#and it still happens by the way. you're just seeing less of it

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI and the fatfinger economy

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me at NEW ZEALAND'S UNITY BOOKS in WELLINGTON TODAY (May 3). More tour dates (Pittsburgh, PDX, London, Manchester) here.

Have you noticed that all the buttons you click most frequently to invoke routine, useful functions in your device have been moved, and their former place is now taken up by a curiously butthole-esque icon that summons an unwanted AI?

https://velvetshark.com/ai-company-logos-that-look-like-buttholes

These traps for the unwary aren't accidental, but neither are they placed there solely because tech companies think that if they can trick you into using their AI, you'll be so impressed that you'll become a regular user. To understand why you find yourself repeatedly fatfingering your way into an unwanted AI interaction – and why those interactions are so hard to exit – you have to understand something about both the macro- and microeconomics of high-growth tech companies.

Growth is a heady advantage for tech companies, and not because of an ideological commitment to "growth at all costs," but because companies with growth stocks enjoy substantial, material benefits. A growth stock trades at a higher "price to earnings ratio" ("P:E") than a "mature" stock. Because of this, there are a lot of actors in the economy who will accept shares in a growing company as though they were cash (indeed, some might prefer shares to cash). This means that a growing company can outbid their rivals when acquiring other companies and/or hiring key personnel, because they can bid with shares (which they get by typing zeroes into a spreadsheet), while their rivals need cash (which they can only get by selling things or borrowing money).

The problem is that all growth ends. Google has a 90% share of the search market. Google isn't going to appreciably increase the number of searchers, short of desperate gambits like raising a billion new humans to maturity and convincing them to become Google users (this is the strategy behind Google Classroom, of course). To continue posting growth, Google needs gimmicks. For example, in 2019, Google intentionally made Search less accurate so that users would have to run multiple queries (and see multiple rounds of ads) to find the answers to their questions:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/the-men-who-killed-google/

Thanks to Google's monopoly, worsening search perversely resulted in increased earnings, and Wall Street rewarded Google by continuing to trade its stock with that prized high P:E. But for Google – and other tech giants – the most enduring and convincing growth stories comes from moving into adjacent lines of business, which is why we've lived through so many hype bubbles: metaverse, web3, cryptocurrency, and now, of course, AI.

For a company like Google, the promise of these bubbles is that it will be able to double or triple in size, by dominating an entirely new sector. With that promise comes peril: growth must eventually stop ("anything that can't go on forever eventually stops"). When that happens, the company's stock instantaneously goes from being a "growth stock" to being a "mature stock" which means that its P:E is way too high. Anyone holding growth stock knows that there will come a day when those stocks will transition, in an eyeblink, from being undervalued to being grossly overvalued, and that when that day comes, there will be a mass sell-off. If you're still holding the stock when that happens, you stand to lose bigtime:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/06/privacy-last/#exceptionally-american

So everyone holding a growth stock sleeps with one eye open and their fists poised over the "sell" button. Managers of growth companies know how jittery their investors are, and they do everything they can to keep the growth story alive, as a matter of life and death.

But mass sell-offs aren't just bad for the company – it's also very bad for the company's key employees, that is, anyone who's been given stock in addition to their salary. Those people's portfolios are extremely heavy on their employer's shares, and they stand to disproportionately lose in the event of a selloff. So they are personally motivated to keep the growth story alive.

That's where these growth-at-all-stakes maneuvers bent on capturing an adjacent sector come from. If you remember the Google Plus days, you'll remember that every Google service you interacted with had some important functionality ripped out of it and replaced with a G+-based service. To make sure that happened, Google's bosses decreed that the company's bonuses would be tied to the amount of G+ activity each division generated. In companies where bonuses can amount to 90% of your annual salary or more, this was a powerful motivator. It meant that every product team at Google was fully aligned on a project to cram G+ buttons into their product design. Whether or not these made sense for users, they always made sense for the product team, whose ability to take a fancy Christmas holiday, buy a new car, or pay their kids' private school tuition depended on getting you to use G+.

Once you understand how corporate growth stories are converted to "key performance indicators" that drive product design, many of the annoyances of digital services suddenly make a great deal of sense. You know how it's almost impossible to watch a show on a streaming video service without accidentally tapping a part of the screen that whisks you to a completely different video?

The reason you have to handle your phone like a photonegative while watching a movie – the reason every millimeter of screen real-estate has been boobytrapped with an icon that takes you somewhere else – is that streaming services believe that their customers are apt to leave when they feel like there's nothing new to watch. These bosses have made their product teams' bonuses dependent on successfully "recommending" a show you've never seen or expressed any interest in to you:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/15/the-fatfinger-economy/

Of course, bosses understand that their workers will be tempted to game this metric. They want to distinguish between "real" clicks that lead to interest in a new video, and fake fatfinger clicks that you instantaneously regret. The easiest way to distinguish between these two types of click is to measure how long you watch the new show before clicking away.

Of course, this is also entirely gameable: all the product manager has to do is take away the "back" button, so that an accidental click to a new video is extremely hard to cancel. The five seconds you spend figuring out how to get back to your show are enough to count as a successful recommendation, and the product team is that much closer to a luxury ski vacation next Christmas.

So this is why you keep invoking AI by accident, and why the AI that is so easy to invoke is so hard to dispel. Like a demon, a chatbot is much easier to summon than it is to rid yourself of.

Google is an especially grievous offender here. Familiar buttons in Gmail, Gdocs, and the Android message apps have been replaced with AI-summoning fatfinger traps. Android is filled with these pitfalls – for example, the bottom-of-screen swipe gesture used to switch between open apps now summons an AI, while ridding yourself of that AI takes multiple clicks.

This is an entirely material phenomenon. Google doesn't necessarily believe that you will ever want to use AI, but they must convince investors that their AI offerings are "getting traction." Google – like other tech companies – gets to invent metrics to prove this proposition, like "how many times did a user click on the AI button" and "how long did the user spend with the AI after clicking?" The fact that your entire "AI use" consisted of hunting for a way to get rid of the AI doesn't matter – at least, not for the purposes of maintaining Google's growth story.

Goodhart's Law holds that "When a measure becomes a target, it ceases to be a good measure." For Google and other AI narrative-pushers, every measure is designed to be a target, a line that can be made to go up, as managers and product teams align to sell the company's growth story, lest we all sell off the company's shares.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/02/kpis-off/#principal-agentic-ai-problem

Image: Pogrebnoj-Alexandroff (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Index_finger_%3D_to_attention.JPG

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

--

Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[spoonyglitteraunt]

Ok another case of my tags grew out of control so putting them in a reblog instead (sigh, this is happening a lot lately it seems)

I think one could say that the original virtue, the original intent of fairytales isn't just humility, but often it is being social and kind is good actually. It's showing kindness to someone you had no reason to show kindness to and getting rewarded for it. It's banding together against greater evils, because there is power in working as a team. It's about caring for others instead of your own more selfish desires. Yes there is a lot of saving of others (in all directions), but it's often to show that we are not an island. That we need others, just as they may need us. And that last one is so important. Because this rejection and mischaracterisation of fairytales and "save the princess" narratives (whether that is the actual narrative or not) has a side effect I think many don't realise. It's not the intention, but it's very much real and damaging. See, I know that much of the backlash towards damsels in distress is because it got overused. Especially in ways that were less fairytale and more, women can't be competent and do things, they are just there to be a prop. I get that, but instead of recognising that what we need is more variety, more diversity in stories and female characters. Instead of realising that any trope can be good or bad depending on its usage. It seems like society just flipped the switch to only girlbosses, nothing else. Now I don't begrudge people their empowerment fantasies. Mini me was fully on board with the saving yourself idea, even before this fully started to be a thing. But then I got sick. Chronically ill and severely disabled to the point where I'm now housebound. And suddenly people mocking and ridiculing any story where a princess needs saving hurts. The constant bashing and picking apart of fairytales, of any narrative that dares to have a woman need saving. Every call out post. Every bad cynical hot take. Every cutting joke and "satire". Even when people call for more diversity in female characters —sick of how the girlboss trope is just as limiting as before — damsels and princesses are still constantly treated as a no go. Considered wrong, bad writing, weak characterisation, un-feminist. All the marks of a no good, very bad, horrible writer story. You know what that says to people like me? That we have no right to exist. That stories should never include us. That we are wrong. A trope born only from misogyny and bad writing. That we are bad women, bad allies, bad people to even want stories like these. And while I know that's likely never the intention, it's still the result. It hurts every. Single. Time. Because to me and many like me — the sick, the hurt, the suffering* — there is comfort and value in seeing stories where someone matters enough to be saved. Even if they are weak, or passive, or scared. They have value. Princes come to rescue them. Huntsmen and dwarves give them aid and shelter. Fairy godmothers help them escape their horrible abusive situations. Magical creatures reward simple acts of kindness and show up in their hours of needs. No trope is inherently bad. No story format is evil. It's all in how you use it. And you never know how much one of those may mean to someone needing some comfort, and to see even just a hint of themselves in a story. So please stop. *Do not come for me with the bad take that "'Actually disabled people can save themselves!" Some can, some are entirely dependant on others for aid. Neither of those is wrong. And sometimes, even if you can save yourself, you just would like to not have to be the strong one for five minutes. To just have the fantasy of someone else doing the fighting for you. For being valued enough to matter. Because you're tired and you need a fricking break.

Those "modern fairy tales where the princess saves herself" types of books not only misrepresent the gender roles in fairy tales (there are tons of stories where girls get to save the day), but they fundamentally misunderstand the entire genre.

Fairy tales aren't about saving yourself.

These aren't epic myths or heroic legends about the great warriors who slay every monster in their path because they're so awesome. Fairy tales are almost always about ordinary, even incompetent, people who get thrown into strange situations where they only succeed because of the help of others.

It's not a gendered thing. The boy who goes off to seek his fortune is usually the dim-witted third son whose older brothers are the strong, smart ones. The third son succeeds because he is kind to the magical helpers who then complete the tasks for him--and the exact same thing happens when a girl is the main character.

The characters in a fairy tale rarely succeed because they embrace their own strength and take their own path. Much more often, they are told step-by-step what to do, and they succeed because they obey--respecting the wisdom of others.

The core virtue of a fairy tale is not pride, but humility. It's not a story about the strong, but those who are weak, small, helpless. The people who can't do it all on their own, but can recognize the worth and wisdom of others.

Turning this story into a "girl power" (or even a "boy power") story warps it into something that is fundamentally the opposite of a fairy tale, and it has nothing to do with the gender of the main character.

[thbbie]

༄ sub-ish roommate! suguru x gn!reader

you and your ridiculously handsome roommate, sleep together. as in the same bed of course, nothing beyond that. your relationship strictly amicable. he's a good roommate.

it started a few months back. suguru gets nightmares , he'll tell you about then sometimes though it's never in great detail. one night, you'd been woken by the your thirst wanting water.

as you made your way to the kitchen you already find suguru there, a light blacker thrown over his broad shoulders and a cup of tea that looks cartoonishly small in his hands. you greet him upon seeing him, and he greets you back; perfectly amicable.

you fill the glass in hand with cool water twice, once you drink it right there, standing in the kitchen watching in him sip his tea and rock himself gently in the chair.

the second glass you fill is to bring with you to your room, to avoid a second voyage should you need it. softly, you wish him a good night as you pass, voice raspy with sleep. you get a little nod and smile in return, even now, seep deprived and in the dead of night, suguru is graceful.

back in to your room, you set the cup atop your nightstand and curl back beneath the sheets, options to keep the prettt navy robe on. the silken fabric so nice on your skin, you feels luxurious.

when you finally manage to settle, find the coolest part of the sheets and resting you head against the pillow just right, there's two oft knocks at your door. suguru.

he cracks the door open slightly to find you laying comfortably in bed, the blissful look of some who is sleeping without overheating sheets, but that's all thrown out the window when you see him, picking up to see him properly. he's doesn't say anything for a bit, was this inappropriate of him? he's walked in on you doing far more.. intimate things that sleeping before. you're both adults and live in the same space, it's bond to happen. and it's natural, nothing shameful about it despite it feels that way sometimes is what he convinces himself. finally he speaks, "hey."

sitting up and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, the navy robe slipping off on of your shoulders as you do, "hey suguru." you wait for him to saying something else but he doesn't. the large man standing against your doorframe playing with his hands like he doesn't know what to do with them, he looks down at them in contemplation. pretty soft lips open and close in hesitance to speak.

"i had a nightmare," he says finally, god he feels like a too big child. " i can't sleep." he add as though it makes his intentions any clearer. he doesn't specify further, looking at you expectantly.

the minutes drag on and the sleep is still heavy in your bones, you're so tired. and as much as you adore your roommate you're too tired for this. so, while lifting the corner of the blankets you pat the mattress you lay on in invitation, "do you wanna sleep with me?" without having to ask twice, he slips between your sheets.

this isn't weird, you cuddle all the time while watching movies on the couch. a bed is no different (people have sex on couches too, and a couch has less room. this isn't wired at all)

you pull him into your chest when he lays down, hoping to give him some comfort through your touch and kind words of affirmation as your delicate fingers comb through his hair. suguru's so close he can smell the faint scent of the body wash you used earlier, but he's too tired to be flustered by that or by the closeness or the though of sharing a bed right now.

sharing your bed had become routine now, it comes naturally. it helps suguru with the nightmares and you get to hold and be held by hid warm body all night, a win-win situation if you've ever seen one.

a few times though, you've been woken by a hardness pressing into you, sometimes grinding against you softly. you just ignore it, pretending your still asleep if you feel him begin to stir, and like you don't notice it when you wake up (lieslieslies. you could never 'not notice it') it was natural, and there's no sense in bringing it up, it'll only make things uncomfortable; possibly ruining the little routine you both have established.

in the quiet moments in between, when suguru is still sound asleep, you let yourself enjoy it. maybe it's perverse of you but you really cannot help yourself.

he'd wake up, sometimes embarrassed or flustered and others annoyed that he couldn't lay in your bed for longer and remain in your welcoming embrace.

this morning, as you've come to expect, it happens again — the hard mass between his legs pressing into you from behind. the hands wrapped around you disentangle themselves from your body, lowly muttered annoyed curses leave suguru's lips, but you don't let him get far. catching his wrist in your hand, facing him now.

you look so enticing. he throbs in his pants, the blood rushing away from his head down to his groin. the need to take care of himself quickly becomes a second thought. second to embarrassment. and how could anyone ever worry about themselves before thinking about how they could do it for you.

that's what made sense in suguru's mind anyway.

you pull him back gently, though really you just guide the moment and he follows along. letting you drag his bigger body back into your bed. "it's okay, don't be embarrassed. it's natural."

suguru's cheeks heat up further at that, you sound so calm, so unbothered by all of this. taking a deep breathe before , "i could help you if you'd like." his eyes get impossibly wider. you could- what?

he tells himself that he doesn't know what's coming but nods anyway. "suguru."

his throat is dry but still he swallows feeling impossibly turned on by you, the adam's apple in his throat bobbing as he does, "yes" "i need words from you love."

love. you called him love. they mean nothing by it suguru, pull yourself together. you use terms of endearment freely, it means nothing, but it fuels the dizzying feeling in his head.

