#Oblong Mirror

[apoemaday]

Letter to a Lost Friend

by Barbara Hamby

There must be a Russian word to describe what has happened between us, like ostyt, which can be used for a cup of  tea that is too hot, but after you walk to the next room, and return, it is too cool; or perekhotet, which is to want something so much over months and even years that when you get it, you have lost the desire. Pushkin said, when he saw his portrait by Kiprensky, “It is like looking into a mirror, but one that flatters me.” What is the word for someone who looks into her friend’s face and sees once smooth skin gone like a train that has left the station in Petersburg with its wide avenues and nights at the Stray Dog Cafe, sex with the wrong men, who looked so right by candlelight, when everyone was young and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, painted or wrote all night but nothing good, drank too much vodka, and woke in the painful daylight with skin like fresh cream, books everywhere, Lorca on Gogol, Tolstoy under Madame de Sévigné, so that now, on a train in the taiga of  Siberia, I see what she sees  —  all my books alphabetized and on shelves, feet misshapen, hands ribbed with raised veins, neck crumpled like last week’s newspaper, while her friends are young, their skin pimply and eyes bright as puppies’, and who can blame her, for how lucky we are to be loved for even a moment, though I can’t help but feel like Pushkin, a rough ball of  lead lodged in his gut, looking at his books and saying, “Goodbye, my dear friends,” as those volumes close and turn back into oblong blocks, dust clouding the gold leaf that once shimmered on their spines.          

[ladykailitha]

The Caged Bird Still Sings Part 4

Just a heads up tomorrow is the start of my posting hiatus. I will still do WIP Wednesdays and will be posting headcanons and stuff like that during that time. I will begin posting again on Sunday Sept. 1st. I haven't decided which story will get each slot, or if I just post based on vibes. Most likely vibes if I'm honest.

In this we get the first of Eddie's presents to Steve, Eddie refutes the stupid Steve charges, and Steve remembers something important that he forgot.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

Steve was living it up in the pool. His parents had an outdoor heated pool, but it was more for leisure than laps because of it’s weird oblong shape. But this? It had an outdoor pool, but the indoor pool was Olympic sized. Like proper with the lane lines painted on the bottom and everything.

So he practiced his backstroke and butterfly. And by the time he got out his muscles were deliciously sore and his skin was wrinkly. He showered and then padded over to the sauna to relax his ache muscles.

As he was the only one there, he set the temperature to slightly hotter than warm but not scorching. He wanted to rest his muscles not sweat out every toxin in his body. Once he was feeling good enough, he got dressed and walked back to his hotel.

He looked at the swimsuit in his hand and realized he wouldn’t have do laundry here if he didn’t want to. Wow. His mom always made him do his laundry even though they had a maid who would wash his parents’.

Steve looked at his watch and decided it was time for some dinner. He threw the swimsuit into the laundry basket and went to go blow dry his hair. He pulled out his but then noticed the one already on the counter. His eyes flicked between the two and there was no doubt that the one the hotel provided was way better than his.

He put his back in his bag and turned on the hotel’s hair dryer. It never overheated or would start to smell half way through the process. He ran a little gel through his hair and spritzed his hair three times with the hair spray.

He admired himself in mirror a moment. He was good looking. He knew that. But he never in his wildest dreams thought he had the looks to pull a rockstar. Like that was crazy levels of confidence. But looking in the mirror just now, maybe he could see what Eddie saw.

Steve walked up the table that had his wallet and picked it up. He pulled out his fake ID, the one that got him this cushy hotel room. He wouldn’t be able to use it for god knows how long, but he wanted to keep it. As a memento of sorts. God. He was already feeling melancholic about the whole thing and it had only been five hours.

That was when he spotted it. On the bed was a big white box. He frowned and walked up to it slowly. He wasn’t worried about people getting in. This was a hotel. It was probably put there by housekeeping or even the concierge. He knew better than to keep anything in his room that might interest a snoop.

He just wondered who gave it to him. He picked up the card and read it.

-To my little Canary

A parting gift from me.

Promise me you’ll wear it and think of me often

-Your Eddie

Steve lifted the lid of the box and inside was the most beautiful silk pajamas he had ever seen. It was a short-sleeved button up that stopped just an inch or so below the waistband of the matching shorts. The shorts themselves weren’t very long, not quite booty shorts level, but close. Both in a soft, light yellow color. Perfect for summer time.

He ran over to the phone and quickly dialed Eddie’s cellphone.

“Hello?” the warm, dulcet tones answered.

“Eddie?” Steve asked, even he knew it was. He was just so excited.

“My little Canary,” Eddie purred. “I take it you got your present.”

“I did,” Steve said, twirling the cord around his finger. “They’re beautiful. I can’t wait to wear them tonight.”

“Good,” Eddie said, a smile evident in his tone. “I hope I go the size right. Did you do anything fun today?”

Steve told him all about his day swimming and the sauna. He even told him about the hair dryer because he was just that excited about it all.

“That sounds great, little Canary,” Eddie said, his fondness oozing through in his tone. “I’m sending someone by with a card that I will load money on so that you can get things like gas for your car and other things for your personal hygiene, as I assume you’ll want to buy that stuff yourself.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve found himself saying, almost against his will. “Could have gotten by with the hotel toiletries.”

Eddie chuckled. “Probably, but I wanted to give you the option of a choice.”

Steve blushed deeply, glad that Eddie couldn’t see him in that moment.

“Look, little Canary,” Eddie purred, “we just got to our location and I have to go, but I’ll call you after the show and tell you all about it.”

Steve bit his lip. “Yeah, I’ll talk then.”

He hung up after they said their goodbyes with a sigh. He flopped on the bed and looked up at the ceiling.

Fucking hell. What was he even doing with his life?

His stomach growled. Well, for starters, he guessed he was going to dinner.

~

When Steve finished his meal, which was even better than breakfast...He never had a steak melt in his mouth like that before. It was so soft and buttery and the potatoes tasted of rosemary and garlic, the carrots were covered in a glaze that tasted of honey and something darker.

He shook his head.

Anyway.

When he finished his dinner he went back up to the room. He resolved that he would need to do more than just swimming to keep the delicious food off his waistline. He was going to have to check out the gym here.

Steve looked at the time and decided it was too early for bed, but he got into the new pajamas anyway. The shorts were pulled on first and fuck. Steve felt sinful just wearing the damn things. They cupped him in all the right places but when he moved or sat down they didn’t ride up or pinch. He seriously thought about not putting on the shirt at all. But the desire to see the full effect won out.

He pulled it on and buttoned it up. And just like the shorts, the top was form fitting but comfortable. The V in the neck from where the highest button went (it didn’t button all the way up) just showed a peek of his chest hair.

He admired himself in the mirror for several minutes before he forced himself to go back out to the suite.

Steve grabbed the remote and started flipping the channels. He was used to cable as his mother needed her HSN and his father needed the soccer score. Not because he was interested in the game, but because he’d bet on foreign games.

But either his parents only had basic cable or there were a bunch of new channels added recently. And he was willing bet it was the former.

He found a late night baseball game from a Japanese league and started watching that. He couldn’t understand the announcers and he didn’t know the players’ names, but it was still baseball, regardless the language.

Before he knew it the game was over and it was late at night, finally time for bed. He got all snuggled into bed when the phone rang.

“‘Ello?” he muttered sleepily.

“Oh, darlin’,” the warm tones caressed his ear, “did I wake you?”

Steve hummed in the negative. “Just getting ready to sleep. Tell me all about selling out Indy.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh. “I’d ask you how you knew Corroded Coffin sold out tonight, but you spent all of last night surrounded by my fans. Even the stupidest person on the planet would have had to pick something up.”

“Mhmm,” Steve murmured. “That’s me, stupidest person on the planet.”

There was silence on the line for a moment or two. “Who says you’re dumb, baby?”

“My parents,” he said softly, “my first girlfriend before I realized I was gay, my ex-boyfriend, you know the one my parents kicked me out for? And um...the kids I babysat for are all like super geniuses, so they get frustrated with me a lot.”

“Oh my little Canary,” Eddie cooed. “You’re not dumb. School smarts isn’t everything. I’m living proof of that.”

“That’s true,” Steve said, a little less sad. “I’m talking to a bona fide rockstar.”

“Hell yeah you are,” Eddie agreed. “But let me tell you about my night and see if I can’t lull you to sleep with the sound of my voice.”

“I’d really like that.”

So that’s what Eddie did, he talked and talked until he could hear the soft little snuffling of snores from his Canary.

“Good night, sweetheart.”

~

When Steve woke up the next morning, the phone was still dangling off the cradle from where it fallen the night before when he fell asleep listening to Eddie.

Eddie had a great talking voice. Dude should do books on tape or voice acting or something. Maybe he’d tell him the next time he called.

He stretched and yawned. He woke up just as well rested today as he had yesterday. Which meant that as good as the sex was, and it was amazing, it wasn’t as big a factor in his night’s sleep as he thought.

He got up and went to go grab a shower. He hadn’t had a chance to use it yet, as he had used the swimming pool’s showers yesterday. He ordered breakfast and then hopped into the shower, telling them to just come in and leave it next the sofa.

He dried off with one of the most luxurious towels.

Steve stopped for a moment. He really needed to stop comparing the hotel to the life he led before being kicked out. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t even in the same state let alone ball park. His life here would always be miles away from the life he left behind.

New cage, same as the old cage really except real gold instead of merely gilded. Better food, furniture, amenities. Same limitations. Can’t drink, but he could smoke.

So he went out on the balcony to do just that. He brought his food out with him and just smoked, watching the busy crowd below him.

Oh shit!

He scrambled back inside the hotel room and fumbled around for his wallet. He pulled out a little laminated card and dialed the one on the top.

“Henderson residence, Claudia speaking,” the warm motherly voice answered.

“Mrs. Henderson,” Steve whined, almost in tears at the sound of her voice.

“Steve?” she asked gently. “Oh I was wondering when you were going to call. Dustin has been worried sick. He went to Family Video yesterday to return “Ghostbusters” and the snooty girl at the counter said you’d been fired for sodomy!”

He winced a little at the harsh word she used. “I–I’m gay, Mrs. Henderson,” he whimpered into the phone. This was it, she was going to turn him away too. Forbid Dustin from seeing him, then it would get around to the all the other parents and he wouldn’t be able to be around Holly or Will. And–

“Ah...” she said, just as gentle and warm as before. “Can you help it? Can you choose who you love?”

“No, ma’am,” he whispered, hanging his head between his shoulders.

“Then why would I care?” Claudia huffed in annoyance. “The first thing a mother should learn is to love your child no matter what, no matter who. Now, if Dusty gives you a hard time, you let me know. You hear?”

Steve felt a swell of pride in his chest, she might have not had been his real mother, but he should have known better than to bet against Claudia Henderson.

“Here, let me go get him,” she said softly. “Would you like me to explain it to him first?”

A lump formed in his throat as he choked down tears. He forgot he wasn’t isolated. He wasn’t cut off completely from people.

“Yeah,” he said, his lip quivering. “If you would.”

“Of course, sweetie,” Claudia said warmly. “I’ll be right back.”

Steve didn’t have long to wait. Soon there was the sound of Dustin practically screaming in his ear.

“Hey, bud,” he said when he could finally get a word in.

There was a sniffle. “Why didn’t you call me and Ma? We would have taken you in.”

Steve’s heart swelled again, this time in utter love for this butthead. “Because my dad would have seen to it that she lost her job at the library and with your dad having just passed, I couldn’t do that to you, to either of you, okay?”

There was another sniffle. “Okay...”

“Here,” Steve said, “I can’t tell you where I am right now, because no doubt my dad is trying to run me out of town, but I can give you a phone number to call. I might not always be there, but you can leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“I guess that’s acceptable,” Dustin huffed. “Can I tell everyone you’re okay?”

Everyone meant his kids. Max, Elle, Will, Mike, Lucas, and Erica. And well, Holly, too. But she was too young to really understand what was going on. Technically Erica should be in that same category but she was too smart to be left out. Steve didn’t even bother trying most days.

“Yeah, bud,” he murmured. “You can tell people I’m safe. Just keep the number to yourself for now. I don’t want my dad knowing where I am.”

“Roger that!” Dustin said.

They talked for a few moments longer before Claudia took the phone back.

“I’m going to call the PTA calling tree,” she said, “and get the word out that you’ll be unavailable to babysit for the foreseeable future.”

Steve hummed. “I think that’s the part that upsets me the most about all this shit.”

“I know, sweetie,” Claudia assured him. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And he was absolutely certain if anyone could, it was Claudia Henderson.

He let out a sigh of relief for the first time since he was kicked out.

~

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

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[raayllum]

Lissa had always wanted a mirror.

A big one, nearly ceiling to floor, and rimmed in gold or silver. Pretty, pristine. Elegant.

Warriors in Del Bar prided themselves on fine furs and neatly braided hair, and though her family had never had much money—just enough to send her for schooling as a minstrel, which had brought her to Katolis ("If you were really twice as clever you'd go into maths or medicine," her mother had admonished)—Lissa had taken as much pride in her appearance as she could. She knew the cut of her furs draped over her shoulders made her look fetching, and where to place the flower in her hair to bring out her eyes.

Fetching enough to catch the eye of the court mage's apprentice, clearly.

In the lead up to their wedding, Lissa had brought up her yearnings, surprised when her husband-to-be resisted.

"You certainly spend a far amount of time preening like a peacock," she'd needled goodnaturedly.

Viren had snorted in reply, sitting on the bench in the courtyard they often occupied these days. "What do you need with a mirror when you have me each day to tell you how lovely you look?"

And then he'd leaned in and kissed her sweetly, softly, and she hadn't dropped the matter entirely in the weeks to follow—"Couldn't it be your wedding gift to me?"—but one day, he wakes up from a nightmare and confessed the truth.

"The first time you do dark magic, mages... fall prey to visions, nightmares. In mine, there was a mirror. Oblong and grand."

Lissa takes his face in his hands, his beard just a tad untidy; she'll fix it for him later in the morning, under the warm light of day. For now she hopes the warmth of her hands are enough, his skin clammy and cold—almost gaunt and grey with fear.

"I saw—a version of myself. Grotesque, and... Sometimes, I still cannot get it out of my head."

She pulls him to her, stroking his back and catching their reflections in the tiny, square mirror across the way on their dresser. His breathing slows, and she smiles when his hands drift to the growing curve of her stomach. His ear to her heartbeat.

"It was just a nightmare," she assures him, drawing away to look again into his handsome face, and Viren leans into her touch.

She has what she needs; a large mirror does not need to be among them.

(Years later, in one final bid for her favour, Viren buys her the grandest mirror his yearly shillings can afford, but all she sees is the jagged lines on his face, covered up by more magic. Besides, it's not like she spends time in their bedroom anyway these days.

Even later, Viren hauls the mirror from his nightmares from the dragon king's lair back to the castle. What does it matter what he becomes?

Lissa is already gone.)

[meltedbluecaterpillar]

Vil's Lemon Cookies

A/N: This is a commission for @starshiningsirius . I am happy I was able to write it. Vil is very handsome... I secretly love him a lot. I will express it more in the future I hope.

tags: fem!reader, aphrodisiac, closet sex wc: 4.6k+

You looked at the macaroons with a defeated sigh. They looked horrific. You stayed up all night making them. The entire recipe was made from scratch to show the person you wanted to give them to that you were capable of putting your heart into something like this. You tried to make them in cute little heart shapes for Valentine’s Day but it was all in vain.

They were oblong and abstract in shapes. The cream filling was the only appealing part. You knew the task would be extremely tedious, however the effort was necessary for the person you wanted to give the cookies to. “They don’t look that bad…” Grim yawned in the wooden chair, nodding off with lazy blinks of his big, round eyes. He had stayed up all night to help you, but now the desire for sleep was here to claim his conscious state. “They’re supposed to look like hearts, Grim.” You mumbled as the defeat melted into an expression more forlorn. “Close enough.” He yawned with a wide stretch of his jaw as you looked at the clock on your phone. It was 5:50am, consequently your classes started at 7:30. You didn’t really have time for a power nap AND to get ready. But you also didn’t want to be too exhausted to give the cookies to your Valentine. 

Sam promised that the strange vial of lemon extract would bring you closer to the person you baked the liquid into. Part of you wondered if it was bull, since it sounded more like some mystical love potion. And you were pretty sure during your History of Magic classes, the Professor had mentioned that was extremely illegal. But Sam could have been pitching you a metaphor. Or maybe he really did sell you a crime. Thinking about it in detail was starting to give you a headache. “Grim, do you want to go to school today?” You questioned the beast through your own exhaustion as your eyes roamed across the table. Covered in excess flour and remnants of your baking tragedy. You were only met with his soft snoring. Taking that as a firm ‘no’ to your question you sighed. 

You would be flying solo today, or perhaps even sneaking off to the library to catch up on some sleep. After cleaning up and tying your ugly macaroons up in a thin plastic bag and violet colored ribbon, you carried Grim upstairs to bed. You tucked him in and began to get ready for school with your eyes threatening to shut at every moment. The cafeteria sold espresso shots. You thought that grabbing one would be the best course of action for when you made it to the building. If you didn’t fall asleep walking down the path first. You showered and washed your hair, brushed your teeth while scrubbing the crust from your sleepy eyes. Finally, you got into your uniform. You looked yourself over in the mirror as a quick glance over for any possible imperfections. Maybe some lip gloss? Mascara maybe?

