any place she'd follow. Any place she'd follow, he'd want her there.

Even here, on the curb of a street somewhere in London. Outside of a 24-hour Chip Shop at 3am.

Diane had followed him to 138 - and in return he'd followed her to a punk show. And then to an afterparty, and then to a pub, and then another.

And more and more people came over, to laugh and talk, to invite her into the community. And bit by her bit, her 'perfect' outfit had gained color.

A pin passed on from a friend, a patch someone would pull off their jacket, fishing for bobby pins to pin it to hers. A clover patch to match his pin, an A sprawled across the front like The Scarlet Letter.

Hobie couldn't describe the way Diane looked at him every time, the way she squeezed his hand and didn't let go. But that didn't matter. He just wanted her to do it more and more.

By stop two, she was complaining about her feet. But come 20 minutes, without fail - there she was, hanging on his sleeve. Asking him to leave so they could go someplace more her speed, 'hipper to the groove'.

And he'd always say 'Yes'. There wasn't a moment of it that he regretted.

He'd follow her anywhere, because he knew she'd do the same. And now, sitting on the curb on some random street in East London, Diane had the beginnings of her own battle jacket.

And a backpatch to match his, with her own addition:

'Punk's Not Dead.' 'He's back at my place.'

Hobie popped open the box of takeout, steam escaping as he lifted the flaps on the fish & chips. Beside him, Diane rolled her eyes in ecstasy at just the smell of it, throwing her head back in excitement.

Needless to say, Diane was plastered.

"You spoil me." she squealed leaning in closer to gaze at the sacred food that sat in Hobie's lap, her arm looped with his as the smell of fresh battered fish rose from the box.

Hobie lifted up a bit of fish, holding it out to Diane. "You ever tried this? Can't say you've been to London until you have. Like going to New York and leaving without the pizza." he smirked, eager to see her reaction - that look in her eyes.

Diane leaned forward, taking a bite of the fish without even taking it from his hand - too drunk to care.

"I don't know if it's because I'm drunk, or because I'm with you - but British food is so good." she snickered, stealing a chip from the box.

Carefully, she sniffed it.

"It has vinegar." he told her, watching as Diane nodded seriously, before pointing the chip at the box. "And that?" she asked.

"Mushy peas."

"Mushed peas?" Diane said, part bewildered, but mostly disgusted. "Mushed peas - is that what you said?"

Hobie snickered. "You ain't gotta eat them. I'll eat them if you don't want to-"

"You're gonna eat them?!" Diane demanded, jaw agape. "I was just complimenting you're national cuisine and now you're offering me pea sludge?" she laughed, almost in disbelief.

"You ain't gotta eat the pea sludge, Dutchess. Dump it in the harbor if you wanna kick off. That's what you all do, yeah?"

Now Diane's expression turned to shock. "Don't compare me to a Bostoner! As a New Yorker, I take offense to that." she said, stealing another chip. "You don't see me calling you a Birmingham-nite or whatever."

"Brummie -" Hobie corrected. "Surprised you know about them."

"I don't." Diane assured him. "I just know they exist."

Hobie grinned, taking a bite of fish, as for once - London seemed quiet around them.

No loud music. No crowd, or laughter, no anything. Just them. And Hobie realized that this was the first time they'd been alone - since that night they'd met, four months ago.

And he still felt the same as he did back then - in the alleyway behind the club, bathed in neon lights.

He had slipped into her world to find her - and now here she was, slipping in to his. And here, now, with her post-show hair, and smudged red lips, and blurred eye-liner. In her spray-painted jacket, and a hangover around the corner - he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Hobie -" Diane asked, eyes far away. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did." he snickered, simply because he knew it would get her attention. Diane grinned, even despite herself, and she shoved his shoulder.

But he could tell, whatever it was - she meant it. "Anything." he said.

"Why do you.. let me follow you around?" she asked, and even to her, the words felt clumsy, clouded by nerves and 4 pints of beer.

"I mean - Why do you put up with it?" she asked, voice barely at whisper. And for the first time, it was like she couldn't look at him. And yet he couldn't look away.

"With what everyone says. I mean - I know that you hear it. And..I'm not subtle about it. But you never complain. Or tell me to go away. I guess at a certain point, a part of me thought that maybe you just...didn't want to hurt my feelings, I guess."

Diane said, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

"But then, you invited me here. And you've been so kind to me all night. Even though I'm just some chick who shows up to your shows. And, I don't know how to thank you, or why you do it." she said, voice barely a whisper.

"Because I know that you care. Cause I can tell you do." Hobie said. "And I can tell you don't want nothing of me. You aren't asking me for romance or anything. We can just be together. Wherever. And that's enough. More than enough." Hobie said, and to him, the answer came easy. Now that it was her who was asking.

And maybe that was it. "We're enough for each other."

And she was more than enough for him. More than enough for him to watch to keep her around, and then some.

Diane's expression softened, the lump in her throat growing. "Thank you," she said. "For never making me feel like I was annoying. Or like I wasn't worth your time."

For making her feel like she was enough, always.

"You are worth my time, Daiquiri." Hobie said, and he reached up to brush a stray curl from Diane's face. "Don't want you to ever think otherwise. I don't know why you do it - what I did to deserve it.

But it doesn't matter. I ain't letting you get rid of me now."