" you.. you can help me" "hmm, thank you suguru"

he should be the thankful one, but responding is difficult when he's hung up on the words you speak and how your raspy sleepy tone wrap around each syllable. the sound sultry and incredible sexy.

you move over him, straddling his waist and pushing him down by the shoulders willing him to just "relax" your voice like a potent aphrodisiac to him right now. "theree you go."

climbing down his body until your face to face with the swollen bulge in his pants. you pull them down slightly, teasing the skin of his hips and lower abdomen with your nails, until a cute sound escapes him, only then do you pull them the rest of the way down, his cock finally springing out.

leaky and red, oh the poor thing. swollen beyond belief and neglected for too long, suguru is too pretty a man to have to take care of himself.

without another word or teasing touch, you take him in your mouth. just the tip, savouring the flavour of him on your tongue. slowly you make you way down further, slowly, taking more and more of him down your throat.

suguru fists at the sheets till his knuckles go white and he pants and he moans. doing his absolute best to keep his eyes open, to watch as you take him in your mouth like you've done it a hundred times before, he fits so well. his cute roommate, laying on their belly on their bed taking such good care of him in their mouth. ohh fuckk.

he's quite mostly before the pleasured moans and whines that rip through him, he'll give you some words of praise and encouragement but you hardly need them. doing so well to please him all on your own.

when he gets close however; profanities and praise and moans slip through his lips alike, and when you gaze up at him, your pretty eyes shining and twinkling while looking into his own, he can hardly handle it.

"mmmhmgh ~ fuhck, fuck. feels so good. please. your doing soo so good. so good for me."

you notice that he's kept his hands at his side, clawing and dusting at the sheets, oh how polite of him. you take on of his hands in yours intertwining your fingers, in the other you take his hands hand bring it up to your head, letting it rest there. a silent permission. you can touch me too.

it feels so close so intimate, pleasure only being amplified.

you pull off of him just before he spills in your mouth. you wanna watch when it happens. stroking him in your hand while the other holds his, kissing the back of it from time to time coating it in a mix of his pre and you salivas.

with a loud broken groan, his head thrown back with the sheer pleasure overtaking him and his larger hand gripping yours tight, he cums all over your hand and himself, strong body convulsing in pleasure.

suguru isn't a virgin. that wasn't his first blowjob, he can't remember it actually, but that? he will never forget. that felt like it may have been the first time getting his dick touched by someone else. the first time being really touched.

fuck.

he's still panting, breathing in shallow breathes in a failing attempt to calm himself. you crawl back up to him, looking much much more put together than he does. how?

smiling down softly at him, like he hung the stars or set the earth in orbit. really all he had done was get hard while sleeping and and cum embarrassingly quick from your mouth.

suguru looks at you with so much awe, his throat dry and face being flushed. you hand him the glass of water from your nightstand, not as cool as it was last night, but still it'll do wonders in refreshing him.

you clean him of himself carefully. he watches as he drinks the water and wills himself not to get hard again. don't be greedy suguru. don't be greedy.

you both have the whole day ahead of you, the warm rays of sun filleting in through your dark embroidered curtains , this is just so comfortable.

you rest your back against the headboard, just as he is, and finally he can smile back. so he does, with his lovely hair messy and sticking to his forehead, dazzling and kind and thinking of when he can pay back the favour.

he's a good roommate, and it would be incredibly rude for him not to take care of the cute one he has in return.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I'm slowly savoring the absolutely delicious dish that is Princess Stan fic and the "turned into gold" scene can't leave my imagination.

So sorry if it was asked before, but was it confusing for Dragon Ford? Because I'm imagining that for a first several moments he's even reassured because his little twin is feeling so right, so shiny, so precious. He smells right and he shines as he always should... And then as he realises what happened he's horrified because for some moments he was welcoming this turn?

What I'm hearing is you'd like a Ford Pov of the gold Stan scene :)

"Fine, but make it quick, I'm trying to gloat here." Bill said, making the rage and fire in Ford's chest burn brighter. How dare the demon claim to be his Stan's relation in any kind of way. His Stan was His, and their parents were only of dim importance to that fact.

His Stan stretched his mouth out, bringing a hand up to massage it while trying to look at the demon perched on his shoulder. Another reason to crush him into pieces, no creature like Bill should be able to touch his Stan.

"What do I get out of you sticking to me like a barnacle? You just gonna yap-" his Stan was cut off as the demon's arms came up and wrapped around his mouth, making Ford and his Stan growl.

When he got his claws on Bill, the demon would regret treating his brother so carelessly.

"You see, thats the kicker here," Bill sighed, sitting down on his Stan's shoulder like a common seat, completely disregarding the respect his Stan deserved, "the job description was kinda vague, but it boils down to 'making you happy' and 'granting withes' which, lame? Why should I waste my time making you happy? Your misery makes me happy enough."

His Stan's happiness was like the rarest pearls. Ford had been trying for weeks to get the barest of his Stan's smiles, and he treasured each one like diamonds. Bill's words were an insult to life itself.

Before he could start telling the demon that in detail, his Stan tapped the arms around his mouth, making Bill groan.

Good.

"Look, you're already so needy. What is it now."

"Why on earth would I want you to grant any of my wishes?" his Stan asked, looking annoyed as he eyed Bill, "You already said you were a demon king-"

"THE demon king, brat"

The urge to tear Bill limb from limb was almost impossible to control. His Stan? A brat? The moment he could he was going to rip the demon's tongue out for daring to call him something so awful.

His Stanly ignored it, continuing on like Bill hadn't insulted the best thing to walk the castle halls.

"-A demon king, why would i trust you to do anything?"

Exactly, Ford nodded, eyeing Bill and slowly moving the claw not holding his Stan closer, judging the space over his shoulder and how well he could pinch something so small.

"You'd obviously twist everything I wanted around, like when people say 'I wish for my weight in gold' then-"

Bill snapped his fingers, and before Ford could blink his Stan went silent. He was still leaning on Fords claws, still eyeing Bill, still looking distrustful. Everything was the same, except that he was now solid gold.

Ford felt his heart stop in his chest, the dread and panic hitting him so hard, he hardly registered Bill disappearing in a cloud of pink smoke.

My Stanley, he cooed, gently reaching out with his other claw to brush through his brother's hair. It clanged against it, leaving the smallest of scratches.

Gold was very soft after all, and Ford was very, very big.

MY STANLEY! Ford roared, claw twitching before he straightened it out, terrified to put the barest of pressure on his brothers too still form. Gold was so so soft, and Ford knew, deep in his heart, that his Stan was made of it from the tips of his hair down to his toes. Just like he knew where every object of his hoard was and what it was worth, he knew his Stan was right here, unmoving and worth more and less than he every had been.

Some darker, primal part in him trilled in delight at his brother's new from. Like this, his Stan looked just as precious on the outside as he was on the inside. Like this, his Stan couldn't try sneaking out, couldn't wander off or away. Like this, Ford wouldn't have to worry about food, or water, or keeping him warm. He'd stay right where Ford put him.

Forever.

Ford crushed that part of himself. He snarled as he ripped it to shreds and burned the pieces to a crisp. His Stan might be difficult, but he was precious because he was Fords brother. His twin brother, who was loud and funny and made Ford feel safe and loved. The best of friends, together wherever they went.

His Stan couldn't be any of those things like this. Not with how he was slowly cooling in Ford's claws, stiff and lifeless.

MY STANLEY! he roared again, leaning in as close as he dared while he inspected the golden statue in his claw. No heart beat in its chest, no air moved in its lungs. The light from above shone down and reflected off of the curves and folds of his brother's hair and clothes in a shimmering display as Ford turned him delicately in his claw.

How beautiful.

How horrifying.

He was going to shred Bill to pieces.

FIDDLEFORD! Ford roared, carefully standing on his hind legs and rushing towards the treasury doors, FIDDLEFORD!

Fiddleford could help, or Emma-May. They'd been studying curses this whole time, so his servants friends had to have some idea of what to do. Ford's thoughts scrambled and snarled at each other, only agreeing to hold his Stan cupped in his claws, so his poor brother couldn't be damaged any more than he already was.

They'd fix it, or work on fixing it. Something. Anything.

Otherwise he wasn't sure he'd be able to control what he did next.

[nicolewritesthings]

Lost Love

Summary: After moving to the same city, you and Steve quickly fall back into an easy friendship, but will it stay that way?

Can be read as a stand alone friends to lovers piece or as the final part of the Lost Love series. Either way, get ready for some serious situationship feels. 13k words (buckle up)

Steve Harrington x fem!reader, a lil smutty, a lil angsty, a lil fluffy

a/n: I had way too much fun writing this. Clearly this is one of my favorite tropes because I totally pull from some of my fave movies. I've had a great time writing this and an even greater time interacting with all of you!!! thank you all for reading my work. There will be more to come :)

June 1992 All the windows in Steve and Robin's apartment are wide open. Two metal fans worked overtime to flow in whatever cool breeze Chicago could offer this summer. You and Steve are glued to the television, watching the NBA Championship game - Chicago Bulls versus the Portland Trail Blazers.

You and Steve are very serious about the Bulls. It was something you bonded over in the early days of your friendship. Your dad was from Chicago, so you grew up a Bulls fan while Steve wanted to be a contrarian, and the Indiana Pacers sucked in the 80s, so he vowed his allegiance to the Bulls, and baby, being their fan was so sweet right now.

The jersey you gave Steve for his 19th birthday clung to his body, sticking to him due to the humidity in the air. You sat literally on the edge of the couch cushion, palms sweaty and pressing to your knees as the fourth quarter slowly came to a close with Bulls up. Steve stands beside you, hands on his hips and an empty beer bottle in the back pocket of his short shorts, tan thighs on display.

"They're going to three-peat," you say, eyes still glued to the screen.

Steve shushes you, "Don't jinx it."

You point to the screen as the time slips below a minute, "it's happening!"

With less than twenty seconds to go, the Bulls are only up by two points. You and Steve hold your breath as Michael Jordan steps up to the free-throw line. He sinks the first shot in. You bring a hand up to your mouth, the tension too much to handle. Steve puts his hands up to his head, stressed.

"He's doing it," you say, "it's happening-"

"Shhhh!" Steve waves you off, but you don't care. You're way too excited.

Jordan makes the second free throw and you jump up from your seat. Steve puts a nervous hand on your shoulder, eyes glued to the screen.

The Blazers take the ball down the court and they miss! The Bulls have the ball, they run out the clock, and they have it! They win the final game!

You and Steve jump up in excitement, cheering and hollering. He pulls you into a hug and you both jump around, holding onto each other tightly. You don't even notice as the front door opens and Robin walks in.

She slips off her shoes and looks over at the two of you freaking out over the win. Robin shakes her head, "you two are such freaks."

Steve breaks away from you and points at Robin, "We won!!!!!!"

You grab two beers, crack them open, and hand one to Steve who takes it happily. You toss one to Robin and she barely catches it. Steve crashes his bottle against yours and you both sip in celebration of this big win.

Safe to say that you're first week in Chicago is going great.

July 1992 The hot air is thick, making Steve’s dirty t-shirt stick to his body even more than it was during the pickup game. He says his goodbyes to the neighborhood guys as he exits the court, basketball tucked under his arm.

The sun sets as Steve makes his usual walk home. A small breeze blows past him, causing just the slightest bit of relief from the summer humidity.

He smiles, thinking about how great the summer has been so far. He's teaching summer classes in the morning to middle school kids and has the rest of the day to fill his time with whatever he wants. He mostly sees you or Robin, and Amanda.

Amanda, Amanda, Amanda. Things with her are going well, steady. She’s been back and forth between the city and her hometown now that she has the summer off. She hasn’t invited Steve home yet to meet her parents. She says it’s a big step in her family. Steve thought they were at that point, but she’s not as serious about him as he thinks. It should ring alarm bells in his head but he’s not completely bothered by it.

The relationship was still good, easy, nice. That’s what he should want, right? Easy like his parents. Not hard and sporadic like it was with you.

Steve enters his apartment building and jogs up the steps to his unit, feeling the air getter hotter as he rises. The phone starts to ring as he opens the front door. He rushes over to the kitchen and picks it up to hear your frantic voice on the other line.

"If you don't hear from me in three hours, it means I've gone missing and have most likely been murdered," you say. Steve quickly realizes you're being neurotic and not frantic at all.

He chuckles, "Okay, I don't even know where to start with this one."

"I'm going on a blind date," you explain. Steve pauses, unsure of what to think. Then he pauses some more, unsure of why he's pausing in the first place. You can date, that's normal, and he shouldn't feel some type of way about it. Does he feel some type of way? He clearly feels something toward the idea of you dating because he did pause and-

"Steve? You there?"

"Yeah, sorry," he crosses his arms, "what's his name? Just in case you do go missing."

You groan, "Brandon, that's all I know. We're meeting at Carmichael's, so come looking for me there."

Steve wants to laugh, imagining what you're doing on the other line right now. He pictures you all ready for your date, waiting by the door on your phone, nose scrunched up because you're nervous. He knows you're being serious because of all the crime books you read.

You were nervous for your first date in Chicago and truthfully, you just wanted to talk to Steve. He would make you feel better.

"Don't worry," he says smiling, "he won't be a total weirdo and murder you. He'll love you. Who wouldn't?"

You smile, nodding your head. You grab your bag from the hook, "thanks, really. Okay, I gotta go. I'll call you in like 3 or 4 hours."

"Woah, woah, woah," Steve jokes, "this Brendon guy is going to have you out past midnight? On the first date?"

You laugh, "First of all, it's Brandon and secondly, fuck off. Ok, byeeeeeeeeeeeee."

"Have fun, byyeeee-" he sings into the phone until it clicks. Steve sets down the phone, smiling a little too wide.

August 1992 "He said I was high maintenance, can you believe that?" You ask from the passenger seat. A bag of grapes sits on your lap. You pop one in your mouth, angrily chewing. Steve sits quietly in the driver's seat, biting his tongue and trying not to smirk. You notice, hitting him on the shoulder. He winces, "Ow!"

"Say I'm not high maintenance!"

"But you're a little high maintenance!"

Your jaw drops, dramatically showing your offense to his statement.

"There are two types of women," Steve explains, "low maintenance girls, and then there's you, high maintenance."

You look out the window at the flat Indiana fields. You two were driving home for the weekend before the kids went back to school.

"Like when it comes to food," he continues, "You don't like tomatoes or onions on your burger and want extra pickles. But, you want the tomatoes on the side, not the onions, because you like the option of tomatoes. You want whipped cream for your shake but on the side. You refuse to buy meat from any other place besides a local deli and even then you get it cut a specific way, you should really become a butcher at this point."

You shrug, "I like things a certain way."

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, "see. High maintenance. It's not a bad thing. I'm the same way about my hair."

He pops a grape into his mouth and you laugh, "Believe me, Farrah Fawcett, I know how particular you are about your hair."

September 1992 Lake Michigan is beautiful this time of year, you think as you and Steve walk along the lakefront. The great expanse of water on one side, the gorgeous city view on the other.

Steve tells you about his holiday plans or lack thereof. His girlfriend, who you swear you really like, is going home for Thanksgiving and didn't invite him. He wasn't so happy with that.

"It's not like she skipped over the conversation entirely," Steve huffs, "she outright told me I wasn't invited."

"Like in a rude way or just plain and simple," you ask, eyes trained on the horizon ahead of you.

"She said it was too soon. That, in her family, inviting a boyfriend to Thanksgiving doesn't happen without a ring on her finger."

You're careful with your words, not sure what to say. So you settle on, "That's intense."

Steve waves his hands in front of him as he speaks, "and I am so not ready for that. I mean, you don't think that was her way of telling me she wants me to propose?"

You want to jump into the frigid water at just the thought of Steve proposing to sweet, beautiful, smart Amanda. But you keep your cool, not letting him see that you feel physically nauseous at the idea of it. So you think about how a friend would answer because you two have become such good friends the last few months. But a question does gnaw at you, and it's honestly a question you'd ask any of your actual friends.

"Are you guys there yet? Like have you thought about getting engaged?"

And to your shameful pleasure, Steve doesn't even miss a beat when he says, "I haven't even thought about it."

You hide your smile, "then don't worry about it. She's just setting a boundary. Amanda doesn't seem like the type to play games like that."

He nods, slowly feeling better about the whole thing because of you.

"Guess I'll be spending Thanksgiving in Hawkins then," he says.

You nudge his side with yours, "there's always room for you at my place. I'm sure my parents would be more than happy to see you."

"You guys still make cornbread?"

"Oh, you know it."

Steve pumps his arm up in victory, "I'm so fucking there."