It was Valentine’s Day and you wanted to look your best to take away attention from the disfigured macaroons. But for now you just wanted to sleep on the couch. You grabbed your school bag and your phone, heading down to the lobby of Ramshackle for a swift power nap. The ghosts promised they would wake you up in time for classes, but they seemed worried. You were up all night. They thought that maybe it would be better for you to skip the first few hours to catch up on a few hours of needed rest. But you refused. With sorry expressions, they promised to wake you up in time. 

-♡- 

You walked to school with haste. A scowl on your face with your eyes glued to your phone. Your blazer shielding you from the rain pelting against you. And it was only going to get stronger. The ghosts did wake you in time for classes. But only for that. You wouldn’t have any time to go hunting for the person you wished to gift the macaroons to. It could be that they intended for you to get some much needed sleep. But you didn’t have that in your timetable for Valentine’s Day. You had the cookies tucked into your school bag, pouting in silence as you made your way up the wet, stone stairs of the college. 

As you entered, your tired eyes spotted Vil walking far ahead on his way to class. You didn’t have time to stop him, and Rook was already singing his praises. The moment you reached your first class, the bell had rang. With a joyless and exhausted sigh you sat in your seat and pulled your notebook from your bag. The least you could do was get ready for a long lecture. But you didn’t realize that when you closed your eyes, the bell would be ringing again to signal the end of class. 

You actually fell asleep at your desk. 

Whipping your head around, seeing most of the students already heading to their next class. It left you with a sour taste in your mouth. This had to be the worst Valentine’s Day you had ever experienced. You shoved your things back into your bag, quickly rising to your feet to make it to your next class. However the thought of skipping to sleep in the library sounded more and more appealing with every step. As you left the classroom, a familiar face was waiting for you. A wide and friendly smile, his blunt bob pulled back into a ponytail and his hat missing from his head. “Bonjour! Did you sleep well?” Rook asked in a way most found unsettling. 

But with your attempts to be in the gaze of Vil, you had gotten used to him. “Very funny…” You mumbled as your pace began to slow as he walked beside you “Non, non! It is not a jest, I was sent to fetch you!~!” He chuckled as you finally slowed to a stop in the bustling hallway. A warmth settled in your face as you looked at him with suspicion. There was only one person that Rook would ever obey. “Do you have time after school?” He asked and you swiftly nodded. No hesitation needed. “Très bien! Please go straight to the Film Club at the end of the day. Someone will be waiting for you there,” Rook followed after you as you walked to your next class with your heart jumping excitedly in your chest. “And this is from me.” He handed you a small violet box as you reached the classroom door. Giving you a small nod farewell as the bell rang above you. You pulled open the box and frowned. It was an anatomically correct heart made of red chocolate. 

Gross. But fitting for someone like Rook to give as a gift. 

-♡-

The school day had finally ended, and you took in a small inhale as you stood outside of the Film Club. The chocolate heart Rook had gifted you was loaded with caffeine. Just enough for you to make it through the rest of the day. Hopefully there would be no one else present, you knew how aggressive some of the other students could be towards Vil. You rehearsed what you wanted to say in your mind as you started to pace. Smoothing out wrinkles in your uniform and trying to fix your hair. Should you try to play things cool? Maybe acting aloof and sultry? Be friendly, but not too friendly… Right? You swallowed down your anxiety and raised your head. Your hand clutched the brass knob tightly.

Just his acknowledgement would be enough to make you happy. It was quiet on the other side.

You took in a slow inhale, and let it all out before announcing that you were coming in. You forced open the door, eyes filled with determination. “Excuse me, Vil-” You stopped as a boiling warmth stung the flesh of your face. Amethyst colored eyes locked with yours as Vil frowned, holding a script in his slender, well manicured fingers. His hair was up in a neat braided bun, his ears had shimmering crystal earrings dangling softly with each delicate movement. “What? Come in, don’t just stand there.” He instructed firmly from where he leaned against the table. A silk, royal purple shirt exposing the flesh of his chest. Not a scar or freckle to be accounted for. It was tucked neatly into a pair of black Victorian styled trousers that naturally accentuated the gorgeous silhouette of his body. Down to blood colored stilettos, making Vil four inches taller than before. You were taken aback by his appearance. You didn’t expect him to be dressed for the club already.

Now you felt far too underdressed to see him. 

Your disheveled uniform made you feel the urge to spin on your heels and leave the room. “Um…” Your rehearsals were all in vain as you awkwardly closed the door to the club room behind you. “Yes? Did Rook send you? Perfect, I needed to speak with you this morning.” He wasn’t waiting for you to explain yourself and jumped to his own conclusions with a grin. The soft rain pelting against the glass windows. It pulled you deeper into the room as the adrenaline you felt began to wane. The script in his hands was discarded to the table's surface. He curled his finger with a smile. “Come here my little sweet potato. I have a gift for you.” His voice was silky as he walked over to another table and began to dig through his school bag. Your heart was pounding as you came closer, smiling to yourself as the burning reached the sensitive tips of your ears. He called you his sweet potato.

It was rare for him to use that nickname. Since you had gotten closer, he only referred to you by name or the appropriate title of Prefect. You stood before him. Your face was hot as you struggled to remain still. To fight the urge to fidget from excitement. “Hold out your hands.” He instructed sweetly with an arm hidden behind his back, towering over you with a soft expression.

He really was gorgeous. You swallowed down even more anxiety, inhaling the faint floral scent of his cologne as you held out your hands obediently. “For you, happy Valentine’s Day.” He cooed sweetly as he handed you an expensive bar of chocolate. Lined in gold foil and telling you it was number one in the world. Almost like it was made to be photographed; not eaten. “I had it imported from home. No other chocolate can compare, so I know it’s something you will enjoy.” He chuckled softly as you looked at it with wide eyes. Traditionally, girls were to present boys with sweets on Valentine’s Day. The favor was to be returned on March 14th, White Day. Maybe things were different in Twisted Wonderland considering Rook had given you that chocolate heart earlier. Either way, you appreciated it a lot.

“I planned to give it to you first thing this morning. But I couldn’t find the time to give it to you. I know it’s inconvenient since my club starts in,” He paused and reached for his phone. Only to click his tongue in annoyance. “Ten minutes.” The Housewarden appeared dissatisfied as you marveled silently at the expensive treat. “I actually have something for you too!” You looked up at Vil, your heart drumming in your ears as a wave of surprise flashed in his face. 

You felt that bubbling insecurity rise as you rested your school bag on the table, digging through it to retrieve the now slightly smashed and so-very unsightly macaroons. You pulled them sadly from your bag and your shoulders sagged in disappointment. “They… They’re supposed to be macaroons…” You muttered sadly as you looked at the bag in your hands. It was far worse than this morning. The overwhelming urge to break down and cry began to snake its way to the front of your brain. You were so tired, even after having three espresso shots and power napping in the library instead of attending P.E you couldn’t take it anymore. 

Valentine’s Day truly felt like a disaster. 

You weren’t sure if the tears starting to well in your eyes were from exhaustion or if they were from the feeling of failure. “Did you make those for me?” Vil asked as you hesitated, before nodding with a small sniffle. “I tried… I shouldn’t have stuffed them in my bag.” Your fingers brushed his own as he accepted the treats with a smile. He reached out and gently thumbed away your tears with a soft hum. “I can tell you put in the effort.” Vil teased softly as you leaned into his touch. “I’m supposed to be dieting,” Vil began as he pulled away from you. Watching as you blinked yourself back into reality.

His elegant fingers pulled the ribbon free as he sat at the table and you took the chair across from him. “but I think since it’s a holiday I can have a few of these. After all, you worked so hard on them.” He smiled softly as he took one of the macaroons still intact. Instead of what was supposed to be a perfect circle, it looked somewhat like a misshapen heart. “Are these lemon flavored?” He asked curiously, biting delicately at the corner of the treat as you sheepishly nodded with a soft sniffle. “I had bought lemon extract from Sam’s shop. I thought it would be unique instead of the traditional chocolate. But… It didn’t come out right…” You explained as Vil ate slowly, chewing and smiling as he went for another. You couldn’t tell him that the lemon extract may be magical. 

“I wanted to make them perfect but I hadn't made macaroons until last night… I’m sorry.” You apologized as your body began to feel heavy with the exhaustion creeping through your body. The tears didn’t help either and the gentle pat of rain started to lull you into a comforting state. Vil shook his head in disagreement. His brows creased as he finished off the cookie. “They taste amazing actually. The appearance is appalling, yes, but the flavor is beyond expectations. And I have a very expensive taste.” He cooed as the flush in your face returned as you propped your head in your hands with a dreamy smile. He liked them! “Did you even try your own creation?” Vil hummed and you shook your head in response. 

You didn’t have time. “Here,” The Housewarden grabbed one of the pastel yellow macaroons, this one had taken a shape similar to a boot. “Ahhhh~” He sang as you nervously parted your lips, tasting the lemony cream and the softness of the flaky macaroon against your tongue. Vil was right, even though they looked hideous, they were actually really good. A perfect balance of bittersweetness, the shells were soft and easy to eat, the cream coated your tongue and was the perfect thickness. “Practice makes perfect of course. I’ll be expecting some more of these soon. I’ll pay for whatever ingredients as long as you work on your piping skills.” He laughed, soft like windchime bells as you chewed slowly and savored the taste. The two of you sat and talked, the conversation flowed perfectly. Even when he scolded you for sacrificing your sleep for the sake of a pastry as you started to nod off in front of him.

The cookies and the chocolate had been finished. As the other club members started to file in you sensed that it was time for you to go. But you couldn’t shake this feeling. It wasn’t the overwhelming desire to lay on the ground and sleep. It was a burning sensation deep inside your stomach. Filling you with a dull ache that made you cross your ankles and rub your knees together. You felt… Horny. 

You weren’t sure if it was that time for you to be ovulating already. Something absolutely felt off. Your cheeks were burning, and you looked across the table at Vil who was now resting his head in his hand. His cheeks were a soft rouge as he stared at the empty plastic bag with only remnants of the cookies the two of you had finished. Vil had eaten most of them. “My little sweet potato…” He sounded irritated as he pulled a smile across his face, looking at you with his eyes darkening. The lemon extract. 

Sam said it would help you get closer to the person you fed it to. It wasn’t poison right? “You said you bought that lemon extract from Sam’s?” He asked as he straightened up, folding his hands across the table as you tried looking away. You felt guilty now, writhing nervously in your chair. “Are you sure it was just lemon extract?” He asked through clenched teeth as you felt the cotton of your panties starting to cling the longer you sat. Images of Vil’s angry expression swarmed your frontal lobe and all you wanted was to be forced to apologize. 

There was absolutely something wrong. 

Sam never said how much to use, so you had used the entire bottle in your cookies. Clearly that was a bad idea with how your bodies seemed to be reacting. “I see the club is starting!” You jumped to your feet to escape the interrogation. Swaying slightly from tiredness as the rain sounded much heavier now. Grabbing your bag with haste, your palms sweaty as you rushed to the door. “Thank you for the chocolate.” You breathed out as the burning feeling grew and grew. There was the debate between holding back the carnal hunger until you made it to Ramshackle, or sneaking into a janitor's closet to quickly relieve yourself of the hungry feeling. Either way you wanted a nap afterwards.

“I’m not finished with you yet.” The breathless growl made the hair on the back of your neck stand straight to attention. Vil was right behind you with his hands clenched into tight fists. Your thighs quivered in excitement as sweat began to pool beneath your stuffy uniform. Some of the club members called out to the two of you, bringing you both back to the current reality. “I’m going to walk the Prefect to the bathroom. Just in case there are male students lingering in the halls.” Vil’s excuse was flimsy, but of course his club was filled with sparkling eyes as they nodded and commented on how kind Vil was. 

You weren’t sure either of you would make it to the bathroom. 

As you left together, you could feel Vil close behind. A hand lingering along your lower back as you stumbled your way to the nearest door. Funny enough, it was a janitor's closet. You glanced around. Taking note of the hallway's emptiness, grabbing the handle to the door. Vil urged you forward, a silent command as you swallowed and obeyed. You opened the door as Vil gave you another soft push. It was small and cramped. Dark and filled with the faint scent of lemony-scented cleaning supplies. The door shut behind you with a click. Now shrouding you in the black shadows as a pair of lips found your throat, and strong hands began to pull and yank at your uniform. “I want you to take responsibility for whatever mistake you made.” He snarled against your skin. Sucking and biting at the flesh as you were pushed deeper into the closet. Your skin was on fire, your hips rubbing back against his clothed crotch as he pressed you against the wall of the closet. You were like pliable clay. Submitting to the idea of being molded into whatever it was your queen wanted. 

The roughness was pleasant, the fantasy of wanting to be closer to someone you once saw as unreachable was pleasant. You continued to grind as Vil’s hips moved in tandem with yours. Soft moans and cries filled the tiny closet space. The sounds echoed through your skull as you pulled up the fabric of your skirt, silently begging for more. Vil was of course quick to pick up on things. “You did this on purpose?” He asked and you shook your head. Your eyes screwed shut as he panted softly in your ear. Cool hands slid along your hips as your panties were forced down the plush flesh of your thighs. “Liar.” He chuckled in amusement as a slender finger slipped inside of you. Your body jerked in surprise. Vil pumped and curled slowly as your walls constricted and relaxed around the digit. Your body was so excited to finally feel your more intimate needs satiated. “I know you did this on purpose. Poisoning me like this… All for a little attention?” His voice tickled the flesh of your ear as his finger pumped and curled vigorously inside of you. “It was an accident.” The words came out breathless. Hardly audible as Vil continued to kiss and suck at your neck. 

You felt happy with the lingering knowledge that it would bruise on your skin. The affectionate and hungry welts by someone you had wanted to be recognized by for so long. “You could have just asked me.” Your head jerked in surprise. Asking and or suggesting your affections directly was a herculean feat you could only dare to dream of. The curling finger pressed and prodded at a rough patch of nerves inside of you. It caused your body to jump in surprise as you shook your head. “Your fans would kill me-”

“So you DID do this on purpose?” He teased and you started to pout. His mouth was much kinder now as he pressed kisses against your hot skin. A second finger slipped inside of you. “No… I… I didn’t know it would…” You were starting to feel light headed through your confession. “Sam said it would get us closer… But I thought it was… It was one of those lame metaphors so I would buy it…” You grumbled as Vil chuckled softly. He was amused. His pumping slowed. Sensually rubbing your wet velvety insides. Coating his digits with your juices as he continued to kiss and suck lightly at your flesh. “Such innocent intentions. I choose to believe you, my little sweet potato.” The nickname appeared again. “But,” He paused as the pumping stopped, and you started to pout. Your head pressing against the wall as you gnawed at your bottom lip in frustration. Vil gently patted the flesh of your ass as the sound of shuffling clothes muted the silence between you.

“there are consequences for being so naïve. Especially since you’ve pulled me into your little mess.” You could feel something rubbing against the plush meat of your moistened entrance. Round tip, smeared with something sticky and wet. Twitching and throbbing with anticipation for more to come. “Now, now my little sweet potato. How badly did you want me to do this with you?” Very was the correct answer. Vil knew that. But he wanted to hear you say it. To push the pleas’ past your own lips for him to savor. He wanted to egosurf your sentences. To hear you admit how much you’ve wanted him and for how long. The once unattainable, has become attainable to you. And only you. You reached back, curling your hand through Vil’s champagne colored hair. Once in its neat braided bun, but now loose with the ends curled from accumulated sweat. You carefully craned your neck. Your lips are just now brushing against Vil’s as you feel his cock start to slowly slip inside of you. Your walls stretched open for him. Allowing him to penetrate deeper and deeper as the two of you panted quietly in the dark.

Your lips caught his in a chaste and starved kiss. “I really like you… I’m sorry I tricked you.” The apology was breathless as your stomach coiled in excitement. The filling feeling made your eyes start to roll back into your skull as Vil took the chance to rub his tongue against your bottom lip. “I’ll apologize with my body. So I can show you I mean it.” You couldn’t believe your words were your own. Maybe it was the magical lemon extract. Maybe it was Vil giving you what you always wanted. Maybe it was you finally feeling confident after all of today’s stumbles and mishaps. His hips started to slowly thrust as a cacophony of soft moans filled the tiny cleaning closet. 

“I forgive you. I always will.” Vil grunted as he pistoned his hips against yours. His hands rubbing along your flesh as he slipped them up your uniform shirt to fondle the flesh of your breasts. Not bothering to remove your bra as his hands forced themselves under the fabric to squeeze, knead, and tease. Your nipples were rubbed and pinched by his slender fingers. Pulling all sorts of whines out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of making. His lips caught yours. Eating your weak mewls and giving you the reminisced flavor of the lemon macaroons. Even if they were clumsy, they got you this far. His thrusts were steady as Vil pressed his body flush with yours. You could hear every sound. You could smell the salt of his skin and the fading fragrance of his floral cologne. The feeling of his clothes and skin rubbing against you, slowly growing overstimulating and too much to bear. You only wished that you could see his expressions. And that he could see yours. 

You wanted Vil to know that you felt just as amazing as he did. Accepting his thrusts and how they quickened from excitement. How you could feel that coil in your stomach preparing to snap. 

Your legs quivered as you braced your hands tightly against the wall. Your walls clenched and convulsed. Wet juices coating your inner thighs as Vil’s thrusts began to grow sloppy. Throbbing inside of you with each punch to the special bundle of nerves inside you. Stimulating you both to the awaited end of an orgasm. He panted in your ear. Moaning softly how he was so close. And so were you. “Can… I’m cumming…” He whispered weakly. His perfect appearance had become disheveled. His voice cracking and whimpering as he jerked his hips against you. Your body growing limp as the lewd smacks of skin filled the small, pitch black closet. The faint scent of lemony cleaning supplies had vanished now. Replaced with the intense smell of salty skin and lust. 

