#how long has lucas been in there

[undead-moth]

I know I've been on about this for a while now and I'm being a hater but you're telling me SydCarmy was "always meant to be platonic" even though there are two seasons of writing making use of tried-and-true explicitly romantic tropes, themes and writing signals, and SydLuca is going to be romantic because...he was nice to her on screen for a few minutes?

I don't even care if people ship SydLuca, or if they just prefer it, but you can't honestly tell me that you believe Carmy was always meant to be a friend but Luca is an obvious love interest.

Just because Syd and Carmy haven't kissed or confessed their love to each other doesn't mean that isn't very obviously the direction this show is going. The Bear has already shown you who is endgame. It has shown you every episode of the show so far.

Honestly I really don't think The Bear fanbase understands this show or cares about these characters or the story being told here, which is unfortunate because this show is shockingly well-written in comparison to most shows right now, and we should be so grateful for it but all we're doing is complaining that the writers led us on by not making a ship canon fast enough. It's just. Sad.

[twentytwoarts]

finished mother 3 for the first time last week so here's my take on a claus lives au

[roselynia]

thinking about how the only reason my oc lukas's name isn't lucas is because my partner's name is lucas and it'd feel weird

it was previously lucas but u know :)

[a-tale-of-legends]

Hi. Crystal Prince Luca. That is all.

[kuiperblog]

Where Star Wars went wrong

Quoting Jason Pargin, who articulates it better than I could:

"In any kind of a sane world, The Mandalorian should have run for 150 episodes at least. They had a formula here that could have worked forever.

"It's a formula that has always worked: a heroic stranger wanders into a strange new land and meets a bunch of colorful characters, usually under the thumb of a powerful threat. The threat is usually in the form of a villain who's played by a famous actor just chewing the scenery. He uses hits wits and his courage to get out of it and then he moves on.

"Have Gun, Will Travel" ran for 225 episodes from 1957-1963. It's where Gene Roddenberry of Star Trek fame got his start.

"The sci-fi space adventures we had years and years ago used to run forever. Star Trek TNG had about 180 episodes, Deep Space 9 had about the same number, even Voyager -- the show that we think of as being a "lesser series" -- had 172 episodes. And here's the thing: most of those episodes were really good!

"But because of the way the business works now, and because of 'corporate synergy,' by season 2 of the Mandalorian, they were brainstorming "how do we get this back to Luke Skywalker and the Death Star?"

"By season 3, fans were lost, because some huge plot events had occurred in a completely different series, because they needed it to connect to their Boba Fett show. And now, the Mandalorian is dead. They're gonna wrap up the story in a movie, and that's it.

And the crazy part is, this was always the perfect format for Star Wars: it always should have been a short form serial! That's what George Lucas was ripping off when he made the film back in 1977: serials like Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon.

These were little 12-minute long episodes that played as one continuing story, but each one was its own little lighthearted adventure that usually ended on some kind of a cliffhanger.

"This is why so many of the most hardcore Star Wars fans who are old like me only like two of the movies, because by the third film they were already just repeating beats: they were attacking yet another Death Star.

They ran out of ideas so fast, because this is not the ideal format for this universe. The Mando and Baby Yoda Show is the ideal format! This should have run for the next 20 years! They even set it up so that the star wouldn't even need to be on set for most of it, because he wears a helmet!

"I think some fans object to this, because they think of it as making Star Wars smaller, that you're reducing it to 'just a TV show.' But it's the exact opposite: it lets you expand the universe, because you're forced to to keep coming up with new places for him to go, and new people for him to meet, new villains for him to face -- you're not forced to just keep coming back to the Death Star again and again, and the Sith, and the Jedi.

In Episode VII: The Force Awakens, the Starkiller Base destroys five planets. That's mathematically five times more tragic than the destruction of Alderaan.

"And if you want evidence, just look at Star Trek! It's the show that expanded the universe. The Star Trek films were just action movies that are very forgettable. But I guess the world has changed, because they don't even do Star Trek that way anymore.

Picard ended its run after 30 episodes. Discovery concluded after 65. Hopefully, Strange New Worlds marks a return to form for the franchise.

"I don't get it, because it seems like a version of this show that runs until the year 2040 would have just printed money. The merchandise sales alone would have covered the production costs. Instead, it's 24 episodes and a movie that I think everyone has already stopped caring about."