October 1992 The electronics store was lined with the newest television models, speakers, and VHS players. You gaze up at the wall of television sets, lost on which one you could possibly choose. The options were endless and all you wanted to do was watch your movies and All My Children.

Steve comes back with the store manager and points toward the TV they thought best. The manager picks up the box and moves it over to the checkout counter.

You turn to Steve, "Wait, I didn't even pick."

"Relax," he smiled his usual Harrington smile, "I got the very best for ya."

You narrow your eyes at him and he puts his hands up in surrender.

"Within your budget," he explains.

"Thank you," you mouth, brushing past him and toward the register to pay.

Steve settles in beside you as you write out a check. He picks up a tabloid magazine and holds it up to show you. "Okay, who'd you rather," Steve points to the front page of the magazine, "Keanu or Kevin Costner?"

You tilt your head, thinking long and hard about this. "Hmmm," you say,

"Keanu."

"No way you don't pick Costner. You made me watch Robin Hood like four times this summer," he exclaims.

The manager thanks you and pushes the TV toward you guys. Steve slides it off the counter not missing a beat.

"But I just rewatched Point Break, so I'm all about Keanu right now," you smirk, holding the door open for Steve. He repositions the heavy TV on his hip as you walk down the busy street.

He laughs, "I think you're missing the point of that movie."

"What? Like I'm not supposed to gawk over the hot men doing crazy stuff?"

"It's an action movie about sick stunts and cool dudes."

"A woman directed it, Steve. It's literally made for women to look at beautiful men."

"Even then, I'm more of a Swayze guy."

"I respect that. Okay, Demi Moore or Julia Roberts?"

"Easy. Demi Moore."

"That's just your nostalgia talking."

"I'm not saying Julia Roberts isn't gorgeous. But, yeah you're right, Demi is the forever crush."

"I feel like she'd go for you if you met in a bar or something."

"And have Bruce Willis beat my ass for looking at his wife? No, thank you. I've seen Die Hard and that guy's a beast."

"Ooooh, I change my answer to him."

Steve stops in his tracks, "Bruce Willis?! You're hot for Bruce Willis?!"

People glare at you two as they pass by on the sidewalk. You throw apologies their way while tugging Steve to keep moving.

"He looks great fighting all those bad guys!"

"But he's bald!"

"Not everyone can have beautiful luscious hair like you, Stevie."

"Well, no shit. But, really I don't get it. He looks so old too."

"Older guys know what they're doing."

"Okay, what the hell does that mean?"

"I just think Bruce Willis knows how to handle a woman, that's all."

"What? Like in bed?"

"Yes, in bed, Steve. Clearly, Demi Moore knows something we don't."

Steve follows as you climb the stairs up your apartment building. "You're saying you can look at a man and know if he's good at sex?" he asks.

"Well, I mean, not all the time. People can surprise you, but yes, you can get a vibe from a guy. You can tell if he's going to make you orgasm or not. Usually, it's a no."

That leaves Steve dumbstruck for a bit. He contemplates your sentiment as you let him into your apartment.

He sets the TV down and begins unwrapping it.

He huffs, "So how many guys have made you cum?"

You look up at him, pausing midway as you unzip your boot, "Steve."

"I'm asking as a concerned friend," he explains.

You slip off the boots and walk over to sit on the couch, "I don't know, like three maybe four."

"Maybe four? How can a guy maybe make that happen?" He's dead serious, like this is all science and totally not blurring the lines of friendship.

"Fine, a solid three guys have made me orgasm," you pause, looking up at him through your dark eyelashes. You shouldn't say the next part, but you do anyway, "including you."

Steve shouldn't like your response as much as he does, but the pride practically beams out of him. His ego physically grew as soon as you said that he's one of the few people to know you like that, to make you achieve something so intimate.

He smirks, turning back to the TV and moving some wires into place. You roll your eyes at him, "don't be gross."

"I'm not being gross," he turns, frowning, "actually I'm quite sad that these other men you've slept with haven't delivered in a way that you so deserve."

You shrug, "it's common for girls. I mean, most guys won't even go down on a girl."

"That's just crazy," Steve shakes his head, "that's half the fun."

You take a sip of your water as he continues talking about this totally inappropriate subject in the most clinical way.

"There are other ways to make your girl cum, like during the actual act of it. Guys are so dumb," he says.

"That's a total myth," you shake your head, "a female orgasm during penetration? Yeah right."

He turns to you in shock, "What? Are you serious?"

Heat creeps up your neck as a hint of embarrassment settles in. You nod shyly, "well it's never happened to me, so..."

Steve stands up, walking towards your seat on the couch. "No one's ever, you know," he lifts up two fingers, moving them together in small circles, "done the dirty DJ?"

He learned that one after you two were sleeping together because you have no clue what the fuck a dirty DJ is.

Steve sits beside you and grabs your glass, pouring out the water into his cup. He lifts the glass between you two, giving you a worried look as you stare back at him in utter confusion. "I'll show you," he says.

"So let's say you're with a guy and he's taking you from behind," he says casually. You laugh in disbelief, "romantic."

"This isn't romance, this is sex," he says in total seriousness, "and you're like back to chest, probably kneeling because that's easiest."

He moves the glass, sticking two fingers inside it, "That's his dick inside you if the description wasn't clear enough."

"Thank you for this visual," you deadpan, eyes locked on his movements.

Steve settles his two fingers on the glass now, toward the rim. He slowly moves them in circles, "now, there's a misconception to be gentle with the clitoris. But, you actually need to be rough with it." He picks his pace up, moving his fingers back in forth at an aggressive pace. Your breath hitches in your throat.

"Get a little rude with it. Really, get after it," he says, his movements coming to an end. He still holds the glass up, so you mimic his moves, circling the glass with your fingers like he did.

"Like that?"

"Yeah, like that," Steve smiles, "you're a natural."

"Hmmm," you keep circling your fingers, thinking about how on your next hook up you'll have to instruct the guy to do just this.

Steve watches as you move your fingers. "Perfect," he says, his mind slowing down as the moment settles over him.

You rhythmically move your fingers against the glass he's holding. A silence settles over the both of you as the tension builds up. You let your mind wander to Steve and his fingers, pumping into the glass. He starts to think of you and his fingers on you-

He sets the glass down abruptly, "I'm gonna go home."

You stand up, "Me too!"

Steve stands up, grabbing his coat, "No, no. You live here."

You sit back down and grab a pillow, "yes I do. Bye!"

He quickly leaves your apartment. You look over at the mostly set-up television and groan, sinking back into the couch.

November 1992 Steve sits beside Amanda on her couch. He stares ahead at the moving box tucked under the dining room table. How long has that been there for?

Amanda continues with her speech, "I'm sorry I didn't do this sooner, Steve."

He looks over at her. His tone comes out harsher than he intends, "Exactly how long have you been wanting to break up with me?"

"Steve," she says again, putting a hand on his knee. He stares back at her, urging her to answer his question.

"I swear I only found out about the position a couple of weeks ago, but," she sighs, "I guess I've been feeling distant from you for a little bit now."

"And you're just bringing this all up now?"

Amanda nods. Steve rubs his hands over his face, taking a moment to grasp the situation he's in.

"I don't understand," he says, "things were going fine."

"We've been dating for nearly a year and you haven't even told me you loved me yet," she says, hurt evident on her face.

"But we're not there yet, are we?" Steve asks, genuinely unsure.

She nods, "I was there. I've been there for a while now. Thought you would catch up."

Steve frowns, hating himself for being so oblivious to her feelings. How could he not know that she loved him? Is he that shallow to not even notice?

"Amanda, I'm so sorry," he starts but she cuts him off.

"It's okay, I honestly don't know if I would call it love, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't want just a nice relationship. I want someone who knows I'm the one from the moment they meet me. I want a love that's not easy, but all-consuming, something that drives you crazy," she admits.

Amanda looks up at Steve, "does that even make sense?"

He nods, completely understanding the type of love she's talking about. He only knows that love because he's had it. He has it - with you.

Later that night After leaving Amanda, Steve slowly meanders back to his place, taking the time to digest what just happened. His stomach aches with the pain only felt after getting broken up with like that. Told that you're not the one. Did he even think that she was the one? What does that even mean?

Steve has always had the same vision for his future - to be a family man, have a wife and a few kids. He knew the attributes he wanted in the future mother of his children. Someone maternal, kind, patient, caring. It was all very logical, a future that any nice girl could slip into. Amanda was a great contender, but she didn't want to just slip into Steve's fantasy. She wants an all-consuming once-in-a-lifetime sort of love, and frankly, Steve doesn't blame her. He just never thought that kind of love was for him. Well, not after he lost you.

He shakes his head, crossing the street. He squints, realizing the street he was on, that without even thinking, his subconscious had led him to you.

Steve presses the buzzer to your apartment over and over again. He looks up at your window and the light is on, but you're not responding to him. He knocks on the front door again, to catch your attention, but instead, your downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Shirley, opens her window.

"What the hell are you making all this noise for?" she yells at Steve. He jumps back, "sorry. You know my friend, she lives above you."

"Clearly she doesn't want to see you if she's not letting you up, kid," Mrs. Shirley says.

Steve shakes his head, jogging down the stairs and reaching into the street to grab some rocks. Mrs. Shirley watches on.

He throws the rocks at your window until it's opening. Your head pops out and eyes land on him, "Steve?"

"I've been ringing you for the past ten minutes!"

"The buzzer's broken!" you explain.

"Will you let this damn boy in?" Mrs. Shirley interjects, grumpily.

You peer down at her and smile, "Sorry Mrs. Shirley!" You drop your keys down to Steve, "Come on up!"

Steve rushes up the stairs, waving at your nosey neighbor as he lets himself into your building.

You immediately notice how disheveled Steve looks as he enters your apartment. His hair is a mess, dark circles are evident under his eyes, and even his outfit isn't put together as usual.

Unbeknownst to you, Steve is not only upset from the breakup. But, he's mostly riddled with confusion. Does he act on his constant attraction to you? That ten-year-long inexplicable pull toward you? Those feelings that never seem to leave him?

He fiddles with your keys for a moment then looks up at you, "Amanda broke up with me."

You eye him, your mind procuring a logical reaction of sadness for your friend while your heart thumps hard against your chest, pumping with the familiar feeling of - what if?

You decide to lean into your logical feelings and say, "Oh Steve. I'm sorry." You expect him to walk toward you and sulk into your arms, but he doesn't. Instead, he remains a healthy distance away from you.

"What happened?" you ask.

Steve looks away, feeling his breath catch in his throat, "She, uh, says I'm not the one. That she's looking for someone who makes her crazy and that she can't live without."

Then you see his chest rise up and down, eyes growing watery as his next words come out shakily, "I guess she can live without me, huh?"

You frown, reaching out to close the gap between you two. You grab his hand and pull Steve in, wrapping your arms around him. He lets himself fall into you, resting his chin on the side of your head, tears falling down his cheeks onto your hair.

He's not sure why he's crying. He didn't think it would affect him this much, but seeing you immediately broke him down, allowed him to let himself feel all the emotions.

You and Steve stayed like that for a while, holding each other in your entryway, something major solidifying in your relationship. For the first time, neither of you wanted anything more from this emotional exchange.

In the past, whenever something bad happened and you needed each other, that's when the intimacy would start, two scared people finding comfort in each other's beds. But this, comforting Steve now, didn't lead to anything more. You two hadn't even thought about it. Instead, you were there for him like a good friend would be.

December 1992 Christmas in Florida was a first for you, the sun warm enough in the daytime for you to dip in the pool with all your nieces and nephews. After a long day, you found yourself sunken into your sister's couch watching old romance movies.

It was just past eleven when your family turned in for the night, but you stayed up to watch Brief Encounter, a 1945 film about two strangers falling in love over time - despite their current circumstances. Whether it was subconscious or not, you called Steve, urging him to tune into that channel and watch it with you.

So you sat on the couch, a throw pillow wrapped up around you and phone held lazily to your ear as Steve joined you from his bed in Chicago, duvet tucked up to his chin as he watched the small television set at the foot of his bed.

"This is sad, like totally sad," Steve sighed into the phone.

"I think it's romantic," you refute.

"They're practically cheating on their spouses."

"Talking isn't cheating."

"These two want to do more than just talk."

"Fine, they may be emotionally cheating, but that doesn't mean they can't be together!"

"Here's what's going to happen," he states, "they'll break up their marriages thinking that their love is stronger, then they'll finally hook up and realize it's terrible and they're actually not meant to be together and-"

"Oh, shut up," you laugh, "you're jaded because of the breakup."

"Love isn't real and I'll die alone," Steve breathes out dramatically.

You smirk, "that's not true. You'll have me bothering you for an eternity."

"A man could be so lucky," he smiles softly as the movie goes on. The two of you cozily watch on either side of the country.

New Year's Eve 1993 The top floor of the Sears Tower is packed with partygoers dancing, drinking, and ready to ring in the new year. You and Steve stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed in your very best holiday attire, gazing out at the incredibly lit-up skyline.

Steve looks over at you as you lift your champagne flute to point at Lake Michigan. Your hair is up high in a slick ponytail, and diamond-crusted earrings dangle down your neck, leading his eyes down to your exposed collarbones. He steals a glance at your figure in this dress, the black satin hugging you in all the right ways.

"It's so fucking dark!" you exclaim at Steve, "like a huge mass of nothingness!"

He can't help but laugh at your usual crudeness breaking his trance. He shouldn't be looking at you like this anyway, Steve thinks, not with you two being such good friends.

Friends don't let themselves linger on bare shoulders and long legs.

Steve looks back out the window with you, "it's pretty scary if you think about it. Miles and miles of water, we can't even see the other side."

You shake your head, flabbergasted by the vastness of Lake Michigan.

Steve steals another glance at you, noticing the shimmer on your cheeks. He smiles and says gently, "You look beautiful."

You look up at Steve, letting his compliment sink in. His eyes bore into yours, really looking at you. Looking at you like no one else has before. You feel a pull towards him, that same magnetic pull you’ve felt your entire life basically, but it drags you in with more force during moments like these. You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t feel the pull toward Steve strengthen in the last few months. Before you can respond, Robin's voice hits your ears.

"This party is faaaaaaaaancy," she says with her mouth full of hors d'oeuvres.

You take a small step back, not realizing how close you and Steve had drifted together. Robin turns to you, holding up a full plate of snacks, "is your date like the prince of Chicago or something?"

You laugh, "No, well, not exactly."

Connor, the new guy you've been seeing comes from an aristocratic family that helped develop the city back in the day. They were part owners of the building you were standing in.

"Either way, thank him for me. This party is mint," Robin excitedly approves, downing her drink.

Steve successfully keeps his eye roll to himself. Sure, he knew you were dating someone, but did it have to be another rich prick with the ability to sweep you off on his private jet whenever he wanted to?

"It's almost midnight!" you exclaim, scanning the room, "I better go find Connor. I'll see you guys later!"

And you were off, floating through the crowd to find your billionaire boyfriend. Steve finally let that eye roll out. Robin noticed, shaking her head at his self-inflicted misery. He turns to her, "Please, I don't want to hear it tonight."

She shrugs, hiding her smile, "I didn't say anything."

Unlike other times, Robin drops the subject of Steve's feelings for you, knowing he's miserable enough tonight having to watch you with another guy.

And that's exactly how Steve spends his final hours of 1992. He stands off to the side as the crowd around him counts down to midnight. His eyes find you in the middle of the dance floor, a big smile on your lips as you count down too, wrapped up in Conor's arms. Cheers and confetti erupt around the room, but Steve can only watch you.

February 1993 You float around the large department store, sifting through business attire while Steve happily follows behind you like a puppy. You hold up a grey pencil skirt, "what about this one?"

Steve narrows his eyes, "is that a trick question?"

You shake your head, urging him to answer.

"It's the same one you picked out like five minutes ago," he says.