You were cumming. Your body seized as Vil flattened your body against the wall. You felt so tired. Your eyes shutting as Vil peppered your face in kisses, rubbing his hands along your sweat slicked body as the warmth of his seed filled your body as the two of you came together. Twitching and throbbing together with your head growing heavy against the wall. You panted softly with Vil in the small closet. Just barely processing his words. “Will you be okay heading back on your own?” Vil asked quietly and you slowly shook your head in refusal. It wasn’t necessarily that you didn’t trust yourself to make it back to Ramshackle. You just didn’t want to go alone. You wanted Vil to go with you. You wanted to be with him longer. 

Just for the rest of Valentine’s Day. 

[korpuskat]

Chosen Avatar - Part 1

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (GN, has a vagina) Rating: E WC: 2.1k Contents: PWP & Megatron Ramattra. Transformers-typical size difference. ===

There were a few things that had been at the top of your mind when you first saw him after this… transformation. It should’ve been his size. Instead, it was the glowing purple of his faceplate, the darkened slits that hid his optics now illuminated, radiating a brilliant royal shade- and for the first time, you could see his gaze settle on you. It had stolen your breath then, but now it’s even worse.

His optics rake over your nude form and it makes you embarrassed. A kind of shyness you haven’t felt with him in so long-- but like this? Everything is new.

He’s hardly done anything, hardly can do anything. With the aleatory effects of this gift, he’s much too big for his previous methods. No, you’ve had to get… creative. His thumb- massive and gray and strange and new- sweeps over your body, petting at your chest, then down over your ribs, brushing roughly between your legs. It’s crude, no precision at all, and yet still as painfully effective as his touch has always been on you.

He stops there over the heat of your sex, lets you whimper and rut against his cool metal.

“I thought you were small before,” He coos, his deepened, reverberating voice only makes you shiver harder in the palm of his hand. “Look at you now, aching for just the tip of one finger…” This, too, is alien now- a harsher tone that distorts his speech, like it’s been fed through an old speaker somewhere further down in his throat than it has been before.

“Rama…” You whine, grabbing at the edges of his rubber inlays. “Please…”

Ramattra hums, and even this noise has been altered by his new power, but does nothing to sate the heat in your belly.

“Here.” He says, and picks you up with his other hand. You make some sound in protest as being handled so casually, but honestly, the fact he lifts you even easier than before, that he just grabbed you like a doll— you whimper softly as he adjusts you, pushes you to lay back against the base of his thumb. This would be strange enough, except his fingers curl possessively towards you. The tip of his pinky sliding up along your thigh. It’s a good pressure, even if the angle is unusual.

Why he’s moved you becomes obvious only a minute later. His palm lowers, brings you level with his hips- and you watch, entranced as his other hand pulls off his pelvic plate.

What lies beneath is nothing like it was before. It had once been made specifically for you, for your tiny, fragile, human body- all purple translucent silicone and delightful waves, little nodules of firmness with his inlaid lights, now his cock stands as a monstrous obelisk, longer than you are tall. It’s dull silver, the same as his body though you aren’t sure if it is also now entirely metal, but it stands out with the base painted in that new red accent. The head is longer, less rounded and more pointed like an arrow, complete with a half-dozen more, smaller ridges beneath the head, almost making it look like a double sided key through the middle of the shaft. Below that, seams that match the ones on his faceplate run down the rest of the length- each glowing softly with purple light. And none of that is even what holds your attention.

“That’s certainly new.” Ramattra muses, gaze settling on the exact same feature this gift has given him. With his other hand, he touches the tip of his cock- and his fingertip comes away slick. A tiny slit in the head leaks a silvery purple fluid that slides lazily over the oblong head. Lubricant, some still functioning objective part of your mind supplies, but given the dubious origin of Ramattra’s benefactor, you can’t help but wonder if it is actually precum. Gods, you hope so. Heat builds in your belly, leaves unable to stop yourself from rutting against his finger as you watch him gently prod at his appendage. He smears the fluid across the tip, making it shiny and faintly purple- and heat rushes from his vents.

Cautiously, he curls two fingers around himself, uses the lubricant to ease his stroke. Above you, Ramattra moans- a shuddering soft little noise that you’d almost miss if you weren’t listening. And that alone is enough to make you grind harder against his fingertip.

You hear it as he turns, pistons shifting just so his gaze moves back to you. He watches, purple optics burning as you work yourself against his smooth new exterior- and when you tip your head back to look up at him, his chest rumbles in wordless praise. His grasp on himself adjusts, the slick noises of his fist gliding through lubricant even louder- and his finger presses harder into your skin. You gasp, brace yourself against the base of his thumb, nails digging into the little seams between plates as he rocks the finger against you.

You watch as the giant metal appendage rubs on you, nuzzling blindly between your legs. As thick as your forearm, the weight of it alone is thrilling. You adjust your position so he’s pressed right against your clit with every thrust, the underside of the finger slowly beginning to glisten with your own wetness.

“Yes,” He purrs, and you think it’s just how good his hand feels- lubricated and slick against himself. But as you look to him again. the light of his optics has darkened into a wine-like shade, locked perfectly onto your body writhing in his palm. Your grinding against him, your enjoyment of his body- that is the source of his pleasure. Heat surges through you, and if that wasn’t enough- “Keep going.” He urges you, his voice still new and staticky and rumbling and you can’t possibly deny him.

You dig your nails harder into his palm and meet each thrust- your noises a strained, staccato tempo in time with his movements, slowly building the pressure between your legs. It’s so imprecise, a blunt assault on your body that’s hotter more for the effort, for the slapdash connection you’ve forged than because of the sensation itself.

Until his digit slips too far up.

You choke; the plate of the last segment of his finger ends leaving you with a sudden little gap between his plates and with it, a complete lapse in pressure. This alone is jarring, but it’s the downstroke- the sudden return of the weight of him that makes your legs twitch around him.

And Ramattra- his head looming above you, so far away- does not miss this. In an instant, his motion changes, perfectly choreographed to rub the edge of the plate against your clit every single time. Like this, it’s not grinding, not the slow waves of incessant pressure, but an active stroke, flicking your clit like a switch-- one that keeps pace with the hand on his cock. And the pleasure shifts immediately, no longer a slow smoldering build, but a quick start tinderbox.

“Ramattra,” You gasp, clutching at him, hands scrabbling across cold metal as he ruts his finger against you- and in his lap his hand speeds up. Each stroke marked with a wet shlick of his own precum, the hum of his fans, the hiss of steam- and when you throw your head back all you see is purple. That gaze, knowing that he’s watching- it’s too much.

Your hips jump, desperately meeting each press of his fingertip, gasping, crying out his name as it pushes you over the edge. Your thighs tremble on each side of his finger, trying to clamp down on it and failing. When your body fails to keep its pace, his does not- keeping rubbing that edge of his plate over your clit again and again and again- dragging your high on and on in a merciless display for himself.

And Ramattra groans. Deep and loud, it vibrates through his entire frame, into every inch of your skin that touches his palm. You tear your eyes open, stare back up into his optics- blazing, burning orbs of light as his voice glitches, fights through static with every noise-

“A-ah.” His voicebox stutters, breaks as he fights to moan your name- and his body lurches forward. The purple light dims, flickers like a candle-- and you can’t even breathe as he cums. His hand works himself with a speed that must hurt, but from his chest he makes a noise you’d never known was him- like a radio going out of tune, pitched a half-step up- raw, unfiltered, erroneous data and he spills over himself.

His finger on your pussy finally stops, but there's no sleek offlining into a system reset- it's rough. All the air in his ventilation that was being pushed out suddenly reverses flow, his chest broadening in a desperate inhale. Silvery, lavender fluid coats his hand as his pace falters, slowing as he heaves, gasps through his orgasm in a way you’ve never seen him do before.

He keeps going- keeps stroking himself until his fingers tremble and another deep groan slips from his vocoder. He stops, lowering his hand to his hip and, gods you have no idea what this power has done to him because his cock twitches, a last few stray droplets of cum sliding down over his ridges, pouring down the seams in gorgeous, perfect streaks.

You shouldn’t, but your mind is still too lust hazed, still half grinding against his finger just from the sight of Ramattra’s cum. You reach out towards his soaked hand in a silent plea, grasping at the air. Whatever has changed in him means he must finally get his own afterglow, because Ramattra obliges, bringing his dripping palm to you. And oh, you shouldn’t, but there’s no logic in the world that could stop you from stumbling to the edge of his hand just to lean to the other and lick.

Your mouth tingles- and your first thought is fruit, that it’s sweet like juice. The second, however, is that it’s like licking a battery, but turned up to eleven-- like licking a car battery. It’s sour in a way you know isn’t physically possible, electricity manually activating your nerves in a way they aren’t meant to be. Tart and sparkling and it’s like grapes just before they’re about to ferment and damn Megatron because it’s not even bad.

You go in for another taste and Ramattra groans, apparently starting to come to his senses as he separates his hands, leaving you to collapse back against his fingers. Which is fine, as you immediately enjoy how the heat of your skin dissipates into his cool digits. Above you, you can see the plumes of steam still slipping from Ramattra’s vents, his optics dulled into an easy amethyst.

“That was… different.” He offers after a minute, his voice box slowly coming back to its regular working order, but still not pristine. “I’m not sure I appreciate this being messier.” He shifts his cum-coated hand, the fluid there slipping, shimmering in the light.

“Never seemed to bother you before.” You grin up at him, lazily lounging against one of his cleaner fingers and conjure images of how much of a mess you’ve left him with before- on cock and fingers and faceplate.

“I did not mind when it was your fluids.” Ramattra grumbles.

“Well,” You can’t help yourself, the endorphins making you too loose, too giddy to not prod at him. “Maybe you should have asked the alien warlord what he was going to do to your dick before accepting interdimensional power.”

A noise rumbles from Ramattra’s chest, something between a scoff and a laugh. “Yes, I’ll make sure to take notes for next time.” He rests there for a minute, content enough to relax and approach re-regulation and watch you do the same. Eventually, however. “I should clean up.”

You nod, stretch in his palm and prepare to climb down onto the floor-

His palm rises. You sink to your knees with the force of it, clutching at the seams below you as you turn, trying to figure out what he’s doing- and he brings you up to his shoulder. To his scarf. You blink a few times, but smile as you force your wobbling legs to work long enough to transfer yourself onto his frame.

The fabric is unwieldy to climb on, folded together in fat bunches that give way as you try to navigate them, reliant on the hard seams of Ramattra’s new body just to find a good perch. But the payoff is worth it. From here, his vent heat is everywhere. The steam has warmed the scarf thoroughly, leaving it toasty and soothing on your nude body. You don’t even have time to make a comment on how cozy he is before you’re slipping into an easy sleep.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Wow, this is 1931 home in Winnetka, Wisconsin is impressive. 9bds, 9ba, $8.9M.

Wow, look at the carved wood walls. There's an original tile floor in the foyer, too, and a leaded glass inner door.

You know, I like the white carpet on the stairs. I wouldn't want to clean it, but it looks beautiful. This home has those bas relief ceilings, too.

Is it the way they're photographing the room to get the ceiling in, or are the ceilings low? The large sitting room has wood paneled walls to match the entrance hall, plus the same ceiling and a beautiful fireplace.

Very classy guest powder room. Black marble floor with white veining, and the marble counter on top of an antique dresser has a sink ringed in gold. The gold wallpaper ties it all in.

Comfy home office. The rounded desk looks art deco and is nestled perfectly in a triad of framed windows.

The library shelving is gorgeous. Oblong octagonal cutouts in carved shelves, and that gorgeous fireplace in the middle has a pediment with a pineapple and a black & white marble surround.

I like this light dining room. Cream and pale blue bas relief ceiling is so soft and stunning.

These cheery bright dining spaces are so pleasing. This is a breakfast room in creamy white and it gets a lot of sun from the windows to the garden.

The kitchen is a professional chef's kitchen. It begins with a large pantry done in the same cream color with large glass paned doors on the cabinets so you can see the dishware. The kitchen cabinetry looks maple and has a cute corner fireplace, black countertops and copper pots hanging over the double island.

At the top of the stairs on the 2nd level is a magnificent oval leaded glass skylight. The glass panes are opalescent. And, there's a large sitting room up here, too.

They've made a walkway between 2 area rugs in the huge primary bedroom. On one side is a lovely mahogany canopy bed that contrasts well against the white room and the other side is a sitting room.

There is a huge home office up hear with a pretty French Provincial desk and a chaise lounge.

The bath is nice, there's a separate room for the toilet, and a lovely vintage marble counter on the sink. Love the rust-colored marble on the floor.

What a lovely guest room. It's so large, there's a huge picture window between 2 full-sized canopy beds.

Down in the large basement is a rec room that looks like the ultimate man cave. Rich dark wood furniture, a red pool table with an unusual pool lamp- it's not the usual stained glass, this fixture has foxes in red waistcoats holding up electric candles - love that.

Wow, man cave indeed. That fireplace is the size of a room. You can definitely walk in there. And, look at the life-sized butler statue in the corner. Is he creepy?

The home gym looks commercial. Mirrored walls and a black ceiling make it look industrial.

Outside, the iron gate makes it look like a secret garden.

The hedges are cut in patterns.

It must cost a fortune to maintain these gardens. The property is 3.25 acres.

Is it me, or does the pool look like a fidget spinner.

I love conservatories and this one is lovely. The plants and wicker furniture really bring the outdoors in.

This is the prettiest tennis court with the trees and latticed fencing.

An elaborate play set for the children looks like it conveys.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/44-Locust-Rd-Winnetka-IL-60093/70453195_zpid/

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part three)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter three: compromise

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging

word count: 5k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”

Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion

───────

Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand. 

In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.

You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.

He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.

You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.  

You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part. 

You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out. 

“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.

“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.

He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.” 

“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.” 

“With?”

“Joel’s going to come get me.” 

His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.” 

Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.

He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn. 

It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs. 

The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally—you absolutely woke him up. 

You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.

“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own. 

“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.” 

He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.” 

Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time. 

His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose. 

He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.

“Can we go to your house?” 

“Did you drink?” 

Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.

“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.” 

He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass. 

Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.

He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s. 

Ellie. 

There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table. 

And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.

You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.

“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.” 

“Thank you.” 

He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.

“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?” 

You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.” 

Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed. 

You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.

Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps. 

There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur. 

That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.

Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row. 

A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display. 

Pure joy. His comfort. 

A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now? 

You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant. 

It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring? 

“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself. 

He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”

“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.” 

“End? Have we started?” 

“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?” 

“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”

“So did I.” 

“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer. 

“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”

“What if I want you to have me?”

“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze. 

You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps. 

“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.

You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him. 

He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth. 

“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart. 

His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you. 

His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you. 

You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt. 

He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m just nervous.” 

“About now? Or about me?”

“Both.”

“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”

Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs. 

Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back. 

You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness. 

“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”

“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.” 

He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind. 

“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging. 

“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?” 

He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.

You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on. 

You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.

“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.” 

Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.

“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”

He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him. 

He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling. 

You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.

“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless. 

“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.

It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus. 

“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.

You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.

And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent. 

He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”

Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone. 

“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”

“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”

He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale. 

“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism. 

You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them. 

He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts. 

“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”

You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?” 

Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.

He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.” 

His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss. 

He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.

You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.

It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.

“Wait, Joel.” 

He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs. 

You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.

“Joel.” 

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you. 

“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”

“What now, then?” 

“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

[justaguyeatingpie]

[p-ranking 6-2, attempt #54] a gabv1el one shot, 1.6k words (~8 mins), see the ao3 version here.

As always, the starry sky houses the moon in the same spot. Tilts it at the same angle, down to the very degree.

As always, the trees draw the same oblong shadows upon the forest floor. Never an inch too thick or too wide, and permanently slanted one way in spite of perspective.

As always, the campfire crackles the same few notes, a bassist in the forest’s melancholic song. It’s grown predictable, the rippling water, the creaking wood. The pitter-patter of wildlife in a freshly empty world liberated in humanity’s absence.

As always, the moment lies in stasis. Unchanged from when he first sat upon this log with his wings slumped low, strung dejectedly to his back with threads of shame, guilt and regret.

Most humorously, his introspection is all that ever changes. When did it grow from silent reflection to the deepest, most relentless rounds of brooding? The fifth time? The fiftieth?

Is he doomed to mope here forever? Arrive freshly wounded from another gratifying defeat, only for the real pain to come from his actions?

Who can wash sins dipped in the thickest tar? Is there a confessional mighty enough for his crimes, mightier than the council who assigned them to begin with?

What is the verdict of a fool puppeteered for eons? A tool for uprooting all supposed evil save from his own, arguably the worst of it all? 

He is a fool. A murderer. A monster. 

Even so, it is not enough to sulk. There are wrongs to right, a pompous head to sever and a tyrannized heaven to set free. And that is just the start of it, his penitence. It will be profound. He will make the greatest amendments for his worst sins. Stop at nothing to rectify the ills brought by his zealous hands, even as his life spills away in pathetic litres. Then, with the very last of his strength, he will pray. Not to God, whose death mirrors his own untethered, declining existence. Rather, to those stirred by his smallest transgressions. The ones just big enough to be felt somewhere, somehow, yet still too miniscule in all he’s done to be brought to memory. 