[lupinqs]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU ━━ paige bueckers x ex-girlfriend!reader

☆ ━ summary: a night out leads you right back to your ex-girlfriend’s bed.

☆ ━ word count: 10.8K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (oral, fingering, strappp, scissoring, pure filth)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: not proofread and basically just porn goodnight

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with Lucas.

You tell yourself that a lot. Not because you don’t believe it, but because you do. You believe it so much, it almost feels rehearsed.

Lucas is easy to love. Easy to explain. He says what he means and he follows through. He’s the kind of person who brings you flowers on a random Tuesday and remembers your favorite kind without needing to be reminded. He holds the door open for you—not in the forced, performative way, but just because that’s the kind of person he is. Thoughtful. Steady. Soft around the edges in a way that makes other people relax just by being near him.

Your friends love him. Your mom keeps saying things like “he’s a keeper” and “baby, he is so in love with you” and it’s not like she’s wrong. He texts back. He listens. He laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny. He gets along with your dad. He plays video games with your little brother. He always smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon gum, and when he kisses you, he cups your cheek like he’s holding something precious.

You like that. You like him.

It’s good.

It’s normal.

It’s healthy.

And for the most part, you don’t think about anything else. Not really. You’ve been… training yourself not to. You’ve developed entire routines around the art of not thinking about her—deleting old playlists and creating new ones, watching different shows, changing your route to class, rewriting entire chapters of your day-to-day life just so you don’t trip and fall back into the places where she used to live.

And it’s worked. Mostly.

Until it doesn’t.

Because Lucas will be saying something—something sweet, something thoughtful, something that would’ve made you melt if this were your first relationship—and you’ll feel this tiny flicker of something you can’t name. Not sadness. Not longing. Just… something. A quiet, sinking realization that you should be feeling more than you are. That what he’s saying is right, and hood, and all the things you’ve ever been told to want—but it’s landing in your chest like a feather instead of a thunderstorm.

And that’s the thing. Lucas is feathers. Warm, light, gentle.

But Paige?

Paige was fucking weather.

Not sunshine or softness or stillness, but storms. Paige was thunder and static and lightning under your skin. Being with her felt like leaning too far out of a window just to see what would happen. Like running a red light or driving a hundred miles an hour. Reckless. Stupid. Exhilarating.

Not that you think about her. You don’t.

You don’t think about the way she used to kiss you like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t. You don’t think about the fights that started over nothing and ended with slammed doors and tear-streaked apologies. You don’t think about the 2 AM screaming matches in her car that would turn into the 2:07 AM make-outs that made your head spin and send heat to your core. You don’t think about how being with her made you feel like a live wire—shocking, wild, electric.

Lucas makes you feel like you’re being taken care of. Like your future has clean lines and soft landings. He respects your boundaries. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t make you wait three hours for a reply, only to show up at your window like he’s in a movie. He’s never left you crying in the rain. He’s never made you cry in the rain.

It’s easy, being with him. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you out, and why you kept saying yes after that. Maybe that’s why you’ve tried so hard to get used to all this normalcy. You wanted someone who didn’t make your heart feel like it was constantly trying to break out of your chest. You wanted someone calm, steady, safe.

Lucas is all of those things.

He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire.

There are no extremes. No chaos. No bruised egos or tearful apologies or scream-raw throats. He doesn’t make you second-guess yourself, and he never looks at you like he’s seconds away from either kissing you or shouting at you. He just looks at you with kindness, with a quiet sort of adoration, like you’re exactly who he hoped you would be.

And still—still—there are nights when you find yourself lying awake next to him, the glow of your phone lighting up the ceiling, and you feel something sharp and shapeless pressing at the back of your mind. Not a memory. Not a name. Just pressure. The kind you used to feel when things were about to go wrong. Or when things were too good to be true. Or when she was around.

You don’t let yourself go there.

You shut it down

Because it’s not fair to Lucas, and it’s not fair to you. You’ve moved on. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

And besides, you already tried loving like that.

You gave everything—everything. You screamed and sobbed and kissed like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into someone like Paige Bueckers and got spit back out with bruises you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t good.

You remind yourself of that whenever your mind drifts.

Lucas doesn’t make you cry.

Lucas shows up.

Lucas texts back.