Beside him, Diane grinned, hanging her head in bashfulness.

"I'd kiss your cheek right now, if I didn't smell of fish and vinegar right now." she told him, and instead, so instead she pressed a kiss to her fingers, before smooshing it in his face.

Hobie snorted, grabbing her arm and pulling her closer. Pressing kisses to her forehead, even as she faked a grimace. Because he didn't care about fish or vinegar or anything else. Just her.

Diane laughed, shoving away from him just as Hobie asked "And what about you?"

"What about me?" "Why do you do it?" he asked. "I mean, could have any bloke on any Earth. But you choose me."

And he would never understand it, but he would always be grateful.

For a moment, Diane had to think about it - and Hobie wondered if she ever questioned it herself. Or if she just did what made her happy, and worried about any bridge when she came to it.

Diane shrugged a bit, stealing another chip as she thought, eyes lidded and voice quiet under the haze of alcohol.

"I dunno. You make me feel safe, I guess." She said, and maybe it was that simple. Because saying it felt right.

"I don't have to worry - about you laughing at me, or judging me, slutshaming me. You don't think I'm stupid, or annoying. I mean, you let me wear this outfit, you made me feel good about it. So I trust you."

Because she could tell he cared too.

Hobie grinned, leaning forward to brush his nose against hers, their own form of kiss. "And that's enough for you to treat me as good as you do?"

"I mean, we met when I was shitfaced drunk." Diane said, well aware she was probably shitfaced right now. "In a club, basically throwing myself at you - and you somehow got me home and into bed." And she snickered at the memory alone. "You even put my bonnet on me."

"You were there the first time I saw the Sun. Or a sunset. I guess I feel like if you're there, it'll be okay. Or like, super far out - groovy, psychedelic, absolutely dynamite!"

She laughed. "Like tonight. Thanks for tonight, Hobie."

"Anything for you, Dutchess." he told her.

"Look at you, treating me like Queen Eliza." "Elizabeth." "Does it matter?"

Did it matter what they were?

"Not at all."

Because they were enough.

_-_-_-_-_-_

"Are you actually going to eat the pea sludge?" "What, is that a crime, your highness?" "No, but it should be."

_____________________________________________

Hobie will keep Diane ignorant about British culture, if it's the last thing he does. He finds it really, really funny.

And that's the story of how Diane got her punk jacket, why Hobie calls her 'Dutchess', and why they stick with each other through everything. UUHHHH N-E-WAY I think this might be like my first DiscoPunk fic holymotherof!!!!! I LOVE THEM. I LOVE THEM. I LOVE THEM I LOVE THEM. Let your OCs be loved. If you read this far thank you so much! It genuinely means a lot, so thank you for your time! In an act of gratitude here is Hobie

(thats them im gonna go cry)

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Rain, Wind, Fire

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

"It is loud."

"Ain't it? I like the rain. Great weather for sneakin' up on someone. Can't hear nothin' all around and the visibility is garbage. If you wanna kill someone, this is what you want. Perfect weather for a hit."

"It is also perfect weather for a hit on you."

"Awww... You thinkin' about hitting on me, Moondust? That's flattering."

"Ugh."

The tall prairie grasses outside the ruined building were being pressed flat by the force of the wind. The rain was moving near-sideways. The Drifter and Eris Morn stood just inside a crumbling archway which, in the past, probably had doors, but was now just open to the outside. Both were very wet but grateful to be out of the rain.

"How long do we think it will last?"

"Well, I'd get my ghost to pull up a weather report, except the storm's mangling the signal. Same reason we ain't transmatting out of here right now. Me? I can come back from a mangled transmat incident. But uh... you can't."

"Hmmm.. "

"My best guess is probably a few hours. Can't sustain something like this for long. It'll blow itself out."

"Are Summer storms here always this violent?"

"Out here? Yeah. This whole area is just flat for days in all directions. Makes for some fantastic amounts of wind and when the storms happen they do not screw around. Should be a hell of a show though."

"Hmmm..."

"Don't 'hmmm' at me. You're the one that wanted to come here."

"Because of the lay line anomalies Mara and Ikora asked me to investigate."

"Look, if it gets bad, can't we just use one of your Hive portals to go into the Ascendant plane and wait it out there?"

Eris frowned. "You were not paying attention during the mission briefing."

"Course not. It's your mission. I'm just along for the ride. I don't work for Ikora. That's your department."

Eris took a deep breath and let out a long, frustrated sigh.

"We were sent to perceive the lay line activity from this side because of all the interference on the Ascendant side."

"Huh. Maybe they got storms there too."

Eris turned toward him, cocking her head and staring at him intently with her three Hive-green eyes.

"What?" he asked, awkwardly.

"That hypothesis is... not without merit."

He looked over at her in the dim light, confused. "Does that mean you think it's a good idea or you think it's stupid?"

She stared back at him. "Yes."

"Ha!"

"But, then, are these... weather phenomena... connected?"

"Dunno 'bout the Ascendant side of things but this side has been like this every Summer for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"As long as I can remember... so... at least uh... five centuries? Memory's a bit fuzzy beyond that and I don't necessarily know where the hell I was at any given point in time but... at least that long."

"You were here five centuries ago?"

"Somewhere around here... and uh...give or take a few hundred years, yeah. I been all over."

"Hmmm..."