He will die somewhere quiet, somewhere alone. Dance in a pleasant slumber while his body flakes into ashes, sparks into white flame, or whatever else. A deserved fate, yet one not nearly harsh enough.

The plan is in his grasp, a mere untipped domino away. But time won’t permit him to go much farther from here. It never does.

He has cleaved the councilman’s head enough times to decorate a metaphorical castle wall, each taxidermied mount a broken link between Gabriel himself and God. It is unbearably heavy, his own unsupported body. Yet he drags it to the coliseum regardless, if only to yet again soothe the people with the unlit eyes and agape jaw of an imperious fool.

As always, their applause comes to the most abrupt of stops. As always, just as he’s about to leave and do something about his mounting guilt, the coliseum is gone. The rest of heaven along with it.

Again, the organ. Again, the towering cathedral. Again, the chromatic wash of red on everything from the floor to the ceiling.

He does not need to turn around to know it's there. To see which shadows compromise its boxy frame, and how each dark pane symbolizes its obvious, programmed intentions.

Is he doing something wrong? Is there a grievous error in his plan, one that’s making time loop around in frustrating circles? Are his sins too grave? His repentance too inconceivable for the universe to allow?

And if the universe isn’t at fault, is this the machine’s retribution?

Rusted metal against smooth marble: footsteps. Fast. Impatient. More efficient than they’d been last time and the time before that — exponential. Soon, Gabriel hears that click. That steadfast, deadly sound, universal across the machine’s ever-expanding arsenal.

It’s been too many times to be phased by the device pointed at him. Whatever the machine has in its grasp whirs; a rhythmic, dangerous invitation. Already, Gabriel can taste the coppery sputter on his teeth; feel his chest plate fracture inwards and stab between his ribs; hear that sweet, deafening ring that peaks alongside world-tilting ecstasy. 

He swallows hard, anything to curb the temptation. The machine stares expectantly all the same, its fluorescent iris that same drawing yellow.

He mustn't. He cannot. All fighting the machine has done has cemented him in stasis. Culprit or not, attempting the same thing and expecting any change would be insanity. 

A holier reason: indulgence is gluttony, and gluttony is a sin. Whatever that word means anymore.

The other vice indulgence brushes up against is also a sin, but it can’t be that. Not towards a machine.

“You can descend farther without contest. There’s more for you down there, machine.” he offers, displeased with having to barter Hell’s remaining population around; they are people he’s coming to realize, but the machine will not see reason lest there’s blood involved.

It stares blankly at his shoo-ing hand, unbudging in its confusion. If Gabriel had any easily definable features they’d be twisted in a scowl. “You can understand me, can’t you?”

It nods.

“Then leave. You’ve had your laugh. My defeat,” my tantalizing, thrilling defeat, “—doesn’t satisfy you, hasn’t been.”

Regardless, it does not budge.

“A whole world down there — yours for the taking! Throw that insatiable hunger at those who will reciprocate it, not me!” His hands gesture about in exasperated motions.

Still, that persistent gaze. At its apathy, Gabriel whines.

When Lust’s denizens broke at his feet, stuck between one world of pain and another world of tortuous winds — winds that for so long had felt like the gentlest breeze — did they feel this same helplessness? This sinking, crushing feeling of being trapped in a situation?

Airborne or grounded, he towers over the machine. And yet, he is still so terribly small.

What he does next is humiliating. Blasphemous. 

The machine flinches as he kneels. 

“Please,” a whisper against the plating of its legs. Then, more to himself than anything, “I need to make this right.”

His helmet rests against its midsection, impossibly smooth iron against corroded steel. Its wires vary in size and segments. Gabriel tries to hear the static and blood pumping throughout them. Wonders, sinfully, how hot both can get. Does the machine burn for him, as he does it? Can the entropy of a system equate to ecstasy? 

From this angle and despite the dim lighting, there’s a glare obscuring the machine’s optic. Not like its face is indicative of much anyway, but Gabriel wants to pretend that it’s in thought. 

Airborne or grounded, he towers over the machine. And yet he peers up at it bashfully, like he would to God.

For the first time since he’s met it, the machine chooses mercy. 

He does not realize it at first. He thinks the hand that cups his chin, then lifts him up is a sardonic gesture, a mockery to end all mockeries. Just as he objects to being gently walked to the center of the room — courted, — the machine raises a finger. 

You can decipher meaning without expression or words, he’s learned, so long as you know your subject enough. What the machine means to say is ‘just one more.’

Gabriel’s laugh is a breathy, ugly thing stuck between frustration and anticipation. They’re both in their places now, slot in position like actors in a play. Already, he can feel the unfurling of his being. The white-hot spikes of pain that blear the corners of his vision the same color. What about the machine makes temptation, something he’s resisted for eons, so alluring?

What’s one more?

Ironically, unsheathing Justice and Splendor is an act of surrender. With no lips to speak of, the machine takes a hold of his hand again and leans down. Its optic is warm, like a kiss should be. Then it steps away, the reserves of its gentleness assuredly dry. Gabriel doesn’t know what he likes more; its unthinking and brutal programming, or its occasional, endearing deviancy.

The courtesies are over, the machine takes aim. He’s been missing that muzzle.

There is blood and there is pain. There is divinity and there is parodied humanity. There is Gabriel crying out loud enough to tumble the heavens and quake the Earth. There is the machine and its searing heat sink on the precipice of eruption. There is love.

He towers over the machine, dwarfs it. Outshines it in every possible category. Has more grandeur, glory and honor than it can even begin to compute.

And yet.

The fight is won. The victor, obvious. The machine looms over his limp body, like one would a squashed but still moving bug. All Gabriel can muster are shallow breaths against the cathedral floor, life a mere bullet away.

The machine’s iris jolts from one corner of its optic to the next. It kneels over him, straddles him, a sick curiosity tied to its every move. Gabriel winces, convinced for a moment that even if its promise meant anything, it was overwritten by some vindictive line of code. When the machine puts its revolver to the side, his hacked shoulders go lax.

For a while, he and the machine are all that is. It cups his jaw again, rubs circles onto his helmet, tells him he’s so good and deserving and capable of redemption, then promises to never leave.

When it’s gone, he realizes too late. The stars and trees are back. Far away, he can hear the crackling of fire. He drags himself to it, hopefully for the last time.

u/iheartpancakes42069 on r/ULTRAKILL:

guys i swear this isn't a mod but if you play through 6-2 enough times in a row there's a cutscene??? thankfully it didn't affect my time but holy shit this game has so many easter eggs... is gabv1el canon now?? hakita?????

u/fuckmykappachunguslife_2

Definitely a mod, lol. How much did you pay Gianni for this?

u/fuckmykappachunguslife_2

Wait what the fuck

u/iheartpancakes42069

SEE??

[letsgostealthelouvre]

I think the time of combs with ungulates on them has officially come to an end, but I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the combs of the Louvre. This one looks like a church, and has little panels that slide open to reveal a pair of tiny mirrors. Considering it’s in wood and the other combs I’ve looked at have been mostly bone, it’s in great shape. 

[ID: A two sided comb, with fine tines on one side and wider tines on the other; it has a lot of intricate piecework carving in oblong patterns, making it look like the inside of a gothic church. Two panels on the central handle protrude from the comb’s sides; they have been slid apart to reveal two metal discs, which when oiled would serve as little mirrors.]

[curiositydooropened]

My Whole Life, Too

Seven years after you've left Hawkins, a beautiful day for a wedding in New Mexico brings up old feelings. You're hoping to make the most of it with the comfort of best friends.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader, previous Steve Harrington x Reader

Wordcount: 8,419

Warnings: smut & smut adjacent (minors DNI, thanks!), angst, lots of gushy friendship talk, weddings, drinking, mentions of drugs and cigarettes, so much guilt, Steve Harrington slander, lovin' both the boys, fluff, oh and Jancy

Navigation • Masterlist

---

January 1994 - Albuquerque, NM

The pale blue chiffon of your dress wrinkled in the car, and your mouth tasted of wax from when the peachy pink lipstick clipped your teeth and smeared over your chin a few minutes earlier. You’d scrubbed at it with a wet forefinger, scrutinizing your reflection in an oblong mirror beside the gift table, but you couldn’t help but lick at your front two teeth self-consciously.

You ankles ached under your weight in your new heels, and each burst of winter, mountain air prickled the stubble beneath your nylons, but you were rooted to your spot in the lobby, nearest the guest book, making eye contact with each and every wedding guest as they entered through the chapel doors. 

So far, several little old ladies in lace collared dresses eyed you up, and several families with too-many kids stumbled in from the cold. You hadn’t seen a familiar face since you arrived, and you couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

From this vantage, you could barely see out into the parking lot, where snow was packed along the curve and inside oversized planters and the afternoon sun was just starting to dip low beneath the mountains, kissing everything in golds and roses. It was a beautiful day for a wedding.

Three teenagers entered, all three of them ducked over handheld video games, and just beyond you saw the swoosh of impeccable brown hair. Your heart thundered in your ears, mouth gone fully dry. You flattened clammy hands to the midsection of your dress and stood at full height to greet Steve Harrington.

Though, suddenly all of your rehearsed greetings had flown out of your mind. The only thing you could think of were the last things he said to you, the hurt blurring those big doe eyes, his mouth slightly agape, his fingertips grasping at your t-shirt as you released his shoulders and said goodbye. Well those things and Elvis’s Can’t Help Falling in Love, which had been playing on loop in this little lobby since you’d arrived.

A woman excused you out of her elbow-range as she signed the guestbook, sending you a little off-kilter and almost into a stunning satin-decked wreath, but you managed to catch yourself on the windowsill, cooling your palms as your prints came back fogged over. You ran a chilled hand over your face and released a breath you’d been holding for minutes and hoped to God this wasn’t a dry wedding.

That’s when you heard the familiar scold of a best friend. “Eddie, top-button. Robin, no more singing. Honestly, how old are you two?”

Nancy Wheeler entered looking tighter-wound than she was a month ago, when you’d last seen her. Her bangs were cut short, hair black, thin fingers busying themselves with Eddie Munson’s bolo tie. Eddie looked miffed by the action, like a school boy embarrassed by his mom, but he daren’t move a muscle lest he get smacked. Beside them, Robin Buckley adjusted a tie of her own, flattened the lapels of her velvet blazer against her chest. 

And it was just them, just the three, alone in the entryway, Nancy fussing over their appearances before perfectly manicured nails went to ensure her oversized earrings were still clipped to her lobes. You glanced around one last time for Steve, but found a parking lot full of old people and void of any handsome young men whose hearts you’d broken. With a deep breath, and a clench of your shaking fists, you took a step toward them.

“Hey, strangers.” 

Robin let out a shriek that sent a pen flying from gasps at the guest book, and when Nancy shushed her, she snickered and wrapped her long arms around you to breathe a greeting into your ear, all clove cigarettes and patchouli. “Hey, stunner. Missed you.” 

“You too,” you smiled and let her rock you into her hug. You were almost her height in your heels.

She released you, her hair sticking to your lipstick, and you reached out to melt the wax off the strands with your fingertips. 

“Have you seen him?” Nancy asked, slipping in between you to give you the tightest hug you’d ever received. 

Your heart jolted a little in alarm, glancing over her head to the parking lot beyond. Still no Steve. When you pulled away, you noticed Nancy stood on the toes of her own high heels, stretched to get a good view of the chapel behind you, and you realized she wasn’t talking about the same person. “I’m sure Jonathan’s getting ready with the other groomsmen. He hasn’t been out this way.” 

Nancy’s gaze met yours then, a harsh glare in blue, but you saw the fear in her eyes, wondered if your stare mimicked her own. She squeezed your forearm and shrugged, as though she could care less, as though she didn’t sit in your apartment last month downing glasses of wine and confessing her and Jonathan had had a Thanksgiving tryst for the first time in seven years. “Oh well,” she nodded toward the hall where the guests had begun to funnel. “Shall we?” 

Another gust of wind fanned your hair, ruffled your skirt, and you glanced one last time at the nearly vacant lot before a scraggly head of hair blurred your view. You blinked until Eddie’s smile came into focus, head tilted to meet your gaze. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

You breathed a nervous laugh and allowed his arms to envelope you in a hug. He was warm and a little damp under the arms, but distinctly Eddie, all murmured chuckles and cigarette smoke. But with your face buried into his hair, you sensed something else that made your heart stop, something familiar, something Steve.

“How long’s it been? Two years?” He asked, pulling away. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, and you noticed the purple scarring that etched his throat, just beyond too tight of a collar. He must have seen your gaze, because he reached up to unbutton the top button and loosen the tie, two strands of leather and a carved silver demon’s face. You snorted.

“Yeah, just about.” The last time you’d seen Eddie had been on a New Years ski trip to the Harrington’s time share. Your memories of that trip were fogged with White Russians and too much time in a hot tub. You remembered Eddie’s bare ass, stark white, when he’d been dared to make a snow angel.

“You look beautiful as ever,” he flashed you those sharp canines. 

“You don’t clean up bad yourself,” you smiled, though his compliment had fallen a bit on deaf ears. You hadn’t dressed up for him. 

“Hey, don’t sound so shocked.” He scoffed, adjusting the lapels of an old blazer. It looked a bit small for his shoulders, a bit tight, and you swallowed. Maybe that’s why he smelled of Steve, maybe he’d borrowed it.

A groan sounded from behind you, and you pulled your attention from Eddie’s shoulders to see Nancy impatiently tapping her clutch to her hip, just outside the chapel door. She gestured for the two of you to hurry, and you felt Eddie’s hand on the small of your back to follow you inside. 

Robin had already shuffled into a pew near the back and was thumbing through a hymn book. Nancy shoved you out of the way before shuffling in beside her. 

“Wheeler said Robin and I aren’t allowed to sit next to each other,” Eddie mumbled just over your right ear, and you snorted before pulling yourself into the seat beside Nancy. He followed.

She snatched the hymn book out of Robin’s hand and tucked it back in its pocket. “Could you sit still for like two seconds?” 

“Could you?” Robin snapped. “Jesus, Nance, how much coke did you do this morning?” 

Appalled, Nancy shushed her. You snickered. Eddie wrapped his arm over your shoulder to lean in. “You have coke? And you aren’t sharing?” 

“I knew I should have left you in Hawkins,” she reached past you to tighten his tie again.

You leaned back against his arm to make eye contact with with Robin, who flashed you a goofy grin, and for just a moment, you felt at peace. You didn’t need Steve to fall back into the chaos of this friendship. You didn’t need stolen moments of romance, you needed Robin’s raspy laughter and Nancy’s neurosis to keep you grounded, to remind you why you agreed to go in the first place.

“So how are you?” Robin asked, propping her elbow to the back of pew. 

Eddie reached his fingers to tickle her, and you smiled, shrugged.

“Heard you had a good time in Louisville,” she waggled her eyebrows and your heart sank to your knees. 

“Robin,” Nancy hissed. She knew the whole story, from your perspective. You’d gone to Louisville for a conference, invited Steve to join you for the weekend, didn’t expect him to say what he’d said, to request what he did. You hadn’t had a chance to talk to Robin about it. You should have known Steve would get to her first. 

“Steve says he’s sorry he couldn’t make it, by the way,” Eddie pitched in from beside you. 

You felt your entire body heat with embarrassment, and you turned to face a Cheshire grin. Did everyone know?

“Jesus Fuck, you two!” Nancy squealed, and a woman in front of you turned to shush you all loudly, covering the ears of a little boy. 

With a groan, you buried your face in your hands and accepted the squeeze and shake of Eddie’s arm around your shoulder, the vibration of his chuckle against your right arm. 

Nancy’s apology was cut short by the chime of the organ, and the shuffle of guests in their seats. You craned to see the minister at the podium, a man with a swoosh of brown hair that had you letting out a frustrated exhale. He wouldn’t be here, but apparently he’d haunt you.

The groom entered first, linked arms with his mother, and you almost didn’t recognize him. Argyle was tightly pressed into a handsome sky blue tuxedo, luxurious hair pulled back into a low pony tail. A handlebar mustache traced his upper lip, and you half-expected it to fall off when he bent down to plant a kiss to his mother’s cheek. She was crying already.

“If it’s any consolation, he told me he was staying home in solidarity with Dustin,” came a whisper to your temple. 

“What?” You turned to see Eddie frowning back to you, face the most serious you’d seen it in years. 

Eddie nodded sideways to the bridesmaids and groomsmen that had begun to file in two-by-two, arms linked and sleeves ruffled. You watched head after head of beautiful brunette women glide by in lavender. “Since Dustin and Suzie broke up.” Eddie explained into your hair.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe he didn’t shave for his best friend’s wedding.” Nancy scoffed under her breath beside you. 

Jonathan stood beside Argyle, warm smile stretched across his boyish features, just beneath the ghost of a mustache. It was clear he couldn’t quite grow one like the groom, tried as he might. He looked more like a French waiter in baby blue. You watched his eyes scan the crowd, and saw the smile widen when he spotted the four of you, and you joined Eddie in waggling your fingers his direction.

“Stop it,” Nancy snapped beside you, and you dropped your hand to your lap reflexively. 

You felt Eddie’s chuckle beside you again, warm, welcome. You turned to flash him a smile, and he winked. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise.” The minister announced, and you all shuffled your bags to your seats to stand. 

You wobbled a little, sandwiched tightly between Nancy and Eddie, and you groped for his hand for balance until his grasp tightened around yours, firm and unyielding, another safe space.