"This one has a slit. See," you point at the cut in the fabric. Steve feigns understanding, "Ah, yes! A slit! How could I miss that."

You groan, adding it to the selections already hanging from your arm. Steve grabs the clothes from you and holds them so you don't have to. You continue onto the next rack.

"When did we get to the point in our lives where we have more work clothes than fun clothes?" you huff out.

Steve chuckles, "Welcome to your mid-twenties, babe."

You suck in your bottom lip, trying to hide your small reaction to the new nickname. Steve's picked it up, recently calling you babe every so often. Babe, you've got something there, or see you soon babe. It was dizzying sometimes, but you loved it.

"I need more going-out clothes," you state, sifting through a rack of gorgeous dresses.

"Right, for your hot dates with Casanova Connor," Steve says, a definite bitterness in his tone, "I'm sure he'd buy you a whole new wardrobe if you'd ask."

"Actually," you give Steve a look, resting a hand on the rack. Steve stands beside you, head tilted. You sigh, "We broke up."

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but can't seem to find the words. You notice his temporary brain malfunction and try hard for it not to make you happy. But it does - just a little bit.

Finally, Steve finds his footing and asks, "What? When did this happen?" There's genuine concern behind his question. Although the happiness does some to be creeping in.

You shrug, "the other night."

"And you didn't call me? I could have gone over with snacks or-"

"It's okay. Really. I ended things with him," you pick up a dress and scan it over, "so I wasn't that torn up about it."

Now happiness has fully set in Steve and he does his best to hide it. "Oh," he says, a smug smile on his face, "well, good for you then."

"Thank you," you raise your eyebrows at him, wanting nothing more than to change this conversation. So you pick up another dress and ask for Steve's opinion, the two of you continuing to roam the store like two best friends.

But Steve couldn't be more excited to wade into a new territory with you. One where you're both single and closer than ever.

March 1993 The Spring recital at Steve's school is in full swing. He wanted you to hang out backstage to watch the show while he corralled the children, making sure everything ran smoothly.

You watch as Steve kneels in front of a little boy with glasses and a cello bigger than him, giving him a much-needed pep talk. Steve was great at this, you think, letting your mind wander to how good of a father he'd be.

Your eyes linger on Steve's arms fitted into his dress shirt, the sleeves cuffed up around his biceps. His reading glasses sit atop his perfectly fluffed hair. The dress pants tight around his cute little butt in this position.

Steve stands up, making his way toward you. He lets out a breath, "That kid is a ball of anxiety but honestly the best one in the show. The bastard's a little Mozart."

You reach out, your palm landing softly on his bicep, "you're doing great. The kids, the show, everything is amazing, Steve."

He smiles reveling in the compliment before another little voice calls out for him, "Mr. Harrington!!!" Steve gives you a look before dashing into the dressing room.

You smile to yourself, not noticing Tabitha, a nosy fifth grader, appear by your side. She looks up at you, "are you Mr. Harrington's girlfriend?"

You startle a bit, looking down to find Tabitha staring up at you. "Oh hi," you smile, "but no, I'm his friend."

"That's what they all say," the young girl says, rolling her eyes.

Your jaw drops a bit, "excuse me?"

She sighs like an older fed-up woman would, "My dad had a friend like you. Now I have to call her step-mommy."

And with that, Tabitha walks onto stage to start her piano piece, leaving you completely dumbfounded by the audacity of this little girl.

April 1993 For whatever hellish reason, a heatwave had hit Chicago in the middle of Spring. Luckily, the hottest day was a Saturday, meaning you and Steve were posted up on the sandy shore of Lake Michigan.

Steve wasn't being slick. You could feel his eyes on you a lot more these days, between stolen glances at your lips and a hot gaze from across the room. But today, you could sense him peeking over at you in your little red bikini all morning.

To be fair, you were leaving quite little to the imagination in an attempt to get as good of a tan as possible. Also, a part of you knew that wearing this tiny bikini would send Steve reeling. That, of course, was an even better reason to wear it.

You look up at Steve, catching his eye. He doesn't miss your cheeky smirk as you flip onto your stomach, landing just inches away from him. You scoot closer to let your legs lightly brush up against his, your hips bumping, all while you pretend to read from your book. Like your actions weren’t deliberately trying to evoke something out of Steve.

He couldn’t help but suck in a breath, your skin on his feeling hot and soft. Steve braced himself on his elbows, trying to look anywhere than your perfect ass, perky and on full view in that damn swimsuit.

“Steveeee,” you hummed, still not looking at him.

“Mhmm?”

“Can I have some of your soda?”

He nodded, reaching over to grab the corner store to-go cup. Steve held it toward you. But before he could set it down for you to take, you lifted your head and leaned in toward the cup, your pink lips enclosing around the straw. You looked up at him through dark eyelashes as you took a long sip, sucking on the plastic straw.

Steve held the eye contact, letting time and everything else melt away around you two. You could feel his breath on your face with how close he was.

With a small pop, you pulled your lips away from the straw and smiled at Steve, “Cherry cola.”

“Your favorite,” he says, not missing a beat.

The sun hits your skin perfectly, he thinks, the brightness softening your features. Without thinking, Steve reaches out and trails his knuckle down your arm. You don’t stop him. His touch feels like it has in the past - hot, addicting, it makes you hungry. But this time, and maybe it’s your own delusions, it doesn’t feel fleeting like it used to.

May 1993 Being the youngest of five came with its pros and cons. Getting to dress up in a pretty bridesmaid dress was definitely a pro. But now that your sister was tying the knot, you were the only unmarried one left, which meant a lot of speculation was hurled your way at said sister's wedding.

You knew it could be a bad idea to bring Steve as your date. But the thought of spending a whole weekend alone with your nosy family was downright agonizing, and, truthfully, you wanted him to be your date. Four days away in a quaint little Vermont town with good food, drinks, and your family. How could you not ask him to come with you?

Steve of course jumped at the idea, already making plans to find a tuxedo rental. Your friendship had shifted into that uncharted territory - both of you were single and completely enamored with each other. Constantly hanging out or on the phone, meeting each other after work or on campus to grab a drink, a coffee, lunch, dinner, to go see a movie, to sit on his couch and watch Seinfeld, to chat on your rooftop late into the night, to catch a ballgame, to meet your friends for dancing - the list goes on. You two were basically dating without any of the physical benefits.

And this wedding, well, it did something to both of you. Seeing Steve with your family, looking so good in that tux, basking in all his attention the entire weekend. Your heart practically leaped out of your chest whenever you'd look out into the church crowd and catch him already looking at you. He couldn't take his eyes off you the entire ceremony, letting his daydreams wander to the idea of you and him standing up there, exchanging vows.

He was the perfect date, to no surprise at all, and tonight was no different. The reception was in full swing. The wedding band plays another 80s hit while Steve spins back into his arms. You two have been dancing like fools the whole party, drunk off of champagne and the romance of the weekend.

The band begins to play a slow song and you immediately recognize the melody. Steve pulls you in close, one hand tucked into yours and the other easily clasped against your lower back.

"Of course, they're playing The Cure," he laughs lightly.

You think back to high school and all the times you snuck off to meet Steve in his car. The Cure's album playing as you two got cozy in the backseat.

You scoot in closer, your head falling against his shoulder, his chin grazing your forehead as you sway back and forth. Steve breathes you in, letting himself reveal his thoughts out loud.

"I couldn't listen to them for years," he admits. You stay quiet, a slight sadness creeps up.

He continues, "But then, a couple of years ago, a song from their old album came on the radio. You know, the one we loved, and I couldn't help but dance to it. Like it wasn't the sad thing anymore."

You nod, understanding him completely. For years your past relationship with Steve was clouded by the heartbreaking ending when it never should have been. You two shared a love so sweet, so rare - that's what should be remembered.

You look up at him and smirk, "Better to have love and lost, or however that saying goes."

Steve shakes his head, laughing with you. You settle back into him, head resting against his shoulder again. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as the song comes to a close.

Back at the hotel, which was rented out entirely for the wedding, most of the guests your age were excitedly running toward the pool, jumping in with their black-tie attire and champagne bottles.

Steve grabs your hand as you leap into the pool, only to come up for air and have his hand still in yours. The rest of the night consisted of drinking games, swimming races, and diving competitions - the general after-hours wedding debauchery. You were just happy to have Steve by your side the entire time.

As the night drew later and couples slowly peeled off, the pool calmed and the air grew quiet. You look around, realizing the pool is suddenly empty. Just you and Steve in your beautiful clothes floating in the water.

You kick your legs to keep you afloat, bringing a hand up to push your damp hair out of your eyes. Steve dips his head back into the water to wet his hair. He shakes it as he comes back up, running a hand through his wet locks. Your eyes linger on his movements a little longer than intended. He catches you, flashing a small smile - almost a smirk, but it's softer than that.

"I can't believe my sister's married," you bring up out of the blue, trying to shift the focus.

Steve subconsciously inches closer to you, pushing his hands in the water. He tilts his head, "how do you feel being the only single one left?"

Your head lowers. The water just comes to your chin as you speak, "I don't mind. I guess I want to be sure when I get married. Not like Vanessa." You mention your oldest sister now - she's already on her second marriage before 35.

Steve nods, again floating closer to you, "when did she get married? The first time."

"She was 21," you breathe out, blowing bubbles into the water, "married her high school sweetheart."

"Ah," Steve remembers now. He remembers how you threw your sister's failed marriage at him during one of your break-up fights. She was another reason why you insisted you two were doomed. High school relationships never work, you told him - look at my sister.

"At least she's happy now, ya know, with her new husband," Steve said, trying to reason with you.

You just shrug, "True, but she still had to go through that all so young. That's why I'm waiting. To really make sure."

"My parents met in their thirties," Steve starts, "and it's not like they're any more in love than they would have been if they met in high school."

You gaze at Steve as he speaks, taking in the vulnerability in his tone. He continues, "I don't even think they like each other. They just like the life they've built together. It's safe, comfortable, nice."

Steve pauses, looking at you, "A nice and easy life isn't always what's meant to be. So, maybe your sister had to go through some shit to find who she's actually meant to be with. And now she's happy."

You hold his gaze, really looking at him. His brown eyes peer into yours like they're searching for something. You look away, suddenly noticing how still and quiet the space is around you. The last of the partygoers have left, leaving just you and Steve in the pool. The cool water suddenly feels chilly.

Steve notices your shiver and brushes your arm, "let's get you warmed up."

You follow him out of the pool, happily taking his outstretched hand as you step onto the deck. He grabs a thick towel, placing it around you, rubbing it along your arms to create some warmth. You smile, pulling the towel around yourself. Steve grabs another towel and shakes his hair out like a wet dog, sending water droplets your way.

You shriek, "Steeeeeveeee!" You gently shove him away.

He nuzzles his wet head of hair into your towel-covered shoulder, pulling more giggles out of you. Steve pulls back and rubs the towel against his hair again, this time straightening up. You take in his damp state, his white dress shirt sticking to his skin, practically sheer. You of course notice the chest hair peaking out of the shirt.

Steve bumps your elbow with his, "C'mon. I need to get out of these clothes."

You nod - you couldn't agree more.

In your shared hotel room, you wait in the bathroom. Your robe tugged snuggly against your body. Steve was watching some reruns on TV, you could hear his tired laugh from the other side of the door.

Whether it was on purpose or not - you had left your pajamas in the main room and had to go out to retrieve them while wearing just your robe. Now, this would have been a normal interaction if you and Steve were ever only just friends. But for some reason, you were nervous to pass him with basically no clothes on. You weren't sure you could trust yourself.

So you opened the bathroom door, tugging the belt around your robe a little tighter. You spotted Steve sitting on the edge of the bed in front of the TV. His eyes drifted to you as he heard the door open. You smile, eyeing your suitcase on the other side of the room.

Steve shamelessly looked you up and down, gaze drifting up your bare legs, noting how short that robe was on you. He didn't take his eyes off you as you passed him to get to your suitcase, his mind racing. He took a deep breath, now was not the time to think.

Maybe it was the several drinks in his system or maybe it was being at a wedding with you. Whatever it was, Steve couldn't resist but reach out to you as you walked past him again. His fingers grazed your soft thighs, sinking into you.

You flushed, thankful for the dim light in the room, frozen as Steve latched onto your leg. You turn to stand in front of him, his face looking up at you with such a wild look in his eyes. Nerves flood your system, the good kind.

He carefully brushes his knuckles against your thigh before bringing a hand around it, tugging you toward him. Steve keeps his hand on the back of your leg as he says your name, the sweet sound filling your ears. You practically have him on his knees, he thought. You could do anything, say anything, and he was yours. You wondered if he knew that he had the same effect on you.

Steve lifts his other hand to tug on the hem of your robe, confirming your suspicions. You look down at him, taking in his too-small Hawkins gym shirt and boxers. God, he smells good too. Truthfully, nothing else went through your mind at this moment. Just the sight of him and the desire to feel him on you was all that drove your decision-making.

You lift your hands to the linen belt around your waist, tugging the knot undone, working painfully slow with your fingers. Steve hung onto every movement, his breath halting as you carefully let the belt hang to the side, letting your robe hang open just a bit. You grab Steve's hand, his eyes never leaving yours, as you guide his touch toward your stomach, urging him to push open the robe himself.

Steve slowly pushes the fabric away, opening up the robe to reveal your bare body. You wanted him so badly to pull you on top of him then, but he didn't. Instead, Steve wanted to take this moment in. Slowly, painfully.

The rough pads of his fingers graze over your soft skin. Were you always this soft?

He inches up your belly to your chest, lightly tracing over the curve of your breasts. His other hand leaves your thigh and gently reaches at your hip, taking in the new curve there too. He hates himself for missing these changes. Your body suddenly different than he remembered. But you were still so damn soft.

Your whole body was on fire as Steve drank you all in. His eyes gazing over all of you, bare and ready for him. No one's ever done this to you, not even Steve back in the day. Tonight, he wanted to take his time.

His fingers trail down your hip to touch your inner thigh. You suck in a breath as he leans forward, pressing a kiss just centimeters below your belly button. Steve's fingers dance along your leg, getting higher and higher. You grasp his shoulders, bracing yourself.

"So soft," he says between kisses, "you were always so fucking soft."

Oh fuck, you're a goner.

You step towards him, gripping his face in between your hands. You try to lower yourself onto his lap but he grips your thigh, keeping you in place before him.

He laughs softly, "What's the rush?"

"Steve," you breathe out, giving him a look.

"I've waited nearly a decade for this. Let me take my time," he says confidently. You can't help but give in, releasing your grip from his hair and letting him have his way with you.

Because Steve was right - it had been a long time since either of you had felt this way. Sex was sex, but this, whatever this was with Steve was always different. No matter how much you lied to yourselves, no one ever measured up. Not in life and definitely not in bed.

June 1993 "Fuck, oh my god," you breathe out against Steve's sheets, your cheek pressed into the mattress as he kneels behind you.

Steve's hands grip your hips firmly as he fucks you from behind, your ass slapping against him, skin crashing against skin. He groans, driving deeper into you.

This is what the last three weeks have been like for you and Steve. Dirty, filthy, adult sex that you logistically couldn't have in high school. Or, rather, didn't know how to have yet. Suddenly, you're both grateful for the time apart because now you're adults who actually know what they're doing. Not that King Steve wasn't great in bed, but this Steve - this was a 20-something man who has honed in his naturally intuitive craft of pleasing a woman. And you were loving every second of it.

Steve grabs your throat, pulling you up flush against him. The June air was hotter than usual in his bedroom. Your skin sticky against his as you press your back into his chest. He brings his fingers in between your legs, finding your clit. Definitely not afraid to be rough with his movements.

You let your head rest back on his shoulder, your body bubbling with pleasure, ready to pop at any second. Steve's pace grows faster, sloppier, as you whimper in his ear. Your breaths are soft, your lips perfect and plump, whimpering his name.

"Yes, fuck," you say, your voice loud, "Steve!"