Lightning split the sky and illuminated their shelter briefly, revealing Eris' small smile.

"Ooo this is gonna be a big one."

Chain lightning rippled along the undersides of the clouds, skittering across the sky from one side of the horizon to the other, once more illuminating their faces. Eris' smile had grown.

"What's that smile for? Good memory?"

"Yes." She said the word quietly. Her voice was warm.

"Wanna share with the rest of the class?"

"A different time. A different storm. Ikora would fly and I would cling to her. She would lift us both. I would charge myself with Arc energy and..."

"Hold up. You and Ikora made yourselves into human lightning rods?"

"No. A lightning rod is fixed to a point that touches the ground. We remained in the sky."

"Damn! You were both nuts!"

"It was a very long time ago, before the Great Hunt, before Ikora changed herself, before the Hellmouth. We had not been Risen long. Our existence was different then, simpler. And... yes... I suppose... we were both a bit... nuts."

"No kidding. How many times did you die from that?"

"Not as often as we should have. But, being struck repeatedly, gathering the storm, letting it crackle over and through us... it was... invigorating."

"Invigorating. And people say I do weird and dangerous shit."

"You do. Recently, quite a lot of it in conjunction with me."

"I mean, yeah. Ain't no one else I'd rather do weird dangerous shit with."

"Hmmm... What is the purpose of this structure? It cannot have been living quarters."

"Church would be my guess. It's made of stone. The old-old churches are often made outta stone. It's why they last."

"What did they worship, I wonder?"

"Probably one of the old gods. Hopefully no one gets mad at us bringin' a new god in here. Ha!"

"I am a god no longer and was not worshiped by humanity."

"Not with that attitude."

"Tsch."

"I wonder if we can find enough stuff to make a fire." The Drifter began to peer into the rest of the building.

"Probably not from within. Anything organic will have long since crumbled to dust."

"There's a tree over there." He pointed outside. "Stay in here and I'll go get it."

.

.

.

"Whooeee!" The Drifter, sopping wet, smoldering, smelling of burnt hair and ozone, dragged a small tree trunk partially into the crumbling building through the doorway, dropped it on the stone floor and leaned against one of the walls, breathing heavily. "That was what we call... electrifying!"

Eris crouched next to him as he slid down the wall. She touched her fingertips to his temple and regarded him carefully. "I had hoped you would escape unscathed."

"Yeah well... I got scathed... and it didn't even kill me! That is one hell of a storm, though."

Eris used her thumb to wipe away a small trickle of blood coming out of his nose. "Using Arc energy to redirect the lightning strike was clever," she said as she continued examining him, concern on her face.

"Thank you," he smiled up at her sheepishly. "Just a bit singed is all."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Mostly. Teeth hurt and everything's real blurry. Wasn't sure I'd be able to hear ya once I got back but my ears are recovering and..." He gestured proudly. "I got us a tree!"

"So you did." Eris stood and began pulling off smaller twigs, making a pile while the Drifter pulled off first one boot and then the other, emptying the water from them onto the stone floor.

"You'd think it'd be done raining by now," he said. "Still comin' down wicked hard. Where'd all that water come from anyway?"

"The sky."

"I can see that. I mean where'd it come from before it got to the sky?"

"The ocean, most likely. That is generally how weather happens. Besides, it is probably highly beneficial for the ecosystem."

"Any more beneficial and we're gonna flood. Plains is pancake flat. This much water don't got nowhere to go."

"Thankfully the base of this structure is somewhat elevated."

"Yup. Might even have a basement if we're lucky. Summer storms are wild times."

Eris stepped back from a sizable pile of twigs, expertly stacked. "May I have a light?"

"Yeah." The Drifter blinked a few times to clear his vision before snapping his fingers. A mote of solar fire flew from his hand to land in the pile Eris had created. He concentrated on it for a few moments to make sure it caught.

"If it has a basement," Eris continued as she began to add more twigs, "it is undoubtedly flooded. Basements without maintenance for centuries will not be water-tight."

"Good point. But if the sky turns green, it don't matter if it's flooded. We go swimmin' if we have to."

She looked up from the fire, her three eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

"Ever hear of a thing called a tornado?"

"Yes. Is that a concern here?"

"Yup. Summertime ain't all sunshine and beach parties, Moondust. Nature is violent and scary."

"Hmmm... I appreciate it. Outside of geomagnetic anomalies and solar storms there really is no weather on the Moon."

There was a loud crack accompanied by flickering brilliant white light. The ground shuddered. Rocks tumbled down farther behind them where the roof had partially caved in at the back.

"Yup. That hit the building."

"I'm glad we were able to find a building."

"I'm glad we got a fire now," he said, scooching closer to the flames. "This is downright nice, Moondust. You're good at this."

"I am accustomed to existing away from civilization. Unfortunately, I have not located any food and you, I am certain, are going to be hungry."

"Oh, I'm always hungry."

He wriggled his eyebrows up at her.

Eris sighed and he could have sworn her eyes rolled a little bit behind the cloth which obscured them from view. Her obvious irritation brought a delighted smile to his face.

"I brought food though," he added. "Let's see what we got!" The Drifter began rummaging in a backpack.

"Of course you would bring food."

"We been doing this enough now, I know better than to go on one of your mystical scavenger hunts without emergency rations. Alright, alright, alright. We got..."