The music changed tempo, and the organ sounded the first few chords of Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love. You heard humming in front of you, felt the thrumming of fingers against the back of your hand, and you smiled at your friends’ inability to keep quiet. A few notes in, the bride entered. 

Eden was a vision in white, hidden beneath a massive veil and more rhinestones than you’d ever seen. She waltzed in on her father’s arm, a portly man who looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon. He also donned a mustache. The detail made you smile, made you think of your own father, made you imagine yourself slow-stepping to the alter.

“Shit,” Nancy hissed from behind you, and you glanced to see her mopping at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. You laughed and were glad to see Robin reaching around to envelope Nancy in a side hug.

Nancy didn’t do well at weddings. Not since her almost nuptials four years ago in Boston. She’d been a month out, crying mascara stains into steamed linens while you and Robin called florists and caterers and DJs. Pete was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the one. She couldn’t be the hard-hitting journalist she was with a mousy man like him under her thumb. It was right to set him free, and she knew it. 

You knew the feeling. You released a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, and the minister asked for you all to be seated. 

Eddie released your hand and slung his arm over your shoulders again to jostle Nancy. She sniffled and patted his hand. You gave a squeeze to the soft skin of her knee where her skirt split and exposed her nylons. 

“This better not be a dry wedding,” she muttered under her breath, and you laughed at the reflection of your own thoughts while the minister began reciting scriptures about love. 

—

You made it through the ceremony and down to the reception hall relatively unscathed, catching up with old friends and grateful to find many men behind an open bar. In fact, you were a whole three bites into your salad (and one glass of champagne in) before Eleven mentioned his name. 

“Where’s Steve?” 

A cherry tomato evaded your fork and bounced off rose colored linens. 

“Back in Hawkins like a loser,” Robin explained, crunching down on a crouton.

You tried and failed to do anything but stare at the food on your plate. 

“You guys are living together, right Eddie?” Will asked from across the table.

That caught your attention. You gaze shot to Eddie, who was already watching you, a sheepish look across wolfish features. He nodded and tongued at something in his molars, reaching for the beer bottle in front of him. “Uh, yeah. Since June.” He sipped. You watched the bubbles fizz in the amber liquid.

You supposed it had been an easy detail to miss in Louisville, what with all of the other ludicrous things Steve had spouted. 

“Get any time in the bathroom?” Mike snickered behind his own beer. 

Eddie smiled, shrugged. “Not really, but hey, beats paying out my ass in rent. You of all people should know that teachers don’t make dick for a salary, and turns out, neither do janitors, so…” He glanced sideways at you again before turning back to the salad in front of him. 

“Yeah, but I have a girlfriend who works for the government,” Mike concluded, tugging Eleven tighter under his arm. She rolled her eyes, but seemed pleased to belong to someone. 

You felt your own cheeks heat, and you went back to staring at your plate.

“Gross,” Robin managed between mouthfuls. 

“Are you and Steve…?” Eleven started, and panic rose in your chest, constricting your airflow, until you looked up and realized the girl was asking Eddie. He nearly choked on his own tomato, slamming his fist to his chest while Robin barked a laugh that stirred the attention of several tables nearby. 

“No, no,” Eddie wheezed, taking a chug of his beer. His hair shook around his face, and you noticed the shy smile building on the corners of his lips. “No, I’m not exactly Harrington’s type.” 

“Too emotionally available?” Nancy snipped from beside her brother. You shot her wide eyes, and she just shrugged, forking her own crouton between thin lips. Champagne made her bitchy. 

“Alright, enough about Dingus. He isn’t even here to defend himself.” Robin sighed, taking a sip from her own flute. 

You felt Eddie’s arm drape over the back of your chair again, the warmth of him mixing with the champagne that had begun to tingle the apples of your cheeks. “What about you, Robin? Any prospects?”

She sighed from your other side. “I have been talking to a girl in the Peace Corps.” There was trepidation to her tone.

“…but?” 

She glanced your direction and flashed a cheeky grin. “I, too, am into emotionally unavailable women.”

You picked up your rogue tomato and tossed her direction. She squawked and dodged it, and it rolled somewhere far off to be squished beneath a heel or kicked across the dance floor. 

“Hey, guys!” A cheerful greeting announced Jonathan’s arrival, and the man placed his hands on his younger brother’s broad shoulders. The table chorused a “Hello, Jonathan,” in greeting. Everyone but Nancy, you noticed. You made eyes at her, and she shot you a dirty look. 

“Dig the mustache, dude,” Eddie grinned, and you held back a snicker as Jonathan’s eyebrows raised.

He brought a hand up to scratch at the atrocity, and you noticed his gaze flicker toward Nancy. She remained stoic and focused on her first course. “Yeah? Argyle wanted us all to have a stache. He thought it’d be cool for pictures or something.”

“Yeah, man. It’s sick. I’ve been thinking about growing one myself,” Eddie scratched at the smooth skin above his upper lip, silver rings glinting in the center piece’s candlelight. You hadn’t noticed how full his lips were before, supple beneath a broad nose. He’d arrived clean shaven, boyish face carved away in harsh edges since you were kids. Now he was all strong jaw and defined cheekbones and full lips, a sparkle in his brown eyes. 

You must have made a face because he flashed you his canines again. “What? You don’t think so?” 

You shrugged. “I think it’d throw off your,” you gestured to his being with your champagne flute. “Vibe.” 

“Yeah,” Robin nodded. “Too Mercury. You’re much more of a Brian May.” 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to the members of Queen,” Eddie grimaced and lifted his bottle to clink rims with your glass.

“Shit, that reminds me. I have to make a toast.” Jonathan groped for the breast pocket of his jacket, pulling out folded pieces of paper. 

“Where are the bride and groom?”

You all glanced around. The happy couple seemed to be anywhere but the close quarters of the reception hall. 

“I believe they’re consummating their vows,” Jonathan flashed a shy smile. 

Eddie clinked his glass to yours again, and you laughed before taking another sip. Will, Mike, and Eleven groaned. 

“Cheers to the happy couple.” Robin raised her own glass, which again drew the attention from several tables. 

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Guess I better find them. I’ll catch up with you guys later, yeah?” And you waved him off. He left with the soft graze of his hand to Nancy’s shoulder. When you met her gaze, you notice her face had flushed a deep pink, and she fought back a smile with an eye roll.

—

The band tapped out the rhythm to a soft jazz tune for all the happy old couples in the room, and Mike and Eleven. You watched her curly head pressed to his gangly chest and wondered if that ought to have been you. If things were different, if you hadn’t have panicked, if Steve had showed. You could still smell him, close, warm, a ghost that lingered. 

With a sigh, you opened your eyes back to the harsh lighting and glanced sideways at Eddie’s jacket on the chair beside you. You were tempted to check the inner pocket, to look for some sort of monogram, proof that it was Steve’s. Eddie had slipped out the side door with the bride and groom and the Byers boys. He mentioned something about a wedding present, and flashed you the fattest joint you’d seen in years.

 You resisted the pull of the jacket and sipped from your water glass, a vain attempt to curb the steadfast champagne hangover.

“Will that ever be me?” Nancy lamented from beneath her own champagne flute, sunk back into her chair with slumped shoulders and crossed arms, far past the rigidity of the afternoon. Glazed eyes stared longingly onto the dance floor. Robin warmed her bicep with a soft hand. 

“Of course it will, Nance,” you sat forward in your chair to comfort her. “You’re brilliant and beautiful, and you’ll make someone the perfect wife someday.” 

She offered the softest smile on the corners of her pink lips. 

“After all, you’re emotionally available,” you compared with a pointed finger. 

Robin groaned and took another sip of her drink, something chock full of cherries. “Both of you are catches, damnit, and I will not sit here and let you talk shit about my friends in this way.” She prodded each of you until smiles cracked on all three of your faces and you let out soft laughs. 

The song ended in a burst of applause from dancers who shared sweet kisses and evacuated the dance floor. Mike and Eleven approached with blushed cheeks and smiles they couldn’t wipe off their faces, and the next song really picked up its tempo. Eleven found her seat again, but Mike stood beside his sister with an outstretched hand.

“Come on, Nance. I’m sick of watching you get bitchier and bitchier.” He offered with that signature Wheeler smirk.

“Fuck off,” Nancy shot, but she gripped his fingers and allowed him to pull her to the dance floor. 

You watched them with a laugh until you felt a hand wrap around the backside of you chair. Robin had leaned closer. She watched you with sad eyes, big and blue, something mischievous in them. “What?” You narrowed your gaze. 

“Steve’s an idiot.” She commented easily, as though his name didn’t feel like a direct hit every time. 

You sighed. “Robin.” 

“No, I’m serious. He’s cocky, and he’ll never learn. Of course you weren’t going to uproot your life for him.” 

You sucked in your cheeks to avoid the panic slamming behind your ribcage. Steve had told her everything, and for some reason, you felt like a bad friend from keeping it from her. Maybe you worried she’d take his side. 

“And he’s not here because he’s a chicken. So there’s no reason you shouldn’t be having any fun.” She pried the water glass from your hand and set it beside your empty flute. “Can’t feel hungover if you keep drinking.” 

You laughed and watched Eleven’s fervent agreement, brown eyes glowing. “This is a party.”

“What’re you drinking?” Robin prodded you with a long finger again, swishing her glass your direction. 

You crinkled your nose, watching the ice melt droplets to the side of her glass, which beaded and splattered, darkening the tabletop beneath each shake. You chewed through her words, realizing that she was right. Steve had chosen to bail. You were the better person here, showing up for your friend despite your worry, your anxieties. Sure, you had wanted to see him, hoped to patch things up, silently prayed for a heated makeup in a coat closet or your themed hotel room. But he wasn’t here, and you were. 

You straightened your posture, gave Robin a firm nod. “Dirty Shirley, please.” 

“Atta girl,” Robin grinned and pushed off from her seat to head to the bar. Eleven yelled for her to wait up and traipsed behind her, leaving you alone at the table with half-drank glasses and Eddie’s suit jacket. 

You stared at the black lapel, wondering if it looked familiar. You glanced upward at Mike and Nancy, laughing with each swing of their arms over their heads. You swallowed and trailed your fingers along the hem, gripped at the shoulder pad. You stared back at the soft material, albeit a bit tattered. Maybe it wasn’t Steve’s. Maybe it was just secondhand. You made to flip the left side over, to look for an inscription, when a voice startled your hand away. 

“Dance with me.” 

You clutched at your chest, attempted to calm your breath, and spun to see Eddie with an outstretched hand and a wide grin. “When did you get back?” 

“Two seconds ago,” he shrugged, waggled his fingers your direction. “Get up. I want to dance.” 

There’s no reason you shouldn’t be having fun. A smile tugging at your cheeks, you slipped your hand into his and allowed him to pull you to the dance floor. Only, when you reached the spot beside Nancy and Mike, the song ended and the tempo slowed again, something sweet and soft. Mike and Nancy High-fived. 

“Aw man, I was hoping for the fast one.” Eddie groaned, but he pressed a soft hand to the small of your waist and tucked you in tight, cheek pressed to your temple as you began an awkward, off-kilter sway, a bit too dramatic, outrageous. It made you laugh, and you felt his chuckle bubble against your chest. 

He was warm, but damp. His hair had been pulled back, low and loose at the base of his neck. Wet curls lined his cheeks and your own. He smelled of cigarettes and spearmint, and you pulled back to get a good look at his brown eyes, wide, but not blood shot.

“I thought you were going for a smoke,” you commented. 

He flashed a canine, shrugged. “I did. Nasty habit.” 

You cocked a brow. “I thought you were going to smoke.” You reiterated, glancing around the room to ensure the other guests hadn’t caught the inflection in your voice. You were pleasantly surprised to find Nancy tucked into Will’s chest. The poor boy’s eyes were bloodshot, and he had a slaphappy smile etched over his features. Nancy rolled her eyes at you, but she was smiling too.

“I let them have all the fun,” Eddie explained, his voice a low rumble against your chest.

You smiled, allowed yourself to drape a little closer, your own hand warm in his. “Why? This is a party, after all.”

His shoulder raised in a shrug under your palm. “Guess I’m growing up.” 

You pulled back again to see the sly smile carving into his cheeks, and you both laughed again before he tucked you back under his chin. 

—

You were swung around for six full songs, pink vodka and Sprite splashing the dance floor, and abdomen in stitches from raucous laughter, before you groaned about sore ankles and were all but carried back to your seat. You set your drink next to your discarded purse on the tabletop and slumped into your seat, cheeks flushed and aching. You hadn’t had that much fun in ages.

“So much for keeping your top-button done,” Robin commented as you approached.

You followed her point to Eddie’s bare chest. You hadn’t realized his bolo Demon had nearly slid off, buttons undone to expose a litany of scars around a smattering of dark curls. A few faded tattoos lended to the chaos, shiny. 

“It’s freaking hot.” He excused himself, slumping into the seat beside you, that taunting jacket swaying under his weight.   

“Eddie, I didn’t know you were such a voracious dancer,” Nancy waggled her eyebrows over her own drink. 

Eddie flashed his signature grin and pointed a finger her direction. “You’re next, Wheeler. After I catch my breath.” His chest was heaving. The last number was upbeat, somewhat of a swing, and he definitely prided himself in attempting to throw you around. It was sloppy, to say the least, but fun. 

“Watch your legs, Nance,” you rubbed at a Charlie horse smarting at your calf from your heels. “He’s a kicker.” 

“I am not!” Eddie gawped, and you squealed when he reached to encircle your ankle and pull it into his lap. Surprisingly agile fingers pulled your strap from its buckle, and he slipped your shoe to the ground, relief flooding swollen toes. You rolled your ankle in his grasp, and strong hands melted the muscles of your calf, coaxing out the tight knot that resided there. 

You were a little light-headed, and the buzz of alcohol made it difficult to contain a sound of delight. You clenched to stop yourself from moaning, and hissed when your calf tightened further.

“Relax, will you?” Eddie mumbled, all tease. 

You laughed and settled your shoulders, slid further down the cool metal chair.

He released one leg and tapped the other, and you complied, trying to ignore the prickle of gooseflesh beneath his knuckles as they grazed your ankle. 

You hadn’t been pampered like this in months, not since Steve offered you an early morning favor you couldn’t refused. You felt your cheeks warm, and you licked the cherry from your bottom lip, watching the glint off Eddie’s rings with each stroke, eyes unfocused. It was definitely the alcohol talking, but you’d always felt safe in Eddie’s hands, cared for, well-looked after. 

He tilted his head to face you, curls falling around his face. He shook them out of big, brown eyes, cheeks creasing in a smile. “Better?” 

You hummed a thanks and tucked your toes back around the leg of your chair, out of his grasp. 

You watched, breathless, as his eyes raked your form, his own cheeks flushing, before he slapped his hands to his knees and huffed a breath. “Ready, Nance?”

Nancy groaned, but pushed herself to her feet, downing the rest of her cup before she allowed Eddie to drag her out onto the dance floor. You never noticed how tall he was, slender yet firm, dwarfing Nancy’s tiny frame as he took her petite hand into his, his other hand wide against her lower back. 

“Feeling better?” Robin pulled your attention. She had mischief in her eyes, and she jiggled her glass in the air between you. 

She was feeling toasty, you could tell by the rouge of her cheeks, the stained of her lips. Mike and Eleven spoke in giggles behind hands, playing Will at a game of Go-Fish with hole-punched cards he’d procured at some point. Jonathan sat beside them, stoned as all Hell, with a silly grin just beneath that God awful mustache. You felt warm, you felt at home. And for the first time in seven years, that feeling didn’t require Steve. 

You released a shy smile, unable to hide it, and lifted your glass to clink with her own. “Much. Thank you.”

—

The bride and groom left in a flurry of sparklers, tucked into a bright yellow van, waving their goodbyes with blown kisses and dazed looks on their faces. The guests made their exits into breath-steaming cold, and you found yourself against the frigid hood of your car, sipping a stolen Dirty Shirley with Eddie’s jacket thrown over your shoulders. Grenadine dripped from a maraschino cherry, sticky-sweet, as Eddie lifted it from your glass and popped it between plump lips. It burst between his molars, and he procured the stem from between his front teeth. 

“Can you tie it into a knot?”

His brows furrowed into the most dramatic scold you’d ever seen, and he tossed the stem to the ground between your feet. “I’m not giving away all of my secrets.” 

You warmed at the insinuation and fingered around melting ice for the second cherry, avoiding his gaze. When you grasped the stem, he elbowed your side, almost causing you to fling it from the cup. He chuckled at the indignant noise that fell from between your lips. 

“Sorry,” he grinned, and you noticed his eyes lingered on your lips when you put the cherry in your mouth. 

You both looked away, facing out at the winter night. The stars were brighter here, sky bigger. Shirley had warmed your insides, and Eddie’s jacket had warmed you out. You placed cold fingertips to the embroidered letters on the inside pocket, pretended you couldn’t feel a cursive SFH. 

“So,” Eddie mumbled, reaching into the jacket pocket at your hip. You jumped under his touch, and he procured a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, shaking it your direction. “Want a smoke?” 

You declined the offer, tossing your cherry stem into your glass while the fruit popped syrupy sweet between your teeth, soaked with the sting of vodka. 

“Alright, I’ll be right back though.” He nodded off toward the side building, courteous. Before he stepped away, though, he turned to face you, scratching at the back of his neck. You noticed a soft blush burning at his cheeks, the cold having already nipped his nose a soft pink. “Hey so, would you maybe want to come back to my room with me?”