Both of your movements are rough and sloppy as you finish, Steve not far behind you. He bites into your neck as his body shudders against yours, spilling inside you. You let yourself go limp against him, eyes closed and tired from the events of this Saturday morning in bed.

Steve grips your neck again, softer this time. Steadying himself to kiss along the column of your throat to your shoulder. You hum at his sweet touch, the feeling of his lips on your body never getting old.

You look at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It's nearly three in the afternoon. You laugh softly, "maybe we should get up."

"Give me a minute," he kisses the nape of your neck, "I'll be ready for another round."

You shake your head, "that would be like the fourth time today!" You pull apart from him, flipping over to sit on the mattress. Steve winces at the loss of contact. He sits back, grabbing absentmindedly at your ankle. He smirks, "I'm down to go all night too. If you are."

"Easy, Harrington. I need to eat."

"Fuel up. Good idea!"

You smile, laying back and pulling the sheets over you as Steve stands up, fumbling around the room for his clothes. He looks back at you and points, "Don't move, baby."

Steve quickly leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. He makes his way into the kitchen to find Robin sitting at the table with her headphones on. She looks up, glaring at Steve. His eyes widen, "have you been here the whole time?"

She slips off her large headphones and Steve can hear the music blasting loudly from them. "I walked in on, Stevie baby please!" Robin mimics you, overdramatizing your sultry voice. Steve cringes as she continues, "But I put music on when you started going off."

She drops her voice an octave to copy Steve now, "fuck, you're so good. This is so-"

"Nope!" Steve waves his hands, "Let's stop this, please!"

Robin bangs her head against the wall behind her, groaning, "While I'm happy you two have reconnected, please for the love of god fuck somewhere else. She lives alone!"

"I thought you were gone all morning!"

"It's literally three in the afternoon!"

You listen to Robin and Steve bicker, smiling to yourself from your comfy spot in Steve's bed.

July 1993 Light jazz plays from a record player in the perfectly decorated living room of your professor, Dr. Cano's, house. Over your first year of law school, she's taken quite an interest in you, and tonight you were her only current student to get an invite to one of her dinner parties - famous for solidifying her mentorship.

The nerves alone could have killed you, but luckily, she told you to bring a date. So, you brought Steve, your...best friend that you've been fucking incessantly for the past two months and have been in love with for maybe forever. You two were comfortable, confident in each other, letting yourselves actually date. You weren't afraid of where this could go with Steve, you were letting your feelings for him take the wheel and it felt great. Nothing was in the way of your love for once.

You watch from the other side of the room as Steve charmed two city big wigs. The older men laughed with Steve, clinking their scotch glasses against his.

Dr. Cano nudges your side with her elbow, "Thank you for coming tonight. Everyone loves you."

You raise your wine glass to meet hers and slip out a polite 'thank you' before taking a sip. You smile, "I was a bit nervous at first, but everyone is so welcoming, they made it easy."

"I try to surround myself with people who, don't get me wrong, are still very pretentious," she laughs, "but actually want to make a difference, and the only way to do that is to bring in new blood. Like you."

You nod, understanding her investment in you. It feels good, knowing that your life is moving in all the right directions.

Dr. Cano points her glass at Steve, "And your boy is such a hit. Talking to Daniel about the Cubs and then immediately diving into public school reform was really the cherry on top for me."

"He doesn't even realize he's talking to the next senator of Illinois," you laugh.

She shakes her head, "No, but that's what makes him so great. He's down to earth but smart. Honestly could have a good career in local politics."

"Don't put ideas into his brain, Professor. You'll have him dreaming of being the president," you smile wide, peering over at Steve. He looks up, meeting your eyes. He gives you a small wave before the other men reel him back into the conversation again.

You can't help but admire him tonight. Steve looks great wearing his dress pants and dark green sweater. His hair was styled back neatly, his face freshly shaved. He insisted on wearing his reading glasses to 'look smarter' but you told him he would probably be the smartest person in the room, teaching a new generation of lawyers and politicians.

Steve and you walk beside each other on the mostly empty sidewalk, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders. You tuck in close to his side, the light material of your long black dress lets in a cool breeze.

He presses a soft kiss to your head as you wait for the cars to pass before crossing the street. “Mmm you smell good,” Steve mumbles into your hair.

He breaks away for a moment, grabbing your hand to lead you across the street. Your heels click against the pavement as you scurry onto the sidewalk again, Steve’s hand strong in yours.

It’s all so normal. Like this is how it always should have been between you two. Sometimes you let yourself fall into that trap, into a pool of regret and guilt. If you had only pushed your fears aside and asked Steve to move to New York with you. But you can’t blame your 18-year-old self, and things happen for a reason.

And sometimes when you remember how much time you wasted not being with Steve, you hold him a little closer, kiss him a little harder, love him a little more.

August 1993 Something’s in the air. Maybe it’s the full moon or the humidity that had Steve feeling off all day. You two were going to his coworker’s birthday party on some chic rooftop downtown.

Adding to his already anxious state, you were late to meet him outside the hotel. He shouldn’t have been mad but he was. Unreasonably so.

“Hey,” you huff, jogging up to him, “sorry, my train was late.”

You lean up, giving him a quick peck. It’s a quick kiss - a hello, casual, like a couple would do.

Steve looks down at your empty hands, “where’s the gift?”

You pause before letting out a breathy groan, picturing the gift box you insisted on wrapping for Steve sitting atop your kitchen table.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Steve was already feeling like shit after a particularly rough day of teaching summer school. He also recounts the shitty interaction he had with the barista this morning.

Instead of regulating his emotions, he decided to be a total grump and take it out on you.

Steve rolls his eyes and you let out a soft laugh at him, thinking he’s feigning dramatics. But he’s not, and your laugh just pissed him off more.

“You seriously forgot it?” he asks as you walk into the elevator, and you notice his irritated tone.

You shrug, “it’s fine. You can give it to her when school starts.”

“That’s in like two weeks,” he rebuttals.

“I’m sure she’ll need a new Dutch oven then too,” you say, the sarcasm hitting Steve’s ear sharply.

“You’re not even sorry?”

You scoff, “for what? Forgetting the gift? Really?”

“Yes forgetting the gift. It’s a birthday party and we’re showing up empty-handed and late,” he says quickly, “that’s so fucking rude.”

“Geez, Steve, what’s your deal?”

“I just didn’t think you were so inconsiderate,” he huffs as the elevator door opens. Music hits your ears as you step out onto the rooftop bar.

“Fine, I’m sorry for forgetting the gift and for being late,” you grumble, following Steve toward his group of friends. You tug his arm, holding him back just before you reach the group.

His eyes meet yours as you say, “Are you okay?”

Instead of shrugging it off and letting you in, explaining he’s had a shit day, Steve brushes you off with his casual sarcasm, “never been better.”

You scrunch your eyebrows together, but he’s walking up to his friends before you can speak. You push your anger to the side and greet the group, falling into easy step with them all.

You and Steve have practically avoided each other the whole night, the tension between you two at an all-time high, and for what? Because you forgot a birthday gift?

You look at your watch, realizing it’s almost midnight, and reach for Steve. You both had an early morning tomorrow and agreed to leave early. You grab onto his arm, leaning close in a low voice, “We should go. It’s late.”

He turns away from the conversation he’s having and barely looks over at you as he speaks, “Yeah, I’ll meet you down there in a sec.”

You hesitate, never in your life have you felt so dismissed. What the fuck has gotten into him?

So you purse your lips and give him a tight nod, turning to leave without saying goodbye to anyone. Steve of course notices your attitude, letting you walk away.

A whole fifteen minutes goes by before Steve finally meets you on the street. Your arms were crossed at your stomach as you rocked back and forth on your heels. You notice his mop of hair exit the revolving door and you try so hard not to snap at him then and there. Instead, you look away, chin high and jaw clenched.

He can practically see the steam fuming from you. He feels bad for his attitude. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry at you, he just was.

“I’ve been waiting a while,” you murmur, not looking at him.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t ready to go yet,” Steve says, that insufferable arrogance popping out.

You whip your head at him, glaring now, “What the fuck is up with you tonight?”

He stares back at you, asking himself that question. Maybe it’s self-sabotage or maybe it’s what he truly thinks, but Steve can’t help but fixate on all the little things you’ve done “wrong” in your relationship. You were forgetful sometimes, crass and blunt, too ambitious, and narrow-minded at times. But what really got to Steve wasn’t these tiny things, and a part of him knew that, it was that familiar feeling of fear that crept up on him all of a sudden. Things were going too well for you two, and he was afraid to settle in.

You blink back at him, unable to read his tense expression. Your eyes soften, “if this is about the gift, I’m sorry. Okay, really-"

“It’s not about the stupid gift,” he finally says.

“Then what’s it about?”

Steve shrugs, avoiding your gaze, “Nothing. It’s fine.” He starts to turn to walk down the sidewalk but you step after him, swatting his arm with your purse. He winces.

“Stop and talk to me,” you state firmly.

Steve looks at you hesitatingly, “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been thinking about us. What we are.”

“We’re dating, Steve. It’s not that crazy.”

“But it’s not weird to you? That we’re now this normal couple?”

“No,” you cross your arms, “it feels pretty organic to me.”

He puts his hands on his hips, “even after everything we’ve been through?”

You look away dismissively, “is that what this is about? You’re still hung up on the past?”

“How could I not be?” Steve’s voice a higher pitch now, “You broke my fucking heart.”

“We were nineteen Steve!” You yell, exasperated, “We are different people now, and what we’ve had in the last year should show you that.”

“But how can you be so sure we’ve changed? That we won’t fuck it up again?”

You shake your head, “I’m not sure. But that’s okay. That’s what being in a relationship is. You have to rely on how you feel and I-“

You pause, a small smile creeps onto your face as you say, “And I love you. I know that I love you, so I don’t worry about anything else.”

Steve gazes down at you, pain evident on his face. The crease in his forehead deepens as he shakes his head, “I’m scared.”

Your eyes soften at his vulnerability finally peeking through. You want to reach out to him but you don’t. Instead, he continues, “I’m scared to get hurt again. I’m scared you’ll leave me and I’ll lose you. I can’t do that again. You’re my best friend.”

You suck in a breath, letting his words sink in. Hurt colors your face as you speak, “I can’t just be your friend, Steve.”

He stares back at you, the silence lingers as dread floods through your body, unsure of what the boy in front of you is thinking.

“I don’t know, I just can’t do this,” Steve finally says, the words hitting you like a dagger.

You step forward, “Don’t do this.” You grab his hands, “you’re scared, I get that. But we can do this together.”

He pulls away, avoiding your eyes. You feel a cold rush through you as you’ve lost total control of the situation.

“What can I do? Please just tell me,” you plead, not caring that you’re begging at this point. Something you swore you’d never do for a man. But this isn’t just any guy, this is Steve. Your Steve.

“Stop, please-“

“You love me right?”

“Of course I love you!” Steve shouts, his chest tightening.

“Isn’t that enough?”

Silence settles over you again, and this time you understand. There’s nothing you can say to change Steve’s mind. Maybe he made this decision way before you reconnected. Maybe he knew from the first time he kissed you that you were never the girl he would end up with.

You look away, eyes watering. A car alarm goes off a few streets over, chatter from down the block, an ambulance blares, the sounds of the city come back into your senses.

You look back up at Steve, his lips pouty and eyes red. “this isn’t me leaving,” you say, your voice small, defeated, “this is you pushing me away.”

Steve looks down at the ground unable to watch you walk away. So you turn, walking down the sidewalk with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets. You almost think he’s going to run after you, calling out your name, and admit how stupid he is and that he didn’t mean any of it. But Steve doesn’t move, he just lets you walk away again, the same way he did all those years before.

September 1993 Things were tough, to say the least, and Robin was caught right in the middle of it. For the past two weeks, she’s watched both of her friends quickly descend onto their own paths of madness.

You poured yourself into your second year of law school, arguably the hardest one of them all. You hardly ever left campus, holed up in the library until late into the night, unable to sleep.

Meanwhile, Steve was doing just as bad. He barely ate, his hair was unkempt, he was irritable, and not the same cool teacher the students remember him to be. He was drinking more too, a lot more. It helped him forget you because that’s what he thought was best. Like forgetting you would save him from any further pain.

It got particularly bad when one night, a Tuesday mind you, he got so drunk he picked a fight with some random guy. Luckily Robin was there, and sober, to stop it. The guy was some rich asshole from out of town - preppy, loud, and obnoxious. Then his buddies called out his name - Peter.

Now it wasn’t your ex-boyfriend Peter in the bar that night. But, Steve, being drunk and never having met the guy, thought that this douchebag was in fact your Peter. So he sauntered up to the guy and punched him square in the nose, which earned Steve a fist to the jaw, knocking him back into the bar so fast he didn’t know what hit him. Robin and the bartender jumped in before the guy and his friends could beat the shit out of Steve. Yet, he still woke up the next day with several bruises and a nasty hangover.

Robin held an intervention as soon as he came back from school the next afternoon.

“This has gone too far, dude,” she says seriously, sitting at the kitchen table across from him.

Steve leans back in his chair, a pack of frozen peas held to his purpling jaw. Robin leans forward, her hands folded together on the table.

"You need to talk to her," she says.

"I can't," he mutters.

"And why the fuck not?"

"Because this is the right thing. This way no one gets hurt."

Robin looks at him like he's the biggest dumbass in the world, and right now he may very well be. "How do you feel right now, huh? Are you not in both emotional distress, but also literally in physical pain over her?" she asks.

Steve looks over at Robin, knowing she's right. He's created this giant excuse, an unexplainable reason to break things off with you. But no matter how much he tries to justify his actions, he knows he's wrong. He knows he's just scared and that's not enough of a reason to push you away.

"If she and I really do this. If we become an actual committed couple, how do I know she won't just leave again?"

"You don't," Robin says, "none of us ever know if the person we love won't just magically get up one day and decide we're not the one."

Steve definitely doesn't want to hear this.

She continues, "But also a million other things could happen too. Like a piano falling from the sky and BOOM - she's dead."

"Robin-"

"Look," she says, "I may not know the future. But I do know that she loves you, Steve. She's been head over heels for you since we were kids. And yeah, you two grew apart, whatever. But I saw the way she looked at you that Christmas at the Wheelers. That poor girl was ready to sit back and wait for you to be single again. And didn't she?"

Robin leans back, eyes narrowing at Steve, "Don't keep her waiting any longer or you might just lose her for good."

Steve weighs Robin's advice and then your words come to mind, begging him to stay with you - telling him you loved him. This was what he wanted all those years ago and he was too blinded by fear to see it. Even when you were right in front of him.

He lowers the frozen peas onto the table and sighs, "I'm such an idiot. A goddamn fucking moron."

Robin smirks and Steve continues, "She hates me now."

"No she doesn't."

"But she thinks I do."

"Hmm. Can't have that."

Steve stands up quickly, knocking the chair back into the wall. Robin winces at the crash.

"I need to talk to her," he says, "like now."

Steve crosses the room to grab his shoes, slipping them on as he organizes his plan, "it's Wednesday. She has study group on Wednesday nights."

He locks eyes with Robin and smiles, "I'm really doing this."

She gives him a reassuring nod. Steve takes a deep breath, rips open the front door, and rushes into the hallway.

"Good luuuuck!" Robin yells out after him as he dashes down the stairs and onto the street.

Steve looks at his watch and groans, the trains run further apart on weekday nights. The next one won't be for another 45 minutes. A taxi pulls onto the street. Steve tries to hail it down, but it drives by. He throws his hands up, annoyed. He weighs his only option to get to your campus. Good thing he wore his sneakers.

The library should be mostly empty at a time like this, but some students linger at the tables, peering into their books and swapping notecards with friends.

You had stepped away from your study group a few minutes ago to grab a law deposition needed for the next class. You roamed the law stacks, your mind elsewhere. The last two weeks have been long, monotonous, and heavy. Your mind is in a constant battle between your pride and reaching out to Steve. Ultimately, pride won every time.