He waved his hands over a bare section of stone as though it were a table and he was performing a magic show. He shook a tea towel, seemingly pulled from the air, and held it in front of his knees like a curtain before pulling it back with a flourish to reveal each item as he announced it.

"...jerky... Drifter's very own home-made granola bars... and..." Another flourish. "...dried fruit."

Eris smirked from across the fire and gave him some half-hearted silent applause.

He bowed dramatically from his knees, scooped up all the items into the towel, and placed them between them both near the fire.

"What kind of jerky?" Eris asked as she added more wood to the flames.

"Uh... not sure... I made it months ago... I don't remember... could be rabbit, could be deer, could be Hive..."

Eris heaved a deep sigh.

"Give me a piece." She held out her hand.

"Of the jerky?"

"Yes."

He handed her a palm-sized section of dried meat. She nibbled on a corner of it and sat thoughtfully chewing for a few moments.

"It is not Hive."

"And you're telling this from... the flavour?"

She fixed him in an intense but expressionless gaze. "Yes."

"Hehehehehe." The delight was plain on his face. "Oh, I like you. I like you so much."

"I am aware."

The thunder outside grumbled far less intensely than before.

"It seems to be moving past us at least," Eris said as she continued to eat the jerky.

"Ya know, some people might consider this romantic."

"And the Hive consider murder to be an act of love. What some people think is hardly relevant. There will always be someone, somewhere, who thinks something idiotic."

"Ok, but just the two of us caught in a storm, the rain bangin' down on the ruins, nice warm fire, half a tree, the thunder an' lightnin' ragin' outside, staring into each other's eyes across the flames. It's pretty romantic, don't ya think?"

"No. I do not."

"What? Ain't you never wanted to be kissed in the rain?"

"I have been kissed in the rain. It was not exciting."

"Well..." His eyes glittered. "Maybe it's because you weren't bein' kissed by me."

"Highly doubtful." She ate the last of the jerky and lifted up a granola bar in two fingers, examining it with suspicion. The firelight caused flitting shadows to dance across her face.

One of the tree-branches in the fire split and sent embers floating up to the ceiling as the rain sliced sideways outside.

"I ain't never kissed anyone in the rain," the Drifter said quietly, staring out of the arched stone doorway.

"How is that even possible? You are ancient."

"I am, but I ain't never been in the rain with someone I wanted to, who was... also willing to let me."

The rain changed direction. There was a pause, as though the sky itself had taken a breath, and then the rain resumed. It was no longer moving sideways and was simply falling straight down. The sky periodically illuminated the wide horizon with lightning and the thunder still rumbled as though huge invisible bison were stampeding across the plains, but the violence of the storm was clearly dying down to simple heavy downpour.

Eris sighed deeply. "We only just got dry."

The Drifter shrugged. "Ok," he said, his voice soft.

Eris sighed again even more deeply, and stood. She held out her hand to him.

The Drifter's face split into one of his classic overly-wide and toothy grins as he reached up and took her hand, letting her pull him to his feet.

"You are insufferable."

"You love it," the Drifter whispered into the cloth next to Eris' ear before stepping back and pulling her out into the storm.

Be sure to check out the rest of the zine! It's full of art and writing from multiple people, including several pieces written by me!

[heartfullofleeches]

Hella weird but I want Devlin to chase me, like if it’s just an intense game of tag or I’m genuinely trying to run away idc I want that man full on sprinting after me while I’m running away from him. Sounds like a fun adrenaline rush idk

The ride is unusually quiet. Your partner with his rambunctious and unruly self had hyped up the outing up until this point, eerily quiet as his eyes focus on the road. How well that attention spared was beyond you as you were fairly certain he didn't have a driver's license mainly due to the fact he's been alive nearly as long as vehicle transportation itself, but its better not to sweat the small things. He keeps a hand on your leg the entire drive, mindlessly tracing patterns along your thigh muscles. That mischievous grin of his returns as the car breaks to a stop.

"We're here~"

The happy jingle in his voice can't mean anything good, but you pop your seatbelt and follow him outside out of the trust he longed for and you felt you could give. Devlin grabs a bag from the back and your hand as he steps off road and into the treelining. He kisses the top of your hand as he closes your fingers around a flashlight.

"I'm so exciting, babes. No matter what, just remember you'll be safe- as long as you stay close to me and don't pass the blue trees when we get there."

That's definitely comforting. "What are we doing out here?"

That impossible smile only grows. "You'll see."

Devlin leads you into the wood. There's not much on your walk besides trees and rocks, until you come across the stained walls ejected around the forest floor. Vegetation and the hands of time had done their damage, but you could make out what looks to be spray paint art. The tiny monuments gradually incress in size till you're facing down small cobble huts throughout the area. Devlin stops in what appears to be the heart of the field and spreads his arms.

"Ta-da! Cool ain't it?"

You look around, airsoft goggles abandoned by a tree stump. "Is this... a paintball field?"

"Yup. Built right over the cemetery in the town I grew up in. Had some quality fun when was open. Probably the reason it closed too. Yellow eyed devil is what they called me. So fucking lame."

"I'm glad you showed me a part of your past, but is sight seeing all we came to do?"

"Nope."

Devlin snatches your light and tosses it into the trees. He pulls off his coat and lays it over a wall.

You back away as he streches. "I'm confused.."