You buzzed on his words, the softest he’d spoken, the smallest he seemed. You chewed on the cherry and swallowed with a smile, but before you could respond, he clarified. 

“I mean, you know because I have that fridge full of mini-bottles of alcohol and peanuts, and the room’s on Harrington’s card, so we really can’t let that go to waste.”

You hoped your face didn’t falter from the sound of his name, his ever-presence. You swallowed again, took a the final few sips of your drink, watered down, and shrugged. “Sure, Eddie.” 

“Great,” he breathed, all fog. “See you in a minute?” 

You nodded. “I’ll be here.” And he disappeared around the corner, pulling a cigarette between his lips. Maybe you should have joined him, you could have used the nicotine to calm your sudden nerves. You dumped your ice beside you, water splashing your nylons and crossed your arms over your chest, one again feeling for the soft embroidered letters. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back.

Had he been there, you might be doing the same right now, hunkered under his jacket, waiting for a quick smoke before he took you back to his room. Steve had always been warm hands and lingered kisses, flirtation, toeing the line. With Steve it was always about not getting caught, but not caring if you did. It was young and reckless, and now you were older and more responsible, and terrified of settling down. 

“Hey, babe. Will and I are tucking in for the night,” Robin approached with Will linked to her arm. He looked exhausted, shoulders slumped, pupils still slightly blown.

You raised your brows at Robin. “And Nancy?” 

Robin cracked a sly smile. Will groaned in disgust. 

“Good for her,” you snorted. 

Robin nodded, pushing Will in the direction of her car with the promise of pizza. She turned to you with an arm outstretched, ready to accept your tight hug. “Will I see you soon?” 

“I hope,” you shrugged. “Come see me for your birthday?” 

“Hawkins,” she sighed into your ear, squeezing you tight. All warm and patchouli and Robin. “But I’ll be in DC around Easter. Can we meet then?” 

You were that age, where you scheduled time with your friends, where you didn’t have fun anymore, where life had begun to slow down. You swallowed and pulled away, holding her padded shoulders at arm’s length. “Robin?” Your pulse began to quicken.

“Yeah, babe?” 

You glanced over her shoulder at a skyward billow of smoke. “I’m going back to Eddie’s room with him.” 

Her eyes widened, and you worried it might be judgement, disappointment, until her lips cracked into a grin. “Holy shit.” She laughed. 

You nodded. “Holy shit.” 

“Tell me every gory detail, please? Call me the moment you get home.”

Your heart fluttered at the idea of details, of Eddie’s rumbled voice, of cigarettes and spearmint and cherry. Your ankles wobbled and Robin caught you with a laugh.

“You good to drive?”

Eddie was. You didn’t think you saw him drink anything after the beer. He toasted with water.

You tightened the jacket around yourself, thumbing at the letters on the inside pocket. “Robin, do you think…” You weren’t even sure what you were asking. “I mean, they’re roommates.” You huffed, gesturing off in Eddie’s direction. 

Robin rolled her eyes, gave your wrists a tight squeeze. “The three of you are consenting adults,” her voice rasped with exhaustion, the end of a great night. “You asked Steve to come, and he didn’t. That’s on him.”

You felt your cheeks warm. Steve really did tell her everything. 

“Tell me something.”

You hummed, glancing over her shoulder at Eddie’s approaching frame.

“Do you want to marry Steve?” 

That familiar panic clawed at your chest, and you staggered further into her, the mountain air creating static cling between your nylons and the chiffon of your skirt. It had been a question you’d been asking yourself over and over again for months now, a question that provided you with nothing but hurt, confusion, a question for people your age. 

You grit your teeth, stood up straight, shook your head. “No. At least, not right now.” 

She smiled at that, another sweet, unexpected smile, one bathed in mischief. “Good. It’s important to have fun while you’re still young.” 

—

Eddie lead you into his room in a flurry of apologies, lifting an explosion of clothes off various pieces of furniture to shove into his suitcase. The room was large, too opulent for Eddie’s taste, with pastel wallpaper and a balcony overlooking snow-topped mountains. Or, you’d assumed it would in daylight. Currently, honeyed street lamps glowed at gauzy curtains, the city was pitch black beyond and below.

The thing that struck you the most was the double beds, one pristine and pressed, the other haphazardly shoved together, a crease where Eddie’s body had lain the night before. Steve had booked the room for two. You wondered how long ago, and at what point he changed his mind. 

“Ta-da,” Eddie gestured to the open space before giving the grand tour. “Bathroom,” all peach marble and gold fixtures. “Television, with pay-per-view.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And… snacks.” He swung open the door to the mini fridge and reached in to pull out a few mini bottles of vodka. They clinked against his silver rings. 

Anxiety bubbled in you, that familiar precipice of a storm. It tingled in your fingertips, thundered your heartbeat in your ears. It was electric like static shock clinging to your nylons. You took a few uneasy steps forward, coughed a laugh. 

Eddie tossed the liquor bottles to the unmade bed and tugged at the Demon medallion around his neck. It was barely on by now, scooped neck of a white tank top visible low on his chest. Eddie was rough around the edges, sticky, stretched like taffy over wiry limbs. He moved with umph, a cartoon character. He pulled his bolo tie over his head and deposited it to the bedside table nearest a phone, a lamp, a pad of paper with the hotel’s logo. 

“Good for Nancy and Jonathan, huh?” He commented, stirring your attention back to the present, back to the fun evening you had, removing the pressure of it all. 

You laughed, tossed your clutch to a side table, leaned against a wall to unbuckle shoes and release your aching toes. “I know, right? She needed it.”

“Did you know they hooked up over Thanksgiving?” Eddie offered like a secret, rolling his sleeves and unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way. The tank top beneath clung to bits of him that sweat through, see-through, exposing bits of purpled flesh, like Steve’s.

You sucked in your cheeks and wiggled your toes against the carpet, strode to the mini fridge to find a bag of M&Ms. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ll here about tonight for the next three months.” You shook the bag his direction, and when he held his hands out to catch it, you tossed and grabbed yourself another bag. 

“What? You don’t think they’ll be together forever after this?” Eddie snickered, tearing open his bag from the center. The plastic split and a few candy-coated chocolates pelted the carpet, but he kicked them under the unmade bed and threw himself onto it with all of the flair for dramatics he was famous for. The comforter sighed under him.

You snorted, shrugged, tore open the corner of your own bag, and crawled to rest against the headboard beside him. You popped a green one into your mouth, and a brown. They tasted a bit stale, and odd refrigerated, but the crunch between your teeth was satisfying enough.

“Hey, so,” Eddie pulled himself upward and shifted onto his side to face you, all long limbs and chocolate breath, and you turned to catch watchful brown eyes. “I know I’m a thousand percent going to regret asking this,” he licked the corner of his plump, pink lips. “But what exactly happened in Louisville?” 

You nearly choked. Eddie laughed as you sputtered, and he darted from his spot with an apology on his lips to pull a sealed plastic water bottle from the fridge. You laughed with him, tears forming at your eyes while you twisted the cap off and sat up for a drink and a gasp of fresh air. 

“That bad, huh?” He settled beside you again, his surprisingly weight teetering you on your side. 

“Steve didn’t tell you?” You sipped, licked chocolate from your teeth. 

Eddie’s eyes were soft, innocent, head tilted to yours as he shook the curls from his eyelashes. “He didn’t say much, just came back grumpier than usual. Robin yelled at him the other day because every time we mention you, he gets all… weird. Quiet. Obnoxious.” His lips split in a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He was concerned, concerned for his friend, for you too.

You took a deep breath, acknowledged the idea of a sullen Steve, moping around at your expense. You thought back to that blessed weekend, boring conference room meetings anxiously awaiting 5 o’clock when you could stumble back into a hotel room, not unlike this one, unzipping your dress and soaking in Steve Harrington’s all-encompassing affection. All weekend, he had been soft words and sweet sounds and roaming hands, until the end.

And then you fought. God, you’d never fought anyone like that. 

“Steve asked me to marry him.” 

It was Eddie’s turn to choke. “I’m sorry?” 

You shrugged, tugged at a run in the chiffon of your pleated skirt. “Well, he more told me to marry him than asked. There wasn’t a ring or anything.” You groaned and slammed your head back into the padded headboard. “He wanted to try long distance, and when I said no, he told me to marry him, told me to move to Hawkins, promised to take care of me. And Jesus, Eddie, no offense to Hawkins or its residence, but you know I can’t do that. I mean, after the Earthquake? After all that happened?” You were rambling, but you hadn’t talked about it. Not since you spewed to Nancy, and that was months ago.

“No, I get it,” Eddie sighed, tugging his hair tie from his end to run his fingers through scraggly hair. “I’m only there for Wayne, and half the time, I think he’s staying for me. Hawkins is like a black hole.” 

“Exactly!” You poured a few more M&Ms into your hand and ate them one-by-one. “And like, I obviously like Steve. I mean, he was my first kiss, my prom date. We have history, you know? I think that’s why I know him so well.”

Eddie hummed in response, settled back down beside you, shoulder to shoulder. He tossed a candy, missed his mouth. It settled somewhere between you. 

“Steve needs the nuclear family. He needs a stay-at-home wife and six kids, a golden retriever out back.” You mused. You almost hated that you saw yourself in the role, could see yourself melding perfectly into it, had been imagining it for months and months. 

Eddie just let you speak, continued to shuffle chocolate into his hand and down it. 

You elbowed him. “What, no input here?” 

He crunched a few bites, mouth full, and shrugged. He pulled your water bottle from your hand to chase the chocolate coating his mouth, and took a minute to compose his thoughts before he said. “Can I be totally honest with you?”

“Please,” you nodded, tilting yourself to face him. 

He glanced your direction for a split second, but looked outward, gesturing to the room, to his invisible audience. “I mean, I obviously want you both to be happy. He’s one of my best friends. We share a toilet, for Christ’s sake.” 

You chuckled at the visual.

The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile, and he glanced back at you again. You watched his Adam’s apple bob. “But uh… I’m feeling really selfish tonight.” 

You felt it again at his words, that buzz of electricity to your fingertips. “Yeah?” Was all you could manage. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, looked away, gestured out to the neatly pressed bed to your right. “I mean, he’s not here. He could have fought for you, and he chose to be a coward and stay home, and I feel like kind of a dick because I’m just so grateful I finally have you to myself.” 

You watched the steady rise and fall of his chest before he turned to face you again, his eyes big and brown and watching you watch him. 

“Because honestly? It’s been killing me to fight for your attention when Harrington’s around. I mean, I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you offered to tutor me sophomore year.”

You licked the crease between your lips, saw it catch his gaze, watched him do the same. A shiver slipped down your spine. “You could try now. If you want.” 

A soft sound spilled from his mouth, and his brows furrowed neatly. “Are you sure?” 

You smiled, leaned back against the headboard, and whispered, “Kiss me, Eddie.” 

His lips were soft, pillowy, all-encompassing. He overtook your space, crowded you with a cascade of curls and a firm hand to the headboard above your head, his other grazing your ribcage, and you leaned into the taste of chocolate and spearmint. He was gentle, timid, a stark polar opposite from the dramatic flair of the man you’d grown accustomed to, a facade, perhaps. 

His nose nuzzled your own, and your cheek, and you breathed a warm smile to his temple when his lips found the hollow at your ear. “Can I?” He whispered, and you muttered an allowance before feeling warm, soft kisses down the plane of your throat to the dips of your clavicle. 

You pushed at his shoulders, unraveling the collar of his shirt until he was pulling away to yank folded sleeves down his forearms. His lean frame was sinew and faded ink and a smattering of scars that matched a few of your own.

He pulled his tank over his head next, not one to waste time, and you trailed your fingers along tight flesh from ribcage to hipbones, leaving a trail of goosebumps along pale skin. With a groan, he dipped back to capture your lips in a kiss again. You heard the scatter of M&Ms across the side table, felt the shift of the bed as he gripped your hips and pulled you downward until your head rested on a cotton pillowcase. 

“I meant it when I told you you were beautiful,” he muttered to your lips, hands ghosting your thighs as he made for the waist band of your nylons beneath your dress. 

You felt self-conscious about the creases left to your skin there, but nimble fingers rolled the thin material down past your knees, and you watched it waft to the floor. Firm hands quickly replaced it, kneading at aching leg muscles, pinching the meat of your thighs between ringed fingers. You moaned into an open mouth. 

“You deserve to be worshipped.” He sighed into your shoulder.

He was right. You deserved to have fun, to enjoy your friend’s wedding, to party, to live a little. You deserved to not worry about the ever-present stress of adulthood. You deserved to sink into a cushy mattress and clutch curls as a man buried his face into you, as a man praised you, as a man pleased you. 

You held chiffon pleats to your thighs, wished you’d shaved, felt pillowy lips to the crux of your hips, tried not to compare calloused hands to smooth ones. You saw stars, eyes and jaw slammed shut, and tried not to compare a round-tipped nose to a flat one. You allowed Eddie to kiss you, lips tacky, breath hot, and tried not to compare sweet sounds to filthy ones. 

Eddie was all lips, where Steve was all hands. Eddie was strong shoulders, nimble fingers, and Steve was rhythm and hips and thighs. Eddie was whispered truths and damp and sticky sweet, and Steve was furrowed brow and grit teeth, determined. Eddie let you pin him, hair splayed across a creased pillowcase, your small hands pressed to the faded ink on his chest, tracing lines with manicured fingertips. Steve would have pinned you wrists over your head. 

“Can I hold you?” Eddie asked, when you were all spent and sweating and breathless, curls stuck to his temples, eyelids heavy.

You sunk into spindly arms, your legs tangled but spread wide across an uneven bedspread. You dress has been discarded beneath the side table. The soft lamplight accentuated the shadows, a honeyed glow pooling in from the patio beyond. 

Something heavy rattled in you, guilt perhaps, and you released a shaky breath. 

“Need a smoke?” Eddie breathed into your neck, that warm chuckle, friendly, like he understood, that safe space to bring you back to Earth. 

You tucked his hand tighter into your ribcage beneath your breasts, a buoy tying you to the reality of the day, of your life, to the consequences of your actions. 

You fell asleep to the low, rumbling hum of Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling In Love. 

---

A/N: This has been floating around my head for ages, and for some reason, it chose this week to finally come out, and it's so vastly different from what I had planned. Listen, I'm a Steve girl, trust me. I know it may not seem like it, but I'm really, really a Steve girl. But Eddie's just so... I just love him sometimes, okay?

Also I just really felt like this was so about the friendship between them all. If you can't tell, I think I'm in love with Robin and Nancy. Let me know what you think. Love you forever and ever. xo Amanda

[silvrash-797]

@skyward-floored thanks for the ask!

When shadows fade (pt 2)

Day 15+9: "who did this to you?"/bees

Part 1

Read on ao3

Sky stilled his mind, taking a deep breath as the tip of the Master Sword wavered in front of him. When the Chain woke earlier that morning to find Four missing and no sign of a struggle, they began to worry. Twilight had left immediately to find Wolfie and possibly pick up a trail, but had returned alone, dejected, after a couple of hours.

The anxiety of the group grew a few notches, but they kept their heads and settled down to come up with other ways to track their Smithy. Sky hesitantly brought up his dowsing ability. He knew Fi was weaker than she had been on his adventure, but she was always willing to help a hero in need.

Leaving the rest of the Chain in Warriors and Twilight's care, he and Time set off, following the faint tug at the tip of the blade. They walked for over an hour, winding through forests and over hills, until they hit the rocky foothills of an enormous mountain range.

Fi brought them near the base of a sheer cliff that stretched out seemingly indefinitely to either side. The signal was strong, coming from directly in front of the pair, but there was no apparent way through to the other side.

Sky sighed, stumped, and let the tip of the sword drift towards the ground. He turned to his companion, pleading, “Any ideas, Old Man?”

Time's eye narrowed, searching the cliff face, brow pinched in a frown. “I can almost feel…” he murmured, hand drifting towards his adventure pouch. “Sky, put the sword away, I need to check something.”

With silent thanks, Sky laid Fi to rest in her sheath, watching as Time pulled out an object made of purple and red glass. The short handle, oblong central crystal, and three spiky gems adorning the top reminded him of the Sheikah eye. He cocked his head curiously when Time brought it to his eye and began to look through it.

“The Lens of Truth,” Time began, “is a…magic mirror, of sorts. Feed it a bit of magic, and it allows the user to view things that would otherwise be hidden.”

“You think it can help us find a way across?”

“I hope so.” Time continued to scan the cliff face. “Something looked odd about the rock, just there,” he pointed near where the dowsing signal had been strongest, lips thinning as he concentrated, “but I don’t see…Ah! There!”

Time shifted so Sky could share the lens, and they both looked through to see a small fissure, hidden in the cliff face. It would be a tight squeeze, but if it went all the way through the rock they could continue their search.

The high noon sun beat down upon the pair as they approached the cliff. Even this close, without looking through the lens there was no visible fault in the rock. Sky pulled the Master Sword once more, verifying the direction they’d need to go.

Cool air wafted from the narrow fissure, soothing their fears of a dead end. Carefully, they shuffled through the narrow crack, Master Sword and Lens of Truth returned to sheath and pack. As they went, Sky shuddered as the thick feel of dark magic began to seep around them.

Sky knew, with absolute certainty, that something – hopefully someone – would be at the end of this tunnel.

It was long enough that by the time Sky and Time emerged from the tunnel into a wide cave, their eyes had mostly adjusted to the darkness. Heavy magic pressed all around them, and Time pulled out the Lens of Truth, beginning to look around again.