He rejected you outright. Sure, his reasoning was completely flawed, but he still let you walk away again. Maybe you two would never get it right. Timing, feelings, the past - maybe it was all too much to get over. Yet you were so hopeful this time. You really felt like this was it. If Steve would have asked you to be his forever, you would have said yes.

But he didn’t and now you were walking like a heartbroken zombie in the Northwestern library.

Steve runs down the street, weaving past people and cars. A taxi cab honks at him for dashing out in front of it. His hand slams on the hood as he runs by.

He runs onto campus, long legs stretching across the grassy quad to the library. He knows exactly where to go, remembering the nights he helped you study or the time he felt you up in between the bookshelves, hands sneaking under your skirt.

Steve skids around a corner, catching sight of you descending the library steps. You say your goodbyes to your classmates, your cute schoolbag hangs on your back. Steve's heart skips a beat as you turn toward his direction. He breaks into another run to you.

Then he's in front of you, standing a few feet away. His breath ragged and his forehead shiny.

"Hi," Steve says, panting.

"Hi," you let out, confused and slightly entertained by the way Steve braces his hands on his knees, hanging his head to catch his breath. You try not to smile, "did you run here?"

"Mhmm," he mumbles painfully, nodding his head and taking a deep breath.

"That's like 15 blocks," you say in disbelief.

He rises now, standing up straight, back to being taller than you. Steve nods, "it is."

You shake your head, feeling hurt more than anything, "why are you here Steve?"

"I fucked up," he says, plain and true, "I thought being friends would be easier, that neither of us would get hurt. But you were right. We can't just be friends. We never were."

You take a measured breath, trying to calm your rising heartbeat.

Steve continues, "I've been in love with you my entire life. I tried to push you out of my mind, believe me, I spent years trying. When things didn't work out with other girls, I blamed it on the usual things. But I always knew the real reason it never worked out. They weren't you."

Steve can't look away from you as he speaks, "I made the second biggest mistake of my life letting you walk away from me two weeks ago. My biggest was when we were teenagers and I let you walk away the first time. I don't plan on letting you do that ever again.”

He steps closer to you, "I plan on loving you forever. If you'll let me."

You stare back at him, mouth suddenly dry and pulse racing. You shake your head, tears filling your eyes, "of course you would do this."

His face falters as you take a step toward him. "Of course, you would run across the city to say something so, so - perfect."

Steve's eyes widen, hope flooding back into him. His breathing calms with every step you take towards him.

You're overwhelmed with emotion. Eyes watery, cheeks red. You want to be mad at him for breaking your heart and making you hate him oh so much the last two weeks. But, you can't. Not when he's standing in front of you pouring his heart out like he is. His lips pink and pouty, big brown eyes staring expectedly into yours.

Steve catches your eyes as they flicker down to his lips and back up to meet his gaze. A small smile creeps onto his face.

"You make it so hard not to love you," you say.

He steps forward, slowly ending the distance between you. Your pulse quickens.

You nod, "but I do love you, Steve. I really, really do."

He grabs your hip with one hand, the other gently cups the back of your head, pulling your body into his. Steve lowers down, your noses touch and his lips hover lightly above yours. He closes his eyes, pausing for just a moment, before closing the gap and pressing down to kiss you - hard and with purpose, like it's the last thing he'll ever do.

But you both know this won't be your last kiss. It's far from it. You'll have thousands of more kisses in your lifetime with Steve, and this one. This one feels like it's just the beginning.

--------------

a/n: I love the friends to lovers to exes to friends again to lovers trope so much. it's so messy and emotional, I hope that translated through with this!

tags: @httpazxnth@wwylmlive@xaimary@dogstarbytes@micheledawn1975@ortega29@djodirt@ahead-fullofdreams @andvys

[lalalychee-x]

"College boy." Rodrick Heffley x male!reader

THIS IS AN ABSOLUTELY GOATED request from 🌾🍞 anon!! I'M SORRY, ITS LATE!! Hope you enjoy though and feel free to give feedback!! Mwaaaaa asks always open guys, I love them!

cw: period-typical attitudes to being gay (not homophobia though), male/amab reader, older/college reader (21), kinda-rough making out, Rodrick in last year of highschool, so he's 18.

★ You are forced to come back home, stay at least a week during college break with your family. And you knew your sister had all the guys after her, but maybe leading on a guy who definitely was a joke to her was a bit much. You're just trying to help him out. You think so, anyway...

If you’d told Rodrick Heffley that he was gonna end up in the kitchen of a house that probably cost more than he’d make in his entire life — with another guy’s tongue in his mouth, no less — he’d have laughed in your face.

Not that he had a problem with gay people or anything. He was cool. Chill. Open-minded, in a way only someone who’d spent most of his life in a suburban basement with an eyeliner pencil and a drum kit could be. But him? Making out with some rich guy? Yeah, no way. Wasn’t gonna happen.

Except it was happening. Kinda. He just didn’t know it yet.

It all started when he got Heather’s number when he’d flirted with her outside the bowling alley, giggling behind their hands as they gave him the digits and told him to "swing by sometime." And he had. Of course he had. He was Rodrick Fucking Heffley. Girls loved him. Right?

So now here he was — standing on the porch of a massive house tucked into a dead-end road he didn’t even know existed until tonight. There was no answer when he rang the bell. No party. No Heather. Just silence, a pretty porch light, and a feeling that maybe, maybe, he was getting punk’d.

He was just about to leave — muttering under his breath about rich girls and their mean-girl cliques — when he heard that sleek convertible purr down the street.

You pulled up like you owned the whole goddamn block, engine shutting off with a smug little hum. You stepped out slow — lazy, bored — dressed in a leather jacket and black jeans that fit too well, rings on your fingers, hair still pushed back from your day, face unreadable.

Rodrick blinked.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there on the sidewalk, one brow raised, keys jingling in your palm as you looked him over with the kind of stare that made his flannel and band tee feel suddenly...lame.

There was a second where you just stared at each other. He looked a bit like a washed up rat, sad, pouty and definitely trying to hide it. Then the guy let out a small scoff.

“You lost or something?”

Rodrick swallowed. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then shrugged, trying to sound like he totally had his shit together.

“I’m here to see Heather.”

The guy’s brows lifted slightly more. It was you, and you're honestly not going to let... what seemed to be a creep, stand outside and look for your sister. “Heather’s not home.”

“Right, yeah.” Rodrick scratched the back of his neck, voice dipping into that awkward fake-confident tone he always used when he felt like he was two seconds from being told to scram. “She invited me.”

A pause.

You gave him a look — something unreadable, amused maybe, maybe not — before stepping forward and sliding your keys into your back pocket.

“You’re Rodrick, huh.”

It wasn’t a question.

Rodrick stiffened. “…Yeah?”

You sighed like this was the most exhausting development in his week, then jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’m not lettin’ you stand there like a creep all night.”

“What?”

You tipped your head, deadpan. “You’re just standing there. Staring at the door. Like a creep.”

“I’m not a creep, okay?” Rodrick shot back, bristling. “I’m here to see Heather.”

You gave a sharp little laugh under your breath — cold and amused.

“Right. Heather.”

Rodrick squinted, arms up in almost defence. “Wait. Who the fuck are you?”

You looked him dead in the eyes. "Her brother."

Rodrick's mouth opened. Closed. “…No the hell you're not.”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ am, hate this damn house so I barely come back from college,” you said, stepping past him like you lived there — because, well, you did. “And yeah, Heather’s a bitch. But you? You look like a fuckin’ Craigslist serial killer standing on my porch.”

Rodrick bristled again, like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Dude. I’m just—”

“I know who you are, Rodrick,” you cut in, unlocking the front door. “She told me. Didn't expect you to be real, honestly.”

You pushed the door open and stared at him for a second too long. There was something sharp in your eyes. Not hostile. Just…assessing.

He wasn’t her type. Not even close. But something about the slouch, the messy eyeliner, the smug little grin trying to mask the awkward twitch at the corner of his mouth — it kinda was your type. Not that you were gonna admit that out loud.

You stepped aside, voice dry. “Well? You comin’ in or what?”

Rodrick swallowed and stepped past you, suddenly hyperaware of how much taller (even if not literally) you felt. How nice you smelled. How warm it was inside.

“…This is the weirdest fuckin’ day of my life.”

You just shut the door behind him with a little shrug. “Get used to it.”

You didn’t say anything else — just brushed past him, your shoulder knocking lightly against his as you headed down the hallway like you owned the place. Which, yeah, you did. Rodrick barely had time to adjust to how nice the fuckin’ hallway smelled before you were already halfway to the kitchen.

He followed, awkward and out of place, eyes darting to the high ceilings, the family photos, the spotless hardwood floors. The house looked like it came out of a magazine. He felt like he tracked in dirt just by existing.

You pointed at the dining table as you walked into the kitchen. “Wait in here.”

Rodrick paused in the doorway. “What am I, a dog?”

You didn’t even turn around. “I mean, you showed up uninvited and you look like you bite 'nd have rabies.”

He opened his mouth, ready with a half-assed comeback, but you were already at the fridge, grabbing a can of something cold and cracking it open without looking his way.

Rodrick lingered for a beat before making a decision. Slowly — maybe a little stubbornly — he pushed off the doorframe and leaned against the kitchen counter instead, folding his arms across his chest, doing that thing where he stared at the floor like he wasn’t affected by anything at all.

You turned slightly, side-eyeing him with an amused little smirk.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait at the table?”

Rodrick didn’t budge. “Yeah. And I didn’t.”

Your lips twitched.

Huh.

He really was that kind of kid. All bark, too much eyeliner, and barely enough spine to hold up the act — but he was trying. You could tell from the way his jaw flexed, how he refused to look at you, as if meeting your eyes would confirm something neither of you were ready to admit.

You took a slow sip of your drink, leaning against the opposite counter, just watching him.

“This how you usually get into people’s houses?” you asked, voice lazy, teasing. “Show up lookin’ like you rolled out of a Hot Topic clearance bin and challenge the older brother to a pissing match?”

Rodrick’s ears flushed red. “Didn’t know you’d be home.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding once. “You look disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

That smirk turned into a grin. “Sure.”

You let the silence stretch for a second, your gaze dropping to the edge of his jaw, the way he clenched his fists a little tighter when he felt you looking.

He was cocky. Slouchy. Barely legal and probably running on Monster and the fumes of delusion.

But shit — cute.

And way more fun to mess with than Heather's last boyfriend. Not that you believed he was Heather's boyfriend at all because NO WAY.

You tilted the can back and let the last of the drink slurp loudly, obnoxiously, like you were doing it on purpose. Rodrick flinched at the sound.

Then you turned, casually tossing the empty into the recycling bin like you’d done it a hundred times (you had), and cracked open the cooler on the floor beside the counter. The soft hiss of ice shifting echoed as you rummaged through it, then pulled out something in a blue-and-silver can — cold and probably cheap. Smirnoff Ice. A college classic. Trashy, sugary, everywhere.

You straightened up and glanced at Rodrick.

“You eighteen?”

Rodrick blinked. “Uh—yeah.”

“You drink?”

He froze for half a second — just half — but it was enough.

You snorted, laughing as you popped the tab on your can. “Yeah, okay. That’s a no.”

He huffed, defensive. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You crouched again, this time deeper in the cooler, your hand pushing past bottles of water and chilled energy drinks until you found a can of orange soda and stood, tossing it across the kitchen.

“Catch.”

Rodrick’s eyes widened — he caught it, barely, fumbling for a second like it might’ve hit the floor and shattered his already-fragile pride. He cleared his throat and turned the can in his hands like it offended him.

You watched him with lazy amusement, sipping your drink, leaning one hip against the counter again. “You’re lucky. If you dropped it, I would’ve kicked you out.”

Rodrick scoffed. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.”

“Try me.”

The kitchen was quiet again, save for the fizz in your drink and the hum of the fridge.

Rodrick cracked the soda open, took a slow sip, and stared at you over the rim. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes did — a flicker, a shift. He was trying to place it. The way you talked, the way you stood. How old were you?

You let the moment linger before you said it.

“Twenty-one.”

Rodrick blinked, straightening a little.

“Just turned. Last month,” you added, tapping the top of your can. “Heather threw a fit ‘cause I wouldn’t let her come to the bar, y'know? Gotta tell her to stop whoring it.”

Rodrick flinched, taking another tentative sip.

You looked at him again, head tilted slightly. “That what you were thinkin’? How old I was?”

Rodrick choked on his soda a little. “What? No.”

You grinned into your drink. “Sure.”

Rodrick lingered near the kitchen counter, pretending like he wasn’t eyeballing everything in the room. The granite countertops, the fancy-ass stove that probably cost more than his van, the wine rack built into the wall. Who the hell lived like this?

You noticed him looking.

“Don’t steal anything,” you said, lazily sipping your drink.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“Sure. You got that feral look. That ‘I eat cigarettes for breakfast’ vibe.”

Rodrick rolled his eyes. “At least I don’t drink Smirnoff Ice. What are you, a freshman girl at her first frat party?”

You barked a laugh, full and sharp. “That’s cute coming from the guy holding a Fanta like it’s a beer. You want a paper straw too, princess?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when my mouth’s full.”

Rodrick froze for a second. Your grin widened. He looked like a raccoon caught chewing drywall.

You leaned back against the counter again, arms crossed, casually sipping your drink like that hadn’t just slipped out on purpose. The tension in the room shifted — still playful, but tight, electric.

Rodrick huffed and looked away, muttering, “God, Heather’s whole family’s insane.”

You cocked a brow. “And yet you showed up.”

“Yeah, well—” He paused. “Thought she gave me her number.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous, and started walking toward him — not threatening, but steady. You placed your drink down on the counter and kept moving, until Rodrick backed up just slightly, hips bumping into the edge.

“You really believe she gave you her number?” you asked, both hands coming up to rest on either side of him, boxing him in. Not touching — yet. But close. Close enough to watch him squirm.

Rodrick faltered. His voice dropped a little. “...Well. I mean. Not anymore.”

You laughed again, warm and low. “Poor thing. Got punked by a couple of high school girls.”

He rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, trying not to look at you. “Whatever.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking over him. “So what? You into her? That your type? Bitchy blondes who call you names and pretend you don’t exist in public?”

Rodrick scowled, brows furrowed and squinting. “Says the guy who is related to her.”

“Touché.”

There was a pause. Then—

“If it doesn’t work out with her,” you paused, “you could always get with me instead.”

Rodrick choked on nothing.

“I—What?! Dude, I’m not— I’m not gay.”

Your eyes glittered. “Didn’t say you were.”

He floundered. “I mean—not that there’s anything wrong with—whatever—but I’m not—”

“Relax, man.” You chuckled, real low and easy, tilting your head a little closer. “No one’s asking you to get on your knees.”

He swallowed. You could see the flush creeping up his neck, fighting the smirk he was trying not to let show.

You leaned in just a little more.

“...Unless you want to.”

Rodrick made a quiet noise in his throat — something between a scoff and a nervous cough — and set the Fanta can down behind him on the counter. Not because he was finished, but because he needed an excuse to look anywhere but at you. The fizz hissed faintly as it settled.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You’re messing with me.”

You smiled, real slow. “Am I?”

“You gotta be,” he muttered, eyes on the countertop now like it held all the secrets of the universe. “I mean. That’s what this is, right? You’re just fuckin’ with me.”

“Rodrick.”

You said his name like a joke and a promise in one breath. The way it dropped from your mouth made his stomach flip in a way he didn’t like. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure.

He looked up at you finally, jaw tense. “I’m not… like that.”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

“No, I mean— I’ve never—” He faltered. His hand made a vague gesture between the two of you. “This isn’t my thing.”

“But you’re still here.”

Rodrick’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like a fish. An angry fish. A flustered, horribly aware he might be into something fish.

You tilted your head, stepping in just a bit closer — still not touching, but you didn’t need to. The tension was thick enough to sink in.