"I'm gonna hunt ya down, silly. Just a little bonding experience and a way to relieve all the stress I got from watching you mingle with others. Most importantly, it'll be good to see how fast you can run if you flake on me and I have to drag your cute ass back where you belong.

He's dead serious about this. Some warning would've been nice, but the only way out is if you play alone. "What are the roles?"

"You try to make it back to the car without me catching you. It's pretty much a straight line besides the baracades so whether that's an advantage is on you. I'll give you a ten second head start. If you win, I'll do whatever you say for the night. If I win.... well- you'll see soon enough.

It probably would've been best to calculate your chances of winning, but it was clear he was getting antsy. "Alright. I'll play along. You better not be a sore loser like you were when we played operation."

Devlin looks ready to burst from excitement. "Scouts honor. We start in five."

You face the starting point, counting off in your head. You hear Devlin pacing behind you as you get in position. On the final number, your feet sink into the soft earth as you take off. Your countdown continues as you sprint down the path, seconds ticking by until the chase begins. Glancing over your shoulder, you see that Devlin isn't even looking in the direction you're heading. As the second countdown finishes, he takes a knee - running off to your right.

You make up for the wasted time by kicking your flight into second gear. Wasn't the best idea to put all your energy in at the start, but he was up to something and you knew it. Just keep looking ahead and pushing forward. The trees off the path were two dense for him to make it through and somehow catch you. There was probably a trap somewhere or-

Devlin cleans tree leaves out of his hair as he steps onto the path. The fall hurt his ankle, but with a few rolls of his foot it's good as new. You stop dead in your tracks, flinging yourself behind the nearest wall before he can spot you. That bastard was in the trees - waiting for you. You knew he was fast, but that seemed impossible. You peak around the wall to see if he's noticed you.

"Anybody ever tell you how hot you are covered in sweat and afraid?"

Devlin leans over the wall, winking at you as you look up. Grabbing the closest thing to you, you throw a small rock in his general direction as you race off in the direction you came. He catches it and hops over the wall.

"Oh you play dirty, huh? Here I thought I would have to go easy on you."

Your chest burns as you make distance from him as fast as humanly possible. He's gone off road again when you check, but this time you catch a glimpse of him through the thicket of trees right before he bursts out again in front of you. You pedal backwards and into one of the area towers, crawling beneath the glass free window to make it to the otherside. Devlin is already there and covers your mouth before you can scream. He pins you to the wall and celebrates his victory with a kiss to your sweaty skin.

"Looks like I won. I think it's time for the real fun to begin."

Devlin picks you up and sits you on the window sill. You catch your breath as his hands paw your thighs, tongue rolling over your salty skin.

"Another... round."

His ears perk up in tune with his lecherous smirk. "Oh?"

"I... wasn't- ready. If you win, I'll give you... an entire week of doing whatever you want."

Devlin backs off you, the flames of adrenaline rekindled in his eyes and burning brighter than before. "Oh, Y/n. You have no idea what you've just submitted yourself too."

[tg-pilled]

Tokyo Ghoul Characters as MCR songs

This is for shits and giggles, please don't take this too serious. I originally wanted to cover Every album and compare Every song to a character from each album and then realized nobody cares that deeply so here is a brief version!

Kaneki - Famous Last Words - "Can you see my eyes are shining bright? 'Cause I'm out here on the other side of a jet black hotel mirror and I'm so weak. Is it hard understanding, I'm incomplete?"

Haise - AMBULANCE - "And we will wear our masks again, out after dark, 'cause we are up for everything it takes, and we are not the same."

Ginshi - Cancer - "But counting down the days to go, it just ain't living, and I just hope you know that if you say goodbye today, I'd ask you to be true because the hardest part of this is leaving you."

Urie - Sleep - "Don't you breathe for me, undeserving of your sympathy, 'cause there ain't no way I'm sorry for what I did."

Mutsuki - DESTROYA - "With duct-tape scars on my honey, they don't like who you are. You won't like where we'll go, brother, protect me now."

Saiko - The Kids from Yesterday - "All the cameras watch the accidents and stars you hate. They only care if you can bleed. Does the television make you feel the pills you ate or every person that you need to be?"

Arima - The Foundations of Decay - "Let the flesh submit itself to gravity. Let our bodies lay, mark our hearts with shame. Let our blood in vain, you find God in pain. Now if your convictions were a passing phase, may your ashes feed the river in the morning rays. And as the vermin crawls we lay in the foundations of decay."

Hide - The World is Ugly - "These are their hearts, but their hearts don't beat like ours. They burn 'cause they are all afraid. But mine beats twice as hard, 'cause the world is ugly, but you're beautiful to me."

Touka - The Ghost of You - "At the top of my lungs in my arms she dies, she dies. At the end of the world, or the last thing I see, you are never coming home."

Hinami - Cemetary Drive - "If you want, I'll keep on crying. Did you get what you deserve? Is this what you always want me for? I miss you."

Ayato - Thank You for the Venom - "I keep a gun in the book you gave me. Hallelujah, lock and load. Black is the kiss, the touch of the serpent son."

Nishiki - The Jetset Life Is Gonna Kill You - "Gaze into her killing jar, I'd sometimes stare for hours. She even poked the holes so I can breathe."