A dull glint caught Sky's eye, and he turned to find the source. His breath caught in his chest even as his heart soared. “Four!” he exclaimed, swiftly moving to the Smithy's side.

There was no response. Time glanced across, but continued to look through the lens rather than crowd Four.

“Four?” Sky eyed the extinguished torches on either side of the smaller hero, the chains Four hung limply in, and the shallow movements of his chest. He didn’t appear injured, but with the dark magic hanging in the air, there wasn’t a good way to tell without some light.

Sky diverted his attention from Four just long enough to light one of the torches with one of Legend's spare lanterns, but was distracted by the shadows flickering to life across the cave. Fi chimed as he swept his glance around the lightening cave, the sword warming upon his back as his eyes settled on the opposite wall, where each of their shadows wavered softly.

Sky noted with shock that, while they were all casting a shadow, Four’s was unnaturally pale and washed out. He looked between Four and his shadow with concern.

“Old Man?” he called hesitantly, and Time immediately came closer, lens still in hand but not in use.

“What did you find, Sky? Is he okay?”

“I’m…I’m not exactly sure.” Sky hesitated, dread mounting in his heart. Something was wrong, here, and it was centered around Four. “Your lens, may I…?”

Time surrendered the lens easily. “Of course,” he murmured, moving to do his own inspection of Four.

Sky fed a trickle of the magic that allowed him to use the Goddess harp and his skyward strike into the lens, then brought it to his eye. He recoiled in shock and nearly lost hold of the lens when a pair of exhausted red eyes blinked back at him from the depths of Four's shadow.

Time deftly snatched the lens from Sky's numb fingers and focused on Four’s fading shadow as Sky had done. Sky jumped when a furious growl rumbled through Time’s chest. “A Dark. I should have known. What did you do to him?!” he seethed.

Sky thought back to a recent conversation about the dark versions of each hero, and how, more often than not, they’d had to fight their Darks to continue with their journeys. He remembered how most of the heroes agreed that they were evil and deserved to be defeated, but Four had only looked down at his feet – at his shadow – as sadness colored his usually reserved features.

Sky placed a restraining hand on Time’s chest, taking back the lens as he did. He took a deep breath and focused on the being within Four's shadow.

This Dark, if it was one, didn’t look evil. It looked tired, harrowed, weak. Deep purple hair, so deep it was almost black, framed its face in an exact replica of Four's own hairstyle. The red eyes he’d originally seen retained a weak defiance through the exhaustion; its deep gray tunic hung limp on its body, which shuddered with uneven breaths.

The Lens of Truth apparently allowed Sky to hear what was hidden as well, for he heard the shadow muttering to itself in response to Time’s accusations. “I would never do anything to him.” It stared past Sky, watching Four breathe. “Of course you wouldn’t believe me, even if you could hear me…it won’t matter…’m dead soon anyway…’m so sorry, Rainbow, I’ve tried…”

It – he? – closed his eyes with a wince, shuddering out a long sigh. The shadow being just hung there breathing for a moment, then his eyes turned back to Sky. “What're you starin' at, anyway? No one can see me…’m just a shadow. Aren’t you one of those heroes? You should be savin' Link…wake him up an' let me die in peace…”

Sky’s heart clenched in sympathy. His infamous “Mother Cucco" instincts flaring, he shook his head gently. He reached out and placed his hand on the wall, where he could see the shadow being’s shoulder through the lens. “I can’t allow that,” he told it softly. “Who are you? Who did this to you?”

The shadow being stared blankly at Sky's hand before its gaze traveled up his arm and met him eye-to-eye through the lens. “…That eye thing…you can see me?” it mumbled confusedly, “You can hear me?”

Sky nodded.

Relief filled its eyes, chasing away some of the exhaustion. “Link calls me Shadow. I was…created to stop him during one of his adventures, but I decided I liked helping him more…I’ve been trapped inside his shadow since that adventure ended.”

Shadow’s eyes went back to Four's limp form before he continued, “Some creep in a hooded robe came in…put something under Link's tunic…Somehow it’s sucking all his memories of me away…they’re the only thing keeping me alive – if he loses them all, I’ll…”

Shadow winced again, panting as Four's shadow faded by another degree. “Please. Help us.”

Sky nodded in determination. “Where should we look?”

Shadow closed his eyes, conserving his strength. “Collarbone,” he breathed.

“Okay,” Sky nodded again, wishing he could impart some physical comfort to Shadow, then turned towards Four and Time. “Time, this is gonna sound crazy, but I have some information that could help – check his collarbones for anything unusual.”

Time raised a skeptical eyebrow but complied, gently loosening Four's tunic. He shook his head after a brief inspection. “I don’t see anything,” he stated, but his eye searched the cave, watching the shadows and air as if he could read the lines of heavy magic surrounding them, “but that doesn’t mean there might not be something there.”

Fi chimed again on Sky's back, and he approached Four's limp form, raising the Lens of Truth as he did.

Something metallic glinted on Four's skin, just a few inches from his throat. Closer examination revealed a small brooch shaped like a handful of bees buried into the soft skin under his collarbone. Each intricately worked leg and stinger were needle-sharp, angled inwards to anchor the object.

One clear bee hovered in the midst of the swarm, the rest of which were filled with a dark mist. Even as he watched, a similar mist slowly began to fill the last bee. In the corner of his eye Four's shadow paled further, writhing in the flickering torchlight.

That fog must represent the memories of Shadow. They were running out of time.

Sky moved swiftly back to Shadow’s side and tried again to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Ineffective as it might be, it had to bring some sort of comfort to the fading shade. He was rewarded with a faint smile.

“I can see the object that’s collecting and containing the memories,” Sky told Shadow softly. “It shouldn’t be difficult to remove, but I’m not sure what will happen to the memories when I do.”

Shadow’s eyes closed in contemplation. When he spoke, it was in the barest whisper. “Get it off. Anything's better than dying in front of him.”

Sky was back at Four's side in a matter of seconds. With a firm grip on the brooch, he carefully pried it from Four's skin. A few drops of blood seeped from the puncture wounds, but when Sky looked back at the brooch the mist remained safely contained, the last bee half full.

Immediately, the heaviness of the magic began to fade, and Sky breathed a sigh of relief. A glance through the lens in Shadow's direction confirmed his continued presence.

A tremor rocked Four's small frame, rattling his chains. He drew in a sharp breath before opening bleary, multi-colored eyes. “Where ‘re we?” he groaned, “...Wha' happ'nd…Eurgh, my head…”

He scrunched his eyes closed and gently shook his head before opening them again. His gaze wandered around the cave until it fell on Sky and Time.

Sky crouched on the floor so Four wouldn’t strain his neck. “Hey, Smithy. How do you feel?”

Four blinked. “Like something’s been poking around in my head.” He stood, trying to take his weight off his arms and attempting to roll out his shoulders. “Stiff. Do you know how to get me out of these? We – I looked, but I couldn’t find anything.”

Time spoke. “I have an idea, but I’ll need my lens back, Sky.”

Sky was hesitant to return the lens – it was his only connection to Shadow, and he didn’t want Time to interrogate him, with how weak he was – but he had to see how much Four remembered, for Shadow’s sake. To his relief, Time merely looked over the manacles before turning a hidden mechanism and handing the lens back. The dark, heavy magic in the air dispersed as Four's arms fell.

Sky winced in sympathy as Four worked the stiffness from his arms and shoulders. “Do you remember what happened?”

Four rocked his head side to side in a so-so gesture. “Kind of? I woke up alone, tried to escape for a while until someone in a hooded robe came in. They sounded awful, by the way.” A note of uncertainty colored his tone, and his eyes took on an amber hue. “They…told me they could make me forget…something…I was scared.”

Four's eyes darted around the cave, tension slowly coiling every muscle tight as he unconsciously curled in on himself. “There was someone…we…needed,” he whispered, “Someone we…forgot…?”

His gaze settled on the shadows on the far wall, immediately noticing how faded his was. He paled significantly, and tears began to drip down his face. “Sky,” he rasped, “I feel like there’s a hole in my heart. What am I forgetting?”

In response, Sky held out the bee brooch, visible without the lens now that the odd magic had been dispersed. “We found this under your tunic just before you woke. I believe it holds your missing memories.”

Four took it reverently while Time looked over his shoulder. They examined it for a moment before coming to the same conclusion. “It’s cursed,” they said in unison.

Fi chimed on Sky's back – for being weakened she sure had a lot to say today – confirming their words. Sky gestured towards her hilt. “She could probably break the curse. Do you think –” He cut himself off. There were too many things that could go wrong if using the sword didn’t work, or if it worked too well.

The other heroes looked at the brooch with this new context; as they did Sky subtly looked through the lens at Shadow, silently asking his opinion. Shadow searched his face before giving a single solemn nod.

Sky put the lens away as Four came to his own conclusion. “Let’s try it. If I keep it close the mist shouldn’t escape.”

Sky took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. He drew the Master Sword from her sheath; she immediately lit up with a pleasing glow. Carefully, he held just the tip of the sword to the brooch, watching the fog drain away from each bee and soak into Four's skin. From the corner of his eye, he watched Four's shadow strengthen with each regained memory, until it stood proud and clear next to his own.

Four stood silent for a moment as the memories settled, then he gasped, eyes flying open in shock. “Shadow! We almost forgot…” Fresh tears rolled down his face as he stared longingly at the opposite wall. “I hope you’re okay, wherever you are…” he whispered.

Wordlessly, Sky held out Time’s Lens of Truth. Four wiped his eyes and took it carefully, glancing curiously at Sky as he did.

Sky gave a soft smile. “Feed it a bit of magic. It shows things that are hidden – it’s how we found you.”

Understanding dawned in Four’s expression as hope bloomed in his eyes. With a measured breath, he brought the lens into alignment with his shadow on the wall.

The widest smile Sky had ever seen split the Smithy's face as he raced off to the wall, where Sky knew a long-awaited reunion would shortly happen. Four's voice was overjoyed as he shouted his friend's name: “SHADOW!!”

[mathosapabeads]

lets make some earrings!

inspired by various polls on here, lets make some earrings. i will be running four 24hr polls this week to design some earrings by poll results. day 1 is cabs, day 2 is color palette, day 3 will be rhinestones, day 4 will be backing material.

[klimkovsky]

M8 (NGC 6523) — The Lagoon Nebula

It is considered to be the second brightest nebula in the Earth’s sky, and one of two hydrogen nebulae visible to the naked eye (for an observer in the middle latitudes of the Northern Hemisphere). The first to come to mind is the Orion Nebula. Is there anything comparable to it in the sky? — Yes — There is the Lagoon Nebula.

But it is not easy to see the Lagoon with the naked eye. Its integral brightness is about 6m — right at the limit of the eye’s penetrating ability. If it is possible to see it without optics somewhere, then only high in the mountains. And it is not at all surprising that the Lagoon was discovered using a telescope, even the simplest one. Different sources give different discoverers. It is believed that this nebula was observed by Giovanni Hodierna back in 1654 or even earlier — in fact, in the era of Galileo. But then, telescopic study of the skies was not yet mainstream in astronomy, not everyone was in a hurry to talk about it. And Hodierna’s discovery did not become generally known at the time. That is why the French astronomer Guillaume le Gentil, who discovered a wispy foggy cloud in the constellation Sagittarius a century later, is sometimes mentioned as the discoverer of the Lagoon Nebula.

The Lagoon is located literally in the direction of the center of the Milky Way Galaxy, at a distance of 5,200 light years from us (until recently, distance estimates varied greatly — from 4 to 6 thousand light years, but in any case, the Lagoon is still very far from the center of the Milky Way). Interestingly, the famous Orion Nebula, often mentioned in connection with the Lagoon, is located almost in the opposite direction — away from the center of the Galaxy (but a little closer to us — 1,300 light years, which means that the Lagoon is much larger and brighter than the Orion Nebula … would be under equal conditions).

The M8 nebula has a physical diameter of 50 to 100 light years (it is oblong), in its huge volume young hot — sometimes very massive — stars are intensively born. It is the same maternity hospital for new galactic luminaries as the Orion Nebula.

The lagoon is adjacent to a large number of other interesting objects, which the constellation Sagittarius is rich in. Sometimes it seems that Sagittarius has attracted most of the pearls of visual and photographic astronomy. But the center of the Galaxy is to blame for everything — it is to it that both Nebulae and star clusters gravitate, which are most often present in the central parts of hydrogen nebulae — they are born in them. Laguna also has its own cluster — NGC 6530.

The visualization provided as an example is based on an astrophotography by Andre Helmuth and Jan Beckman, published on the Astrobin website — there this image became the winner of regular ratings, and in terms of detail it competes with the best professional photographs, although it was made using a telescope with a mirror diameter of 12 inches — quite serious, but not too big in comparison with the multi-meter giants of the top observatories.

[writesfic]

change / recovery / growth

mo guan shan doesn’t realize how much he’s changed over the summer. weeks can span like a lifetime. the lingering bruises on his face don’t show splotches anymore, but he still remembers the oblong splashes of purple against his skin. he remembers the scratch of the bandages and the ache in his heart that’s only grown into something unnameable.

coming back to school, his skin pulls too tight over his body. he sees the same, familiar faces down the hallways, but his own feels alien when he catches sight of it in the bathroom mirror. softer, but also less pained. as the dark ring around his throat healed, it’s taken all the hurt with it too.

the absence of all that weight makes him feel functioning, like a passable human being. he says hi to his classmates, volunteers to answer a question at the front of the class, gets it wrong. it all feels so... normal. 

he tian meets his eyes from his seat, smile a little fonder than before. he catches himself before doing something embarassing - like smiling back. instead, he receives the shitty lunchbox with sure hands, takes the time to savour each grain of mushy rice and the salty tang of convenience store meat.

change comes by slow and uncomfortable, but he’s slowly getting the picture. there’s no iou. what he tian has done, is doing for him, he’s unable to count any longer. it’s a debt of a lifetime; no point in keeping score. he takes peeks out of the corner of his eyes, greedy with what he can get away with. he tian still feels comfortably the same, but things between them have shifted irrevocably as spring bloomed into summer and yielded the start of autumn.

that sweet ache in his chest stings. somewhere along the line, he’s told himself that he deserving. he wishes abstractly for these endless, sweltering, halycon days where he feels nigh on invincible to never end. he gets to have this. he gets to have him.

[skateboreds]

A Slice of Orange

chp. 3

*FKA The Orange Slice*

pairing: joel miller x reader

summary: The most dangerous man in town has been staring at you nonstop, but keeps his distance until the night he walks you home...

tags: smut, medium burn, sexy stuff starts in chp.3, age difference, M/F, a lot of goddamn eye contact that turns into porn, porn w plot, zaddy joel, hand/finger kink, praise kink, mild blood in later chps, TLOU pt.II, NO Y/N

notes: Set at the beginning of The Last of Us Part II when Joel and Ellie live in the Jackson, Wyoming community, a few years after TLOU part I. Deviates from canon apart from that. Characterizations based mostly on the first game.

AO3 link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45087460/chapters/113424721#workskin

CHAPTER THREE

Joel leads you from the hall, and you feel the looks from his family following you both to the entry way. 

Are you embarrassing him? A girl half his age coming onto him in front of everyone? Is he walking you home to get it all to stop? So no one thinks he would actually be interested? To let you down easy without a crowd watching?

You feel empty and shaky and grab your coat, fumbling to slide it on. Joel holds the door open and the sudden chill of the night smacks you as you step out onto the road with him. The moon hangs low and oblong in the sky and a soft snow is beginning to fall. The streets are dark now, most of the lights off.

The quiet and cool night helps to clear your head and you hug your arms to yourself as you suck in several breaths, the air sharp and clean.

It doesn’t matter. So, he doesn’t feel the same way. You’ll survive this like you survive everything else. Let him walk you home, let him tell you he isn’t interested. It doesn’t matter. Just enjoy the walk with him before he goes.

You turn to him and see him watching you, waiting for your cue. He seems like he wants to ask you if you’re okay but can’t find the words. The idea of him pitying you makes you want to rip your skin off. You need to get him to stop looking at you like you’re wounded.

“Lead the way” you say, diffusing the moment, “You know where I live, after all.”

To that Joel smiles, slightly abashed, but turns right, heading into the velvety night. You sigh in relief at join in step besides him, walking in silence for a while. The streets wind before you as you flick your eyes to Joel, as subtly as you can. Snow has started to collect on his salt and pepper hair, a few on his eyelashes, framing those unnervingly sweet-shaped eyes. Stoically, he surveys the surroundings, his massive frame graceful as he strides forwards, confidence so clear in how he holds his shoulders. You feel yourself shift to mirror the way he walks, to try and emulate that same presence.

He hasn’t moved his eyes away from the path before you, but you see a smile tug at his lips in response.

You snap your head forward, embarrassed. Wanting to divert the focus away from your heating face you decide to bring up something that might embarrass him for a change.

“Can I ask you something?” you say boldly.

He stays silent as you both near the mouth of an alleyway leading to your side of town, a shortcut, but he finally turns his head towards you, indicating his attention.

“How…do you know where I live?”

He coughs and then laughs awkwardly at this, the hint of bashfulness returning.

“I suppose I should have expected that.”

“Are you stalking me?” you ask teasingly, expecting a quick response. 

A moment passes but Joel is silent. You inspect his face, wary and unsure.

Holy shit.

“Are you??” you ask, halting your walk, stopping just as you both enter the alley.

“No! I-I’m not. I just…have seen you go there before. And I figured, that…” Joel says stopping too.