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, voice low and amused, “if it doesn’t work out with Heather… you’ve got options.”

Rodrick cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh—well. I—I’m not…”

He trailed off. You waited. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before he immediately looked back down at the floor like it burned him.

Then, quietly — barely audible:

“…Have you ever kissed a guy?”

You blinked. “Me?”

He nodded, sheepish. Still not looking at you. “Yeah.”

You raised a brow. “A couple times. Why?”

Rodrick didn’t answer. But he was chewing the inside of his cheek now, face pink, breath shallow. Hands shoved in his pockets like they might anchor him.

You stepped in just a fraction closer.

“…Wanna know what it’s like?”

If you’d told Rodrick Heffley that he’d lose his footing on his sexuality in the middle of a rich guy’s kitchen, with the house dead quiet and a guy’s mouth hot on his, he would’ve thrown a drink in your face.

Not because he was homophobic or anything — Jesus, no. He was punk, not a dick. It was just… him? Doing this? Never crossed his mind. Not until now. Not until you.

You were Heather’s brother. College-aged. Intimidatingly hot. Driving some sleek-ass convertible like you owned the damn moon. And now here you were, pushing him back against a cold marble counter, lips crashing into his like he was a fucking challenge.

And he liked it.

Rodrick grunted as his lower back smacked the edge of the counter, the sudden jolt making him gasp into your mouth. One of your hands slid down, rubbing over the spot gently in a rare flicker of comfort before it curled around his hip, pulling him back in.

It was messy.

Your mouth tasted like cheap spiked lemonade and something bitter. Beer, maybe. He’d never had alcohol before — not like this. Definitely not off the mouth of some guy he just met. It was a little weird. A little electric.

His hands fumbled awkwardly at first, catching the hem of your shirt, one sliding around your shoulder as if trying to find something solid to hold onto. Because he was TOO aware he looked like an idiot right now.

Your fingers found the edge of his studded belt, tugged him closer with a harsh yank that made him groan. His hips twitched. His whole body felt like it was catching fire.

He was… hard.

Embarrassingly so.

Rodrick stiffened, trying not to grind into you, but failing when your hand slipped lower to press at his back — guiding him in.

He gasped again. “Shit—fuck, uh, I didn't—”

“Relax,” you groaned actually annoyed with yourself when you should be feeling triumphant, as you kissed down to his neck, your own breath starting to hitch. “You’re not the only one.”

Rodrick's eyes widened slightly as he felt your crotch against his hip.

Oh.

Oh.

Well… shit.

You two stared at eachother a bit more until you slid your hands under his stupid band tee, both hands on his hips. You're surprised—you thought he would be a bit scrawnier. Not that he was built by any means,

Your mouth was back on his again — teeth catching his bottom lip this time, dragging until he hissed. Rodrick’s fingers clenched in your shirt, dragging you impossibly closer, hips twitching without meaning to.

“F-fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, shaky and stunned. “What the hell is this—what are we—”

You didn’t answer. Just kissed him again. Rougher. Meaner. Like you were trying to make up for every second wasted being normal around him.

"Look, do you want to do this or not?" Your hands were braced on his hips, and his belt buckle was digging into your palm. It was all metal and heat and confusion and want.

Rodrick's mouth opened, in nothing but a shakey breath.

Then— BANG BANG BANG.

A shrill, angry voice cut through the house: “HELLOOO? OPEN THE DOOR?? I FORGOT MY KEYS, WHERE'S MOM—”

You pulled back with a sigh, forehead dropping to Rodrick’s shoulder. His chest was rising and falling way too fast for how little space was between you.

He was flushed. Breathing hard. Lip red from biting. His hair was sticking up like he’d just been electrocuted and he looked fucking wrecked.

You grinned.

“Sounds like your little crush is home.”

Rodrick blinked at you, still half-dazed, lips parted. “Jesus Christ…”

You pushed off the counter slowly, casually fixing the hem of your shirt as if your dick wasn’t half-hard in your jeans and you hadn’t just kissed the guy your sister was supposed to be prank-dating.

“You comin’?” you asked, already walking down the hall.

Rodrick huffed, slamming back the last of the soda he’d left on the counter before following, muttering under his breath, “I fuckin’ hate rich people.”

And that was ironic because he was pretty well-off himself.

The door swung open and Heather practically exploded into the entryway, voice already halfway to a screech.

“Ugh, finally! I thought I was gonna get murdered out there, do you know how sketchy the suburbs are at—” She cut off mid-sentence, blinking hard. “Wait. Was that—was that fucking Heffley??”

You leaned against the doorframe, still slightly flushed, your knuckles brushing the curve of your bottom lip like you were trying to wipe away a smirk. Your eyes followed Rodrick’s retreating figure down the driveway, watching him fumble to get into his van like his legs forgot how to work.

You didn’t answer your sister. Just called out toward the driveway, voice syrup-smooth,

“Come back some time!”

Rodrick paused, mouthing what seemed suspiciously like 'fuck you' and then yanked the door shut behind him harder than necessary.

He was mumbling prayers and he barely even listened in church. I mean, he wasn't praying because he thought he had sinned or something — he was pretty sure Jesus would be fine with gay people.

No, he was praying because he was sure he just met the devil reincarnated.

Heather turned toward you slowly, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Seriously. Seriously? What the hell was that?!”

You shrugged like it was nothing. Like you didn’t still taste him on your tongue.

“Dunno. Might stay back for the rest of the holiday.”

Heather blinked. “You’re deranged.”

You just grinned wider.

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @cursed-carmine

[harrygroves]

harringrove - wish you were sober - conan gray

the summer is one big party - the stretch between graduating high school and waiting for college to start - for most of them at least. a handful of post-seniors are staying in Hawkins, starting shifts at gas stations and retail shops, but they're too young to care about going to work hungover, sometimes still drunk as they stumble to their jobs.

billy's not going anywhere, not yet at least. no money. but he's got the job at the garage as an apprentice mechanic and he plans to save every penny he can as quickly as possible so he can escape from under his father's oppressive thumb.

steve, on the other hand, is preparing to be shipped off across the country to his father's college of choice.

in the interim, he's drinking like he's going off to war - everyone is.

parties nearly every day at one house or another, whoever's parents are out for the night is in charge of hosting.

it's weird, like the adults have all silently agreed to let this happen, like they're thinking "well, as long as the kids are doing this at the house, just let them be."

as far as billy knows, no one's gotten any heat for the parties - as long as people don't break shit, like the pool table someone jumped on last Tuesday - yeah, that house is no longer allowing entry.

they're at...someone's house, billy doesn't keep track. just picks steve up and drives them both to wherever steve directs him to.

billy watches steve from across the living room as he guffaws at something a tiny, blonde girl says to him.

billy clutches his cup of shitty rum tighter, feels his eye tick in annoyance.

the music's too loud, the liquors too weak, and there's too many girls orbiting around billy for his liking, sneaking glances, "accidentally" bumping into him.

he's super over it.

grimacing, billy fishes his pack of smokes from his tight jeans and ambles his way through the fleshy crowd until he gets outside.

the parties poured into the lawn, but it's less...people-y out here. there's room to fucking breathe.

he walks around to the side of the house where there are even less people and lights up a cigarette.

"one for me?" he hears. he hadn't realized steve had followed him.

steve's face is red, words slurred, eyes shuttered permanently at half-mast.

"mhmm." billy grunts back, offering his pack.

steve's fingers work slow but he manages to get one out.

he puts it in his mouth backwards, butt end sticking out.

billy reaches over and plucks it from his mouth. steve's lips remain puckered until billy puts it back the right way. steve doesn't even notice. billy lights the cigarette for him and steve inhales to get the cherry started. he leans back against the side of the house, but does it too hard and makes a loud thump sound. steve groans, maybe in pain, maybe from the cigarette.

"'m drunk." steve mutters around the cigarette.

"really?" billy replies sarcastically.

"sooo drinking."

"i see that."

steve hums and closes his eyes, giving billy the chance to stare at him, eyes tracing over his features greedily.

the want. it aches inside him. but he swallows hard, ignores the pang in his heart, and looks down at his shoes.

they smoke in silence. well - billy smokes, steve lets the cigarette burn, holding it limply in his mouth as he wastes it.

once billy is finished, he takes the cigarette from steve's mouth and puts them both out.

"let's go harrington."

"don't wanna."

"too bad. you're sleeping on your feet."

"nuh-uh." steve's eyes slide open and he tries to stand up straight, ends up leaning too far forward.

billy reaches an arm out and grabs around the front of his shoulders to stop him from falling.

"c'mon pretty boy. let's get you in bed."

"taking me to bed hargrove?" steve mumbles, tone teasing, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.

"shut up steve." billy grumbles, making sure steve is standing before letting him go.

the comment makes his face flush so he walks ahead of steve, hoping harrington is following.

he is. steve presses himself against the passenger side of billy's car, like he's going to phase through the door. billy rolls his eyes and helps, grabbing steve's shirt and pulling on him slightly, maneuvering him to lean against the back of the car so he can get the door open.

"so touchy." steve giggles and billy huffs.

"get your ass in the car harrington." he says tightly as he holds open the door.

steve giggles again and collapses inside the vehicle.

while driving, steve messes with the radio, has his window rolled down all the way, sings off-key and asks billy for another cigarette.

billy lets steve do what he wants. always does.

they get back to steve's house and billy turns the radio down as he rolls to a stop in front of the large, dark house.

"parents out again?" billy asks.

"yup. who knows where." steve says, slightly more awake because of the music and the wind in his face as billy had driven.

"need help getting inside?"

steve shoots him a look billy can't decipher. "trying to get invited in, hargrove?"

"steve, knock it off. jesus."

"what? it's a joke." steve says with a huge smile.

"'s not funny." billy mumbles, looking away so he doesn't have to look at steve's face.

steve is quiet for a moment, the pause making billy swallow roughly.

"yeah." steve says. "help me in."

billy doesn't respond, just cuts the engine and gets out.

steve still can't stand straight. billy grabs at his arm and helps him.

steve is wasted. every time he moves forward he suddenly lurches left or right, equilibrium fucked.

they get to the door. steve checks all his pockets until he comes up with his house key. he misses the lock three times before managing to insert it.

"thanks billy." steve manages to say as the door pushes open.

"yup. see you tomorrow." billy says, half-turning away.

"no, wait, wait." steve mumbles.

billy feels the tug on his jacket.

"hmm?" he turns and then steve's hands are cupping his cheeks.

what the fuck

what the fucking fuck

fuck???

steve's warm mouth presses against billy's. his mouth is damp, lips slightly parted, and he pushes forward, kissing.

they're kissing.

steve is fucking kissing him.

billy's heart jumps, his eyes shut, his breath hitching.

what the FUCK?

steve makes a sound and billy almost dies right there on the steps.

shit, they're outside.

billy jerks back, steve sways forward, eyes opening in confusion.

"steve." billy says hoarsely.

"g'night." steve says, face flushed, eyes dark.

then he just turns around and shuts the door in billy's face.

"fuck...fuck." billy says, hands shaking, knees like jelly.

he stands in front of the door for a long minute, going back and forth in his mind between knocking on the door and running away.

he leaves.

steve spends the rest of the summer getting black-out drunk, kissing billy when he's dropped off, sometimes following billy outside and kissing him against the side of whatever house they're at, pushing billy into the bathroom and kissing him up against the door.

kissing billy but never talking about it.

never remembering it.

billy lets him. it kills him. it makes him hard. it makes him want to cry.

but he lets him.

he'll always let him.

[andielle]

prologue|chpt. 1|chpt. 2|chpt. 3|masterlist

You and Bucky have shared this relationship for almost a year now. He sleeps with you to relieve stress, you sleep with him to free you from your slight crush on him.But what happens when Bucky breaks the rules of your relationship, and yearns for more?

MODERN! Office AU! Bucky x Reader

chapter 1: rules | 1.3k words | warnings: implications of sex

It was never always been that way, of course. You and Bucky had a great co-worker relationship before everything. However, it became more than being co-workers, you both ended up being friends, great friends even. He taught you the ropes of being in the company, along with Nat.

You found out more about Bucky as you both talked more and worked together in projects. You found out that he was an old man at heart, he loved slow music, he loved his coffee black every morning, he loved plums because he said it 'improved memory'. 

So, you would play his favourite songs when you both would be alone in the office working on an engineering project, you would make him his coffee when you made yours in the morning, you would buy him plums as a joke whenever he forgot a meeting or an important due date. It was an inside joke only you and him would get. 

He would chuckle at your jokes (God, you loved seeing the wrinkles forming at his temples when he did that), before calling you childish. But you know—deep down—he appreciated your silly jokes and your comments. You never realised this, but he was a breath of fresh air. But, you also never realised the way you were starting to be jittery around him, how you wanted to see him more often, how you started feeling fluttery inside at the thought of him laughing at your jokes. 

You tried your best to push it back, your feelings back. You were way too deep when you started realising, you had a crush on him. It's just a crush, you told yourself. It was nothing friendship breaking, right? Yeah... yeah, it wasn't. 

You noticed that he started doing projects with you less. You overthought. He spoke to you less. He didn't even acknowledge you when you were commended at a meeting for recreating one of Howard Stark's old theoretical inventions, the floating car—a floating car! It still had room for improvement though, you still had to figure out how to keep it from overheating. But God, couldn't he have at least given you a look of awe? 

Being the naivette you were, you pulled him aside after the meeting, asked him what was his problem? Well, you were quite hurt at what you got, but at least he was honest.

"Did you think I didn't notice how you've been acting? I'm not stupid," he then said your name with borderline contempt, "I think you've misunderstood our friendship, let's go back to being professional, okay?" 

Ha! You were surprised how you didn't even cry, not even one bit—you just felt your heart shatter a little, that's all. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," You bit back tears, "'Thought we were just being close friends." you saw his eyebrow raise at that. Then, his eyes, his pretty blue eyes narrowed. He looked at yours, how it was threatening to spill tears, and he looked down at your trembling lips. He was silent for a while when you heard yourself gulp. "I don't believe you," he finally replied.

One thing led to another—you both ended up in your bedroom that same day, his hand up your shirt while he was attacking your lips with his. He kissed you with hunger, like he hasn't kissed anybody in years. You kept your hands on his shirt, wrinkling the fabric with your fists. You never thought it would've been like this, not like this. Before he put you on your bed, he grabbed your sides, looking into your eyes. 

"Are you sure you want this?" 

"Yes," you said breathlessly. He kept still, completely serious. "Then we have to agree on something," His eyes pierced through yours, like he was trying to read your mind. "We need rules if we want to do this," you nodded at his statement. 

"Rule one," he continued, "We keep this in your bedroom, not at work, not outside, not anywhere else." 

"Rule two," his hands left your sides to take his shirt off, revealing his sculpted figure, "No intimacy, got it?" you gulped, starting to feel your palms sweat from the closeness and the fact that Bucky was in front of you, shirtless. "Got it."

You nodded again. But if you were being honest, you were more focused at his piercing gaze and his lips that were swollen from the kissing. 

"Rule three, no feelings. Just to let you know, I'm not doing this because I like you—" he said like he was disgusted, "I just want to let off some steam. Are you okay with that?" 

"I'm okay with that." No, no, what are you doing to yourself?

He left you alone the next morning. 

—

That was how it started, and that was about nine months from now—yes you counted—and it would be the tenth month in a few days. Nobody really knew about it either, except Nat—that woman could figure out everything about a person if she wanted to. Sam and Steve would have their suspicions now and then but they would keep to themselves. It was easy to hide, it was not like he put marks on you anyway, it was nothing special. At least to him it wasn't. For you, it was a different story.

You never really thought it would've gone this far, you really expected Bucky to lose interest in you. That was how it has always been with your previous relationships. You were ashamed to admit this but, this was the longest you've lasted with a man, even though you know you and Bucky weren't exactly dating. You thought you could leave anytime, but if you did want to leave, you would've left a long time ago. A part of you chased the chance that he would develop feelings for you, and another part of you loved the closeness with him. You're hopeless! Nat would tell you. 