Eto - Give 'Em Hell Kid - "Some might say we are made from the sharpest things you say. We are young and we don't care. Your dreams and your hopeless hair. We never wanted it to be this way for all our lives."

Naki - The Only Hope for Me is You - "Because you're the only hope for me. And if we can't find where we belong, we'll have to make it on our own."

Takizawa - House of Wolves - "Tell me I'm an angel, take this to my grave. Tell me I'm a bad man, kick me like a stray."

Tsukiyama - Romance - There's no lyrics but the vibe is *chefs kiss*

Uta - I Never Told You What I Do for a Living - "It ain't the money and it sure as hell ain't just for the fame, it's for the bodies I claim and lose. Only go so far 'til you bury them so deep and down we go, down."

Renji - Headfirst for Halos - "And as the fragments of my skull begin to fall, fall on your tongue like pixie dust, just think happy thoughts, and we'll fly home."

Juuzou - Mama - "Well, mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue. You should've raised a baby girl, I should've been a better son."

Rize - Our Lady of Sorrows - "We could be perfect lovers one last night, and die like star-crossed lovers when we fight."

Akira - Skylines and Turnstiles - "We walk in single file. We light our rails and punch our time. Ride escalators colder than a cell. The broken city-sky, like butane on my skin, stolen from my eyes."

Amon - Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back - "For all of us who've seen the light, salute the dead and lead the fight. Who gives a damn if we lose the war? Let the walls come down, let the engines roar."

Feel free to add your own interpretations but these are songs that I think relate to the characters! :)

[pilot-boi]

Plotbunny AU 5 - WELCOME BACK TO BEACON, LOVEBIRDS

(And we're back to this nonsense. Let's go, this world ain't gonna fix itself)

Come the day of Beacon's semester starting, Jaune gets to work being everyone's brother figure, while Alyx decides to get to know Jaune's siblings, her rivals for his hugs, his crush, friends.

Between Jaune hugging everyone who stands still long enough, the entire student body cooing over Juniper, and Alyx making commentary it all goes pretty good..

Then she drags him up to Weiss and Pyrrha, and Jaune becomes a stuttering mess. Alyx decides to ask the redhead who she is, since her saying hello gave Jaune a coughing fit.

Weiss asks Alyx if she knows who Pyrrha is, and when he says no, looks like she's going to start a tirade ,but Jaune plays peacemaker.

He thought long and hard, staying up late into the night: could he pretend he never recognized her again? Try and be ensure he becomes her partner again? game the system like that?

Manipulate her with false information and half-truths like everyone else did?

(No, never. Not in a million years. Never, ever. He's not the Jaune that loved and lost, he's a shadow of that man, but he could never dream of giving her anything but choices and support)

"This is Pyrrha Nikos, Alyx. She won the tournament in Mistral four times.... oh! And she's also sponsored by my favorite cereal, where I got the sweater from!"

Let it be known that Alyx is a reformed hellion and will game the system for Jaune's sake.

"Ohhhh, sounds important. You should partner up with Jaune here, he's brave and loyal and strong, and he deserves the best partner cause he'll be their best partner in turn! Like a knight from a storybook. Team Jaune will be the place to be-"

Jaune ain't having it. He'll protect Pyrrha from everyone, even his own misplaced feelings if he needs to.

"She's also a person who deserves to have her boundaries respected and for no one to project their wants or feelings onto her, Alyx. Come on, sorry you two, please have a nice day...."

(And Jaune misses Pyrrha watching him walk away with a laser focus.)

Initiation comes. Jaune takes Juniper out of his pocket and she grows to regular size, and Jaune lands safely in the forest...

And has a panic attack

He's already changed things, he's changing things, what if he messes up? What if it all gets worse? What if- THUNK

"Hello Again! Are you okay?"

There's Pyrrha, having jumped on her spear and ridden it like a surfboard after using it's propellant features and semblance to guide it.

Because of course she makes it look effortless; riding the spear until it landed in that tree, looking down at him while he looks up.

Something clicks.

She jumps down, hair falling, and without thinking about it, he catches her in his arms, holding her there for an instant that lasts forever before setting her on her feet.

There a small smile on her face, and his helm is hiding the tears in his eyes.

She speaks to him, a beaming smile on her face:

"So, is there anymore room on Team Jaune?"

He takes off his helmet, smiling in-spite of his misgivings as something seems to align within him. And from her beaming face, he thinks he eels it, too.

"Hardy har....partner."

Eyes lidded, Pyrrha calls her spear to her hand without a thought, smiling back at him.

"Then let's get going, partner."

Jaune helps her onto Juniper, and they rush off towards the Relics.

Together.

(It all mostly works itself out, to Jaune's relief. They kill a Nevermore and a Deathstalker, with style even, and Juniper actually dropkicks an Ursa over the horizon) (When he emerges from the Forest with Pyrrha as his partner, Alyx is very smug, the little brat. Jaune hugs her anyways)

While Jaune goes to classes, Alyx doesn't spend all of her time taking care of Juniper she needs to do other things or she'll go stir crazy.

If she doesn't distract herself from the fact that everything she knew is gone, she'll go mad.

So she reads, and watches videos on her scroll, but eventually, after reading her brother's book for the sixth time, she asks Ozpin for his thoughts on it, as the resident 'Legend Expert'.

Ozpin has many thoughts, and delights at the chance to discuss Legends and the truths behind them.