“You’ve seen me go there.” you say, repeating the information.

“I’m not-I haven’t. I just…” he trails off.

This is the first time you’ve ever heard Joel stutter, stumble over his words. The first time he’s ever seemed uncomfortable in his skin. He puts his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight. His sudden lack in confidence seems to embolden yours.

“You’ve been watching me.” you speak, not a question.

He observes you, flicking his eyes between yours, fast and searching before he utters a single word.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A long pause.

“I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you.”

“Why?”

Joel just stares at you.

Bits of the night come back to you now. The way Joel pointed out the men looking at you. Their obvious interest that you previously have been blind to. The only person whose attention you had noticed had been Joel’s. For months he had been giving you attention, just like they had tonight. Because they wanted you, your body. Because…he might want that too. 

You’re seeing half a perfectly peeled orange held out to you, when the ground swings up at you at an odd angle, the alleyway suddenly becoming horizontal.

“Shit.”

It sounds far away as the snowy road comes dangerously close to smashing into your face but arms, lightning fast, catch your frame and haul you upright. They stay wrapped around your back as everything levels out.

“Are you ok!?” An edge of hysteria lines Joel’s voice.

Does…does he…?!

You look up at Joel and his face is so close now you can smell him. It’s warm and woodsy, leather and citrus and amber. The smell fills your head and you struggle to stay afloat in the sea of him, your desire pulling at your ankles, wanting to drown you in it. His arms are so secure around you, the muscles hard and steady. You are again unable to avoid staring at the beauty before you. His scarred nose is strong and straight, though it looks like it may have been broken in the past, his bearded jaw sharp and sturdy. His face holds the edge of someone dangerous, capable of death and destruction, but in this light, the person he perhaps used to be seems to shine though. An eager and more exposed person. His hair has fallen in front of his face slightly and he looks younger, the light in his jade and chocolate eyes burning with concern and something else, something primal now as he takes you in.

The moon sheds a soft opalescent light on his features, and combined with the fat flurries sashaying around you, you feel as if you’ve entered a dream. You can’t hold it back any longer.

“Please.” You all but whisper it. Hoping, begging.

Joel’s face is aflame with conflict. You see burning, wild desire there, raging through the forest of his thoughts, consuming every tree. But he also seems incredibly unsure. Of what, you don’t know. All you can do is ask, so again, you do.

“Please.”

This time the word is a prayer, a plea, offered up with abandon. A promise on your knees, a request for salvation. You don’t care how vulnerable you sound.

“Fuck.” Joel whispers it roughly, desperately, and then crushes his mouth to yours.

The wildfire from his gaze catches on every kindling of painful yearning that you have collected over the years, a piled-up mountain of desire, and you burn with it. You burn and burn. His mouth is rough and needy against yours and you open, letting him in. His tongue presses against the inside of your teeth, exploring and claiming every centimeter of you. You snake your arms around his neck as your skin blazes white hot, tangling your hands in his hair, gripping so tightly it probably hurts but all he does is groan with pleasure into your open mouth.

Suddenly, he pushes you up against the brick wall of the alley. His hands leave your back to grab your fists tangled in his hair. He collects both in his left and pins them against the cold wall above you without breaking the kiss. His right grabs your jaw, firm but not painful, his hand so large his thumb and pointer span from earlobe to earlobe. You stand there, fully at his mercy, needing more of him. You curse your clothes, wishing you could feel his skin against yours, his heat surrounding you, his width inside you.

A whine of need slips out of your throat and he groans again, his grip on your jaw tightening for a second before he lets go, breaking the kiss to look at your chest. He trails his hand downwards until it rests flat against your heart.

Low in your belly, a heat tangles through you, snaking around your insides, sinking its teeth into your trembling thighs.

You arch your back, trying to move your heaving breast into his palm but Joel presses your chest back into the wall, pinning you there until you stop wiggling. He levels your gaze with his, his eyes vast pools of inky black in the shadows.

“Don’t rush me.” he commands, his voice dragging on the ground.

You feel fucking psychotic, like if he doesn’t put his skin on yours soon you might actually pass out. But you wait, your arms still pinned above you, as he slowly, maddeningly, unzips your jacket and pushes it open to reveal your button-down shirt. He undoes one button, then two more, and finally flings your shirt open. Your bra is thin and the icy night swirls against it, your nipple hard and poking through the fabric. Joel hooks a finger on the edge of the cotton and slowly slides it down to the edge of your peaked nipple. He eyes your chest, a wolf to a rabbit, starved and lethal. With a quick motion, he yanks the fabric and your breast springs free, your nipple so hard it’s almost painful. He moans in approval and palms your breast, squeezing it hard, moving his fingers until he grabs your nipple between his pointer and thumb and gently rolls it. You release a noise halfway between a sob and a squeak.

The heat deep inside you is infernal now as the place between your legs throbs with aching need. You buck your hips forward, hoping to gain some friction against him, to relieve some of that pressure pounding within.

He senses this and uses his boot to kick your feet wider apart and then presses his thigh between yours, pushing against you. You curse your clothes again.

“Is this what you want pretty girl?” Joel asks, his voice gravelly and low, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear now. He gently flicks your nipple.

You’re whimpering, the noises coming from you less than decent. You grind down onto his thigh, moving on it, wishing he could feel how wet you were, wishing he would slide his fingers inside of you. The thought of that, of what you’ve been imagining for months, drives you mad. His large, capable fingers pumping in and out of you; it feels so close to being real it’s agonizing. You pick up the pace of your grinding, straining your caught wrists against his vice grip above your head.

“Tell me what it is you want, pretty girl. Use that soft pretty mouth to tell me what it is you need.” he says, and leaves your breast to grab the flesh of your hip, moving your body against him harder.

You gasp, no words coming.

“Do you want to feel me against you…inside you? Use your words, I want to hear you say it.”

For such a silent man he sure talks a lot when he’s turned on.

“P-please I-I-”

“You what?”

“I want…I need-”

“What do you need, pretty girl? Hmm? So pretty, she’s so pretty.” he coos.

The words were almost too much to absorb right now, your insides coiling so tightly at all the stimulation.

“I want to feel you-your fingers, i-inside me, p-please. Please.” you choke out, ragged and breathless.

That’s all Joel needs to hear as his right hand quickly unbuttons your jeans in one motion, shoving it under the waist band of your underwear. His fingers just barely graze the edge of your pussy, soaking wet now, when the sudden noise of incoming conversation cuts through.

Joel freezes at the edge of the center of you and you think you might shriek in desperate, crazed need. Your thoughts too scattered to catch up to the significance of the talking growing near.

He quickly pulls his hand out of your pants, releasing your arms, and swings around until his back faces the street and he completely covers you from view.

You are still trying to catch up fully to what is going on, wanting to clutch and claw at him to come back to you when a group of maybe five people walk right by the mouth of the alley. They pass by, laughing and singing, obviously drunk. You peek from behind Joel and see the group stumble by happily. A few of them throw glances to you both in the alley, but from the street it must just look like a man leaning against the wall, perhaps in conversation with someone else. It’s nothing too note-worthy for the intoxicated strangers, and they continue on their way.

Your heart is still beating wildly, the ghost sensation burning where his fingers were, what they were about to do.

The noise from the passerbys fades into the distance and Joel steps away from you, pushing his hair back, breathing unsteadily. He turns to you, his face etched in concern, eyes wild, but he only finds you with your hands on your knees, shaking in laughter.

“You’re laughing?” he asks, incredulous.

“I mean, it’s kind of funny.” you respond, still giggling, fixing your shirt.

Seemingly despite himself, he lets out a single chuckle, but puts his face back in his right hand.

“Jesus Christ.” he mutters to himself.

You want to push off the wall and walk towards him, to erase the distance between you two again. But your legs shake slightly and you’re not sure you can make the distance without tumbling to the ground.

“Come here.” you urge him, extending an arm out.

He looks at you for a moment, something flitting in his eyes, too fast to catch, and walks back to you. You reach up for his face, leaning in again but he grabs your hand, keeping it captive an inch away from his cheek. You search his face and only find a carefully crafted wall.

“You don’t like being snuck up on, do you?” you asked him.

A pause.

“Let me walk you home.” is his only response.

You open your mouth to object; that is the furthest thing that you want right now, but there is a warning in his eyes, not to push him. You can’t help the disappointment that blooms within you. Like ink in water, it spreads out, consuming. You’re sure it’s obvious on your face because Joel turns his head to lightly press his lips to the tips of your fingers.

“You’re freezing.” he says.

You haven’t noticed, feeling like you were on fire this entire time. But as that fades, the chill of the night seeps back in and you realize you’re shivering.

“That jacket ain’t much.” he nods to your thin coat, made for weather probably 15 degrees warmer than this.

“I’m saving up for a new one.” you say, feeling the need to defend yourself.

“Here.” Joel says shrugging off his thick, tan jacket. He holds it out to you.

“Won’t you be cold?” you ask, concerned.

“I’ll be fine.” he says and winks.

You reach for the jacket and slip it on. It’s warm from his body heat, and it smells like him, concentrated and delicious. You can’t help yourself, you turn towards the shoulder and inhale deeply, the scent almost dizzying.

He smiles at this, but his eyes seem almost…sad.

You want so badly to ask him what he’s thinking, what barriers lie in that head of his. You want to know what this meant to him. Was he actually interested in you or was it a crazy, spontaneous event he didn’t wish to repeat? Was he just taken by surprise by those strangers or was he embarrassed at potentially being caught with you.

You have no language to communicate with him about those sorts of things though. Instead, you merely follow him as he leads you through the alleyway towards your apartment.

**********

Later, in your bed, you wonder about your goodbyes. You think about how much you wanted to kiss him, but his guarded eyes kept you where you stood. How you reluctantly slipped off his jacket to hand back to him and how a flurry of emotions passed over his face before he slowly accepted it. How you both stared at each other, how you wanted to say so much, ask so much. How his face showed a million things then that you could not decipher, like looking at an unreadable text, the information falling on blind eyes. You wished you could touch him just one more time, in case it was the last, but he simply nodded his head once and loped off into the dark. How you got home and opened your journal to sketches of oranges and vehemently wrote down everything you could remember about his face up close, lest you ever forgot. As if you ever could. How you lay in your bed, still smelling him on your skin, still could feel the pressure of his lips on yours, and you concentrated on those things as your fingers moved under your waistband. Their shape all wrong compared to his, but finding your release nonetheless, replaying the feeling of him all over you. And you wonder and you wonder and you wonder as you turn and stare out your small square window at the moon hanging low in the night sky, a crescent shy of being full.

[ebaeschnbliah]

Following his lead the Company passed under the northern arch

They found themselves in a wide corridor. As they went along it the glimmer grew stronger, and they saw that it came through a doorway on their right. It was high and flat-topped, and the stone door was still upon its hinges, standing half open. Beyond it was a large square chamber. It was dimly lit, but to their eyes, after so long a time in the dark, it seemed dazzlingly bright, and they blinked as they entered.

Their feet disturbed a deep dust upon the floor, and stumbled among things lying in the doorway whose shapes they could not at first make out. The chamber was lit by a wide shaft high in the further eastern wall; it slanted upwards and, far above, a small square patch of blue sky could be seen. The light of the shaft fell directly on a table in the middle of the room: a single oblong block, about two feet high, upon which was laid a great slab of white stone.

`It looks like a tomb,' muttered Frodo, and bent forwards with a curious sense of foreboding, to look more closely at it. Gandalf came quickly to his side. On the slab runes were deeply graven:

'These are Daeron's Runes, such as were used of old in Moria,' said Gandalf. 'Here is written in the tongues of Men and Dwarves’:

BALIN SON OF FUNDIN  LORD OF MORIA

'He is dead then,' said Frodo. `I feared it was so.' Gimli cast his hood over his face.

The Company of the Ring stood silent beside the tomb of Balin. Frodo thought of Bilbo and his long friendship with the dwarf, and of Balin's visit to the Shire long ago. In that dusty chamber in the mountains it seemed a thousand years ago and on the other side of the world.

At length they stirred and looked up, and began to search for anything that would give them tidings of Balin's fate, or show what had become of his folk. There was another smaller door on the other side of the chamber, under the shaft. By both the doors they could now see that many bones were lying, and among them were broken swords and axe-heads, and cloven shields and helms. Some of the swords were crooked: orc-scimitars with blackened blades.

There were many recesses cut in the rock of the walls, and in them were large iron-bound chests of wood. All had been broken and plundered; but beside the shattered lid of one there lay the remains of a book. It had been slashed and stabbed and partly burned, and it was so stained with black and other dark marks like old blood that little of it could be read. Gandalf lifted it carefully, but the leaves crackled and broke as he laid it on the slab. He pored over it for some time without speaking. Frodo and Gimli standing at his side could see, as he gingerly turned the leaves, that they were written by many different hands, in runes, both of Moria and of Dale, and here and there in Elvish script.

At last Gandalf looked up. 'It seems to be a record of the fortunes of Balin's folk,' he said. `I guess that it began with their coming to Dimrill Dale nigh on thirty years ago: the pages seem to have numbers referring to the years after their arrival. The top page is marked one - three, so at least two are missing from the beginning. Listen to this!

'We drove out orcs from the great gate and guard - I think; the next word is blurred and burned; probably room - we slew many in the bright - I think - sun in the dale. Flói was killed by an arrow. He slew the great. Then there is a blur followed by Flói under grass near Mirror mere. The next line or two I cannot read. Then comes We have taken the twentyfirst hall of North end to dwell in. There is I cannot read what. A shaft is mentioned. Then Balin has set up his seat in the Chamber of Mazarbul.'

'The Chamber of Records,' said Gimli. `I guess that is where we now stand.'

`Well, I can read no more for a long way,' said Gandalf, 'except the word gold, and Durin's Axe and something helm. Then Balin is now lord of Moria. That seems to end a chapter. After some stars another hand begins, and I can see we found truesilver, and later the word wellforged and then something, I have it! mithril; and the last two lines Óin to seek for the upper armouries of Third Deep, something go westwards, a blur, to Hollin gate.'

Gandalf paused and set a few leaves aside. 'There are several pages of the same sort, rather hastily written and much damaged, he said; `but I can make little of them in this light. Now there must be a number of leaves missing, because they begin to be numbered five, the fifth year of the colony, I suppose. Let me see! No, they are too cut and stained; I cannot read them. We might do better in the sunlight. Wait! Here is something: a large bold hand using an Elvish script.'

'That would be Ori's hand,' said Gimli, looking over the wizard's arm. `He could write well and speedily, and often used the Elvish characters.'

`I fear he had ill tidings to record in a fair hand,' said Gandalf. 'The first clear word is sorrow, but the rest of the line is lost, unless it ends in estre. Yes, it must be yestre followed by day being the tenth of novembre Balin lord of Moria fell in Dimrill Dale. He went alone to look in Mirror mere. an orc shot him from behind a stone. we slew the orc, hut many more ... up from east up the Silverlode. The remainder of the page is so blurred that I can hardly make anything out, but I think I can read we have barred the gates, and then can hold them long if, and then perhaps horrible and suffer. Poor Balin! He seems to have kept the title that he took for less than five years. I wonder what happened afterwards; but there is no time to puzzle out the last few pages. Here is the last page of all.' He paused and sighed.

`It is grim reading,' he said. 'I fear their end was cruel. Listen! We cannot get out. We cannot get out. They have taken the Bridge and second hall. Frár and Lóni and Náli fell there. Then there are four lines smeared so that I can only read went 5 days ago. The last lines run the pool is up to the wall at Westgate. The Watcher in the Water took Óin. We cannot get out. The end comes, and then drums, drums in the deep. I wonder what that means. The last thing written is in a trailing scrawl of elf-letters: they are coming. There is nothing more.' Gandalf paused and stood in silent thought.

A sudden dread and a horror of the chamber fell on the Company. `We cannot get out,' muttered Gimli. 'It was well for us that the pool had sunk a little, and that the Watcher was sleeping down at the southern end.'

Gandalf raised his head and looked round. `They seem to have made a last stand by both doors,' he said; 'but there were not many left by that time. So ended the attempt to retake Moria! It was valiant but foolish. The time is not come yet. Now, I fear, we must say farewell to Balin son of Fundin. Here he must lie in the halls of his fathers. We will take this book, the Book of Mazarbul, and look at it more closely later. You had better keep it, Gimli, and take it back to Dáin, if you get a chance. It will interest him, though it will grieve him deeply. Come, let us go! The morning is passing.'

'Which way shall we go? ' asked Boromir.

'Back to the hall,' answered Gandalf. 'But our visit to this room has not been in vain. I now know where we are. This must be, as Gimli says, the Chamber of Mazarbul; and the hall must be the twenty-first of the North-end. Therefore we should leave by the eastern arch of the hall, and bear right and south, and go downwards. The Twenty-first Hall should be on the Seventh Level, that is six above the level of the Gates. Come now! Back to the hall! '

Gandalf had hardly spoken these words, when there came a great noise: a rolling Boom that seemed to come from depths far below, and to tremble in the stone at their feet. They sprang towards the door in alarm. Doom, doom it rolled again, as if huge hands were turning the very caverns of Moria into a vast drum. Then there came an echoing blast: a great horn was blown in the hall, and answering horns and harsh cries were heard further off. There was a hurrying sound of many feet.

`They are coming! ' cried Legolas.

'We cannot get out,' said Gimli.

`Trapped! ' cried Gandalf.

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, A Journey in the Dark, The Bridge of Khazad-dûm