Well, the 'relationship' kinda worked out, as you felt your feelings dwindle down a bit, thank God.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Steve called out for you. "Hey, are you alright? You seem so off today," you tried your best to smile as genuine as possible, hoping you don't make his worries worse.

"Oh, I'm okay! How are we doing today?" you pointed at his blueprints, trying to avert his attention to something else.

"Well, I kinda need a break, all of this drawing and sketching is burning me out a little," he scratched his head. "What about we go to that new cafe that's just opened up nearby?" you suggested, "I could use a break too honestly."

"Hey that's a good idea! I should bring Bucky along," Steve smiles. No.. no...! You felt your palms sweat at the thought of sitting awkwardly at a cafe table, munching on a glazed doughnut, in front of Bucky. "Good idea!" Bad idea! "I'll bring Nat along," you said, to quickly save your situation. 

"Alright, see you after work!" Steve said before walking away to his office. You sighed at that interaction, turning around to walk back to your desk. You were met with grey blue eyes. It was the man himself.

"Oh..! Hey Buckaroo," you said awkwardly. "What?" Bucky said confused. "What?" you mirrored.

"You going on a date with Steve or something?" he asked curiously, nodding his head up. You shook your head no. 

"No, no—It's nothing like that! We are planning to go to that new cafe that opened up nearby, Steve wanted to bring you along actually," you waved your hand in a panicked way. Bucky replied with a simple okay and walked away, leaving you standing there.

What was that?

[scribbledghost]

Hello my spooky overlord 🙏🏼

So hear me out 👀 I have notoriously loud joints mostly in my hips and knees, and they pop a lot when I bend or move in weird positions. It never really hurts, but it concerns other people when they hear it lmao

How would Vessel or the boys react while during some sexy times, the reader’s joints pop really loudly and maybe scare the crap out of them?

Note: Yes I know this was sent in like. a million years ago. please forgive me OTL

Vessel:

Definitely one that panics at first. His immediate thought is that he like... broke you somehow? He stops dead in his tracks, no matter what he was doing. At first, he's stock still, but after a couple of seconds he's all but manhandling you, trying to figure out which bones you've broken. He can't sense that you're in any pain, which confuses him at first, because that pop was LOUD. He'll only settle down when you start gently laughing and telling him that you're fine and this just happens sometimes. Even when he knows it's normal, it still startles him when it happens later.

II:

He gets less "panicky" and more "very concerned". As soon as he hears it, he's putting all previous activities on hold (no matter how much you complain because dammit he was just starting to hit the right spot -) in order to give you a thorough check-over. A non-sexy thorough check-over, unfortunately. Initially he wants to make sure he hasn't hurt you, as he'd never forgive himself if he did. Once you manage to convince him you're fine, I think he'd still be a bit too spooked and taken out of the mood to continue.

III:

I think, out of all the vessels, he may be the only one that... isn't really phased too much? Of course, he immediately stops and checks in to make sure you're not in pain, but the popping and cracking of joints is pretty familiar to him (considering his do the same thing when he extends things a certain way or whatnot). He may even make a quip that you're "more like him than he thought" lmao. Either way, it doesn't take him out of the mood too much, and from then on, he gets used to it pretty quick.

IV:

Sort of a mix between II and III, honestly. He'll stop, immediately connecting with your mind to see if you're in any pain. He'll even add in a "Shit, that sounded bad. You alright, dove?" If you explain that this just sort of... happens sometimes, he'll be a bit confused, but roll with it. From then on, he may be a bit slower and more gentle as the night goes on, thinking it was the roughness that caused it to happen initially. You may have to beg him to go any harder. (What? Him, take advantage of the situation to hear you beg for him to go faster? Nooooo, never).

[spidercatweb]

Night Light ★ Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: fem!bau!reader (could be read as gn), implied bisexual!reader, established relationship, r makes Spencer watch a Saw movie but the details of the movie are not described, both of them are scared of the dark, Spencer being the most wonderful bf ever.

Description: On you and Spencer's weekly movie night, a thunderstorm causes the power to go out.

Word Count: 761

A/n: this is the most self-insert reader ever lol. I hope theres other cm fans who enjoy Spencer and also the Saw franchise... Also i was inspired to write this because of a power outage.

Spencer Reid is always prepared. He thinks about every single possible outcome for a situation, and solutions to any problems that may arise.

This is why, tonight, you're cuddled up to Spencer in his bed, talking about anything and everything,with the company of a battery powered lantern that partially illuminates the room.

***

Earlier, everything had been going smoothly. You'd arrived at Spencer's apartment for your weekly movie night. Tonight it was your turn to choose, so of course, you were going to make your poor boyfriend watch a Saw movie. The third one, of course, since it's your favourite.

Sure, you've both seen your fair share of gruesome crime scenes, you could both stomach it. But you wanted to be nice, to him and yourself, by eating dinner before the movie, lest it ruin your appetite, which you were sure would happen.

***

Your turn to choose the movie usually means it's your turn to spit out a fun fact every five minutes, which you always had a wonderful time doing.

Spencer's commentary mostly consisted of "that wouldn't be survivable", and "I don't think they'd still be conscious at that point", which you giggled at and agreed to. You very much enjoyed his realistic analysis of every detail of every trap. 

***

Just after the credits started rolling, large raindrops began to fall outside. Strong winds caused the droplets to whip against the windows, producing loud pangs that echoed through the apartment.

Soon after, this was accompanied by thunder and lightning. 

You didn't take much notice until the lights started flickering. It was getting late, and you knew Spencer wasn't too fond of the dark. Neither were you. Your mood was quickly clouded with anxiety.

Of course, Spencer notices the shift, he feels the same way. But he has a solution.

“If the power goes out, I have a battery powered lantern that I keep in my room.” He places a hand on your knee.

You smile, “Good to know.”

And as if on cue, the lights go out. Complete darkness envelops you both. You hear Spencer gasp quietly beside you.

“Let's go find that lantern.” You paw around, reaching for his hand to hold, ignoring the anxious pit in your stomach.

“Good idea. Very good idea.” He grips your hand as he carefully guides you to his bedroom, leading the way so you don't bump into anything. 

Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness as Spencer blindly searches through his closet.

“Found it!” You hear a click as the bulb illuminates his nervous smile. He steps to place the lantern onto his bedside table.

A sigh of relief leaves the both of you as you huddle up close together on Spencer's bed.

“I don't like the dark.” You giggle slightly, nuzzling into his chest while you wrap your arms around his middle.

“Me neither.” He presses a kiss onto the top of your head while returning your embrace.

“Is it stupid to be scared of the dark at this age?” 

“Well, you don't know what's there or not if you can't see anything. Really, it's a fear of the absence of light. And no, it's not stupid, you can't control what you're afraid of, it's natural.” 

“Mm,” you nod, “do you also hate how quiet it is when the power is out? Like… you can't hear all the electronic humming that's always in the background, I feel like it's too quiet. I can't sleep when it's like that.”

“I find it quite calming, actually. It's one less thing to think about.” 

“Hm.” You pause, “So… who was your favorite character in Saw III?”

Spencer chuckles at the sudden shift in topic. “Well- I don't know how I'm supposed to choose, nobody's exactly um- a great person.”

“That's no fun! You're allowed to like a character who's horrible, they aren't real!”

“I guess… I don't know, the doctor, maybe? Lynn? She was able to perform brain surgery while basically at gunpoint, I'd say that's pretty impressive.”

You hum in agreement, “I like Amanda.” Spencer doesn't need to look at you to know you're grinning.

He chuckles, “I'm aware.”

“She's never done anything wrong.” You joke.

“Should I be concerned about that statement?” 

All he receives in response is a giggle as you ask another question about the movie. You love hearing every single little thought that Spencer has, especially if it's about something you enjoy.

There would be plenty more questions to come in the few hours that the power was out, and Spencer happily answered each of them with detail.

Thank you for reading! <3

Feedback is very much appreciated!

My requests are open!

🪻

[pearlynia]

I didn't read all that but on the first post, I thought lily actually rejected Snape, yes I did read the books buttt it was a long time ago so I've forgotten and by the way people were saying? I actually thought she rejected him and if she did slay bahahah

And yeah you're right of the trauma thing I was in a car when I replied so I didn't have much detail butt I still stand by how he should not have did the things he did but it happened.

Now now let me explain my view on Snape properly, so he's a very complicated character but he is NOT a good person. In my original post I forgot to add that or I just didn't add it for idk reason, that I hate it when people defend Snape as if he's all innocent, that's basically part of what pissed me off In the first place but obviously I didn't show that well (or at all) and I did not think it was THAT serious.

(Also I'm trying to keep up with what I'm trying to say cuz I'm ADHD so don't mind if the topics are repeated)

And, unrelated maybe but I'm not saying the marauders were completely nice was well, they're all a bitch and have flaws which the later I believe fixed? and that's what I like about them. Snape is also a bitch and I find him cool even tho I'm not necessarily his fan, mostly bc the fandom is kinda toxic from what I've seen and they just kept giving excuses and ik you said it's an explanation but I mostly see it as an excuse since he had plenty of time to heal and just do better yk? But he didn't make an effort.

And when I mean nicer I meant as in better to tolerate, not literal nice like but I still stand by that statement tho, book Snape pissed me off so bad when I was reading it to the point where I do not care of what happened in the past to him but only what he's doing to the kids. I don't find that part cool but I do find his character cool if that makes sense.

Usually I stay with fan fics and stay away from canon bc that's less pain and I've read fics where Snape is nice and shit and I live for those buttt on the original post I was talking about canon BECAUSE the comments were all about canon, ik you can't see those comments but you can imagine (if this topic is also unrelated then don't mind it I'm just explaining)

And again my original post was a crash out it is immature and basically just childish which is nothing serious for me. If you disagree or whatever just pls scroll for the life of us but I do thank you for fixing some of my mistakes I actually forgot those. Anyway have a nice day I will not be replying any longer (or I will when I'm free again) bye bye

Saw the marauders fandom getting hates again by non other than Snape supporters on TikTok sigh

Tbh I feel like people mix up movie and book Snape a lot, while the movie Snape was nicer and not a total bitch, the book one is a man whore, a bully, a bitch and a dick.

And I hateeee that people can't see it just bc they find the actor of Snape "hot" or feel bad for him cuz he got rejected by Lily and died like sybau people get rejected everyday and you don't bully the child of the women you love nor any other children as their TEACHER.

I'm glad lily rejected him, my girl saw a red flag that cannot be fixed and ran.

Anyway ty for reading my pep talk I'm PISSED

[simptasia]

the ace discourse aka acephobic exclusionism on this site got so bad that i was getting stress induced nightmares from it

so i resent anybody pulling that "haha wow that was a funny phase we all went through" shit. no. it was horrible

[serpentface]

What's the Wardi cultural take on Akoshos sleeping with/partnering with/marrying other Akoshos?

It's not highly regulated to a degree that there are overwhelming cultural norms about it. There's a lot of societal focus on akoshos being theoretically suitable sexual partners for both men and women due to being dual-gendered, but not to an extent that relationships with One Another are stigmatized.

They also largely get to escape from the most severe concerns about penetrator/penetrated power dynamics because they're not regarded as Men (they're regarded as dual-gendered, and they're a female social class on every practical level), there's no status of manhood to Lose by receiving sexual penetration. The only real thing you see in that department is people assuming that one acts as 'the man' and one acts as 'the woman', but this is largely due to preoccupation with a notion of sex being Penetration With A Penis (and that Penetration With A Penis means that one person is in a Man's Role and one person is in a Woman's Role). But this will not be regarded as unnatural as in same-gender male relations, akoshos will Have to take up a position in this sexual dichotomy if they want to have Real Sex (Penetration With A Penis) with each other, and this is not unnatural and doesn't involve gaining or losing status since they are simultaneously male and female, not men.

So like you might see individual culture critics finding stuff to nitpick about it as their annoyance of the week or a singular Guy here or there who thinks it's weird, but this isn't a widespread norm. The vast majority of people don't give a shit about akoshos having sex with each other. The worst thing you're likely to experience Solely by virtue of being in an akoshos-akoshos relationship is someone asking you (probably with genuine curiosity) which one does the man stuff and which one does the woman stuff.

Akoshos also don't experience Hard expectations for marriage (though there are societal pressures that make marriage an attractive safety net all the same, ESPECIALLY marriage to a man) so unofficial life-partnerships between akoshos are pretty much the Only same gender partnerships between unwed people that are going to go unquestioned. ((Sworn brotherhood is technically a same gender life partnership for men that is Functionally similar to marriage (in that it's a kin-making practice between unrelated adults), but the tradition is Built upon the assumption that both parties will be married to women and that a primary goal of this kinship is to provide security for both parties' wives and children)). Marriage obligations in general are more lax in the economically secure but not Wealthy lower mercantile classes (as obligations to support and perpetuate one's family are universal, but these obligations can be filled simply by having at least One son who can get hitched, and marriages in the lower classes have no political functions and therefore there's less reason to ensure All your children are wed (there's still incentives like dowry, but this is not desperately needed when a family is economically secure)). So akoshos in this class group tend to have a Lot more freedom in terms of their life arrangements and chosen partners (though still experience the limiting frameworks of structural misogyny in other capacities).

The only thing that is out of the picture is akoshos/akoshos marriage. Marriage in this society has a predominantly reproductive function, the concept of reproductively non-viable marriages is generally considered absurd. This is not JUST this culture's form of homophobia, as marriage is a very practical arrangement at its core - both in a reproductive capacity and as bedrock for the patriarchal blood-kinship family system that forms the core social unit. The idea of same gender marriage isn't just absurd because 'ewwww weird' it's like, that Cannot work within this system, it Cannot fill core functions of what a marriage intends to do here, the ways on which marriage and kinship are BUILT makes same gender marriage practically (rather than just socially) untenable.

The sole exception to the 'marriage = reproductively viable" rule is that akoshos can be married to men (which in practice is almost always as a remarriage after a man has secured At Least an heir). This has a Little bit of internal logic here in that they perform predominantly female social roles (thus are suited to being a wife, even if they can't bear children) (and also on practical levels of them having the same legal status as women) but it's really more of a 'this is just how it's always been' kind of thing. A lot of the older pre-Wardi identity dual-gender roles that got mashed together under the 'akoshos' name would have involved marriage to a man as a second wife/concubine, in addition to his primary wife who would bear his children. Men potentially having multiple spouses has not been retained as a cultural practice, but the notion that an akoshos Can be a wife to a man has survived into modern day legal and doctrinal practices around marriage.

So like this being said, marriage as it is legally defined is only between a man and a woman, a man and an akoshos, or a woman and an akoshos. In practice the latter two are comparatively VERY rare- a man/akoshos marriage cannot provide children (though an akoshos can practically fulfill all other obligations and duties of a wife), a woman/akoshos marriage Can provide children (and while akoshos cannot function as a male heir, these children Will take their akoshos-parent's family name (though the wife retains her father's family name)), but akoshos are legally grouped with women in terms of rights and privileges (including being permanently under legal domain of their father unless they have been legally handed off to a male husband) and Cannot provide hard power patriarchal support that this family system is built upon and therefore depends upon, which makes these marriages socio-economically insecure. They can obviously still be a good partner and parent, but this is not the same as having the Legal hard power of a patriarch.

Akoshos marrying each other would be reproductively and socially nonviable, and is treated as a similarly absurd concept to a man marrying a man or a woman marrying a woman. It's just not a part of the marriage and kinship framework, it's not a thing that you can Do.

[into-the-milgramverse]

Fuuta crash out when

(don't mind the tags, i'm talking to fuuta)

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I hate when I get into these phases when once I process through one thing causing me anxiety there's another thing right behind it

[spideyladman]

Thinking about the disturbing implications of Cain's story and destiny from the Bible rn