(And listen, Alyx is taking everything he says with a grain of salt, she has heard many rants from the Rusted Knight about him and his habit of omitting details, but his passion for Fairy Tales seems genuine)

And one day Alyx decides she wants to be Better, yes, but to help more people be Better as well.

"How would you like to help me write a sequel to this story my brother wrote? So everyone knows the truth, even if they don't know it...."

(Playing on that Ozpin seems to be the incarnation most obsessed with mythology and researching and lecturing about them)

And so they write, weeks going on and continuing even as the semester starts and classes begin, sharing hot chocolate and occasionally taking breaks to walk Juniper and check in on Jaune, training in the forest nearby:

>The Origins of the Rusted Knight: A story of the only son with seven sisters running away from his family's farm to become a hero like his family ancestor.

>The Girl Who Wished To Become Real: A tragedy that serves as a Stealth Prequel to The Girl who Fell Through The World, and touches on What Makes A Person.

>The Boy Who Returned Home: A tribute to Lewis, and all he did for her and her apology note and goodbye letter and thank you all in one.

(Ozpin does hug her after they write that and have Glynda let Jaune off from classes that day, strangely fond of this girl who understands him more than anyone but also takes none of his crap)

>The Four Who Finally Arrived: The sequel to the Tale of the Rusted Knight, featuring him surviving the original story, his long vigil coming to an end, and him returning home hand in hand with his friends.

>The Four Daughters: Ozma's own apology and farewell, memorializing his failures and regrets.

(Alyx gives him the hug this time, with Juniper purring. Jaune joins in, it's kinda his thing.)

>The Paper Pleasers: A Lighthearted Tale of a kind people who only want to beautify the land....... featuring the Rusted Knight in a comedic role for a change.

>Tales of the Ever After: A series of shorts and bits, telling fantastic blurbs about fantasy characters.

>The Tree and the Blcksmith: A creation Mythos story, featuring the beginning of everything, she who remakes others again and again, and two figures that become surprisingly important.

As the semester goes on, Alyx and Jaune call his family more often, and Jaune cajoles everyone else into doing the same. They argue a little, but eventually give in. Stupid himbo and his "call your family guys, cherish them!"

Weiss calls Whitley and Winter. It goes.... awkwardly. But by the third week of sunday calls, she could almost swear Whitley was looking forward to them. Odd. Stupid eyes, stinging when she thinks about it. And Winter is so, so glad to hear Weiss gush for minutes on end about her dorm's pets and her new friends.

Tai is relieved to hear his daughters are doing well and making friends. He's not so pleased to hear that their Uncle is apparently hanging around between missions, and says he might be hanging around Vale more himself. Weird.

Blake.... okay, Blake chickens out twice in a row. But the third time, Alyx slips in and presses the button for her before slipping out with a "Hi Mrs and Mr Belladonna, we got your daughter to call, don't worry we're keeping an eye out for her stalker, have fun catching up, bye!"

Brat.

But an hour later, Blake has red rimmed eyes and gives Alyx a hug, so she's not too mad.

Pyrrha calls her mother and, fortified with Jaune's hugs and everyone's encouragement, speaks about stepping back form her sponsorship deals while she's at Beacon and opens up about wanting to be more, feeling lighter afterwards.

Ren and Nora are dragged into Jaune's calls several times, and also Pyrrha's once she starts gossiping with her mother over things after their first call, and both will admit it helps more than they would admit to feel like they belong with these people.

And that's the dose of fluff. Tune in next time for Alyx's prank war against Cardin and Roman's second defeat at Juniper's paws (And Cinder getting rekked again, of course)

God. All the stuff about the new stories got me

Alyx not being quite as good a writer as her brother but trying SO HARD and wanting her new brother’s story to be told. Wanting his suffering to be KNOWN and talked about so it’s not like OG Jaune suffered for nothing

You’re doing great Alyx, you’re getting better

The Arkos meeting? *chefs kiss* Not lying to her because she deserves better than that? Pyrrha still rescuing him, but this time from his own self doubt? Top notch, all of it

ALL THE FAMILY CALLS!!! Blake getting reassured that her parents love her (because they’re the best). Weiss reconciling with Whitley and showing Winter that she’s loved as a person, because fight me they both need a hug

Tai being rightly concerned about Qrow because of the plot stuff that the girls don’t know about, but also taking it as prompting to visit his daughters more often. Because god dammit visit your kids, you know where the school is

PYRRHA SETTING BOUNDARIES BECAUSE SHES FINALLY GETTING THE SUPPORT SHE DESERVES!!! YOU LOVE TO SEE IT!!!

Thank you for the dose of fluff. Can’t wait to see Cardin, Roman, and Cinder get wrecked

Also I can’t remember if the Blake Faunus reveal happened already, but if it hasn’t I can’t wait for that. Also can’t wait to see when/if Jaune’s whole deal is revealed

Because I know it’s not HIS trauma, but god damn with him going above and beyond looking out for everyone, I want him to have his break down and be supported by everyone he’s helped build up

[mayamidnightmelody]

Margot Robbie: A Barbie Dream Come True

Yo, squad! Let's talk about the ultimate babe of Hollywood, the queen herself, Margot Robbie! Now, you might know her from those killer roles in "Suicide Squad" or "The Wolf of Wall Street," but hold up, because we gotta dive deep into her latest gig – becoming the real-life Barbie!

Okay, picture this: Margot Robbie, the definition of stunning, is bringing Barbie to life on the big screen. And let me tell you, fam, she's not just playing Barbie; she's embodying her. From her flawless looks to her killer personality, Margot is giving us all the Barbie vibes we've been craving.

First off, can we just take a sec to appreciate how drop-dead gorgeous she is? Like, seriously, she's got those killer blue eyes and that smile that could light up a whole room. Plus, have you seen her hair? It's like a golden mane of perfection – totally Barbie material!

But it's not just about looks, fam. Margot's got that attitude to match. She's fierce, she's independent, and she's all about breaking stereotypes. I mean, come on, Barbie's not just a pretty face – she's a boss babe who can do anything she sets her mind to. And Margot? She's the perfect gal to bring that to life.

Now, let's talk about the movie itself. Barbie ain't just your typical doll – she's a whole vibe, a whole mood. And with Margot Robbie at the helm, you know it's gonna be epic. We're talking about a movie that's gonna inspire girls everywhere to embrace their uniqueness, chase their dreams, and slay like the queens they are.

Plus, can we just appreciate how Margot's using her platform to spread some serious girl power? She's all about lifting others up, spreading positivity, and showing the world that beauty comes in all shapes, sizes, and colors. That's the kind of role model we need in Hollywood, am I right?

So, to all my fellow Barbie fans out there, get ready to witness history in the making. Margot Robbie is about to take us on the ride of a lifetime, and trust me, it's gonna be iconic. Barbie may have been a doll before, but with Margot bringing her to life, she's becoming a symbol of empowerment, beauty, and girl power. And honestly, what's more lit than that?

[delopsia]

I've written intros before, but for some reason, I've sat here for ten whole minutes failing to write one, so this is what you're getting.

Anyways here's a short snippet of Stalling, a short porn without plot Rhett fic (PBR! Rhett in specific but its not that important here) that you should see on Thursday the 23rd, 3PM EST 💃

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble.  "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting.

But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there. 

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof. 

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room. 

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you. 

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open. 

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent.

[eartheats]

phew! hiya guys! hopefully y'all haven't missed me too much!

...

given that i've been home for a week now and i kinda forgot rotomblr was a thing from bein' on the grindstone, though, i can't say i'd blame y'all if ya did. ^^;; oopsies! only one i've really been talkin' to as of late is family and miss amarys, outside'a workin' stuff

but i wanted to let y'all know i got home nice and safe!!! if i didn't, i'm pretty sure my friends would'a seen to it for sure!!!

but wow. i gotta admit, after not bein' home for so long, i really have missed it here! blueberry and hoenn have been nice, but y'all gotta see the work that mads and jacques did while i was gone!!!

[pictures: there are a few of them so let's go one by one!

first: a picture of the interior of ren's house, which is pretty small, all things considered. there seems to be a place for bouton and coriander to root themselves in and it's well maintained, and it looks like it got a little touch up with some decorative flourishes.

second: a picture of ren's TV, sitting atop a dresser. a playstation one can be seen on the floor, and there's a small bit of shelving showing a few different games. eagle eyed viewers can see atelier marie: the alchemist of salburg, barbie: race and ride, and every need for speed game released on the console pretty close up, and they're well worn like they've been played often.

third: what seems to be a brand new couch and chair. the chair sits normally, but the couch sits rather low to the floor; lulu can be seen placing half of himself onto it, eyes closed in what seems to be bliss. the chair appears to have a pillow on it with an arbok pattern, along with a pastel pink orthworm plush draped over it.

fourth...strangely enough looks like a bedroom, but it seems to have been stripped of any personal belongings. there seem to be a few boxes to the side of a surprisingly large bed, where it seems that a recognizable metagross, linux, has taken over rather gladly. the bed frame itself seems to have, uh, not been ready for this, but if the metagross cares (if they didn't do it themself), it's not apparent, at least. if one looks closely, they can see some patched up holes in the walls...]

haaaaaa...i won't lie, steppin' into my old parents room was. kinda panic inducin' at first. it still feels like a space that ain't ever gonna be mine, and...i think i'm makin' my peace with this becomin' a guest room instead'a ever gettin' one of my own. but as ya can see, i'm treatin' the first guest like a king!!! 😌 the bed was gonna need to be replaced anyway, but i guess i see where mom was funnellin' money into. that bed's apparently some bougie ass shit, but i'm gonna replace it once i go back to blueberry for sure.

[picture: a young man with an impressively custom tailored pink suit has a florges beside him, who seems to giggle at the camera. to his side, a pink haired woman with her hair tied up in standard paldean pokemon nurse style in what can only be described as a grandma dress with a cardigan over the top of it, with a Flareon nestled by her legs.]

also!!! jacques and mads went off to sinnoh just a few days ago for the start of contest season!!! i heard he won the jubilife ribbon with ease, and he and mads are makin' their way to floaroma right now to take part in the next qualifier. they're keepin' me updated and it seems like they're takin' the world by storm! apparently he stopped off along the way and picked up an old partner of his from his parents too, so minerva ain't a one woman show!

but yeah! uh. between work and stuff i'll still be a lil busy, but i wanted to let y'all know i'm okay! and to expect some nice pictures soon, heehee!