Lucas doesn’t run hot and cold. He doesn’t storm out of rooms. He doesn’t pull you into closets at parties and fuck you until your legs are shaking, only to pretend like nothing happened the next day. He doesn’t keep you guessing. He’s consistent. Warm. Soft.

You can trust him.

You just don’t burn for him.

And maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to choose what’s good for you over what feels good in the moment. Learning to stay steady instead of chasing the highs and lows of a love that made you lose your mind.

So, no—you don’t miss Paige.

Or, at least, that’s what you’re currently telling yourself.

You’re at Ted’s. UConn’s beloved, grimy, too loud and far too small campus bar. It’s girl’s night out—no Lucas, no boyfriends, just you and your friends. The music is bad, the floor is sticky, and you’ve already had one too many drinks, but none of that is really the problem.

The problem is that she’s here.

Paige fucking Bueckers is here.

Of course she is. Of course she’d pick tonight to show up, like the universe just can’t let you have a single night off. She’s across the bar, flanked by her teammates, posted up like she owns the place. And she kind of does. She’s got that charm, that draw—the one that makes people want to be near her, even if they don’t know why. She doesn’t even have to try.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen her since the breakup—seven months, not that you’ve been counting—but that doesn’t make it easier. The sting hasn’t dulled. The ache hasn’t faded. Every time you see her, it feels like getting burned in the same exact spot over and over again. Your body should be numb to it by now, but somehow it never is.

And worst of all?

She looks good tonight. So good it makes your stomach twist and shrivel.

She’s wearing black cargo id that sit low on her hips and cling just enough to the right places. A white collared crop top, short-sleeved and perfectly fitted, which gives you a detailed fucking display of her biceps and abs—both of which are bigger, sharper, more defined than when you had her. She’s been hitting the weight room hard this summer. You know it. Everyone knows it. She must want that natty bad.

She probably wants it more than she ever wanted you.

You hate how bitter that thought tastes going down, but it’s not like it’s new. That feeling—that doubt—was there the whole time. The fights. The jealousy. The nights she didn’t text back. The way her phone would light up late at night and she’d just turn it face down and mumble something about it being nothing. You wanted to trust her. God, you tried. But it was always like walking a tightrope with her. One wrong move and you’d fall.

She was a fuckboy before you got together, and you’re sure she’s a fuckboy again now. Probably worse. Seven months is plenty of time for her to rediscover all her old habits. You can practically see it written all over her tonight—the loose body language, the flirtatious smile, the way her eyes scan the room like she’s picking her next fuck. She’ll take someone home tonight. You don’t even have to wonder.

Some girl—probably sweet, probably impressionable, probably someone who has no idea what it’s like to be wanted and discarded by Paige Bueckers—will follow her home. She’ll get to experience first hand what all the hype is about.

You try not to think about how that was once you. Try not to think about the way Paige would toss you onto her bed and kiss you like she needed it to breathe. Try not to think about the desperate way she’d strip you bare. Try not to think about the skill her hands and mouth and hips held. Try not to think about the way she used to look at you—like she couldn’t believe she got to have you.

You try not to think about any of it.

You stare at her, hating her and wanting her and hating that you want her. And her hair’s down tonight—down—long and straight and golden under the bar lights. She never wore it down when you were together unless you asked, unless she was feeling soft, unless you were the only one she wanted to impress. She’d preferred it up, out of the way in a bun or ponytail. But now it’s out and shining like a fucking halo or something.

She’s laughing at something KK said, her mouth open and easy and happy, and you hate how good it looks on her. How it makes her shoulders shake just slightly, how her head tilts back, how she glows. She’s got a Dirty Shirley in hand—of course she does—and a devil-may-care look in her eyes like she’s on top of the world. Like nothing, not even you, ever touched her deeply enough to leave a mark.

She doesn’t notice you staring.

Good.

You tear your eyes away with more force than necessary, like dragging a splinter out of your own skin. It leaves you raw. But you want let yourself look again. You won’t.

Your drink is almost gone. You need more. You need to blur this out, soften the corners of the room until her shape doesn’t stand out in it anymore.

You mutter something to your friends and slip away toward the bar. Your legs feel heavy. Your skin too warm. You feel her presence behind you like a heat lamp, burning a hole in your back even if she’s not looking.

You shove through a group of guys yelling about the Celtics and wedge yourself between a couple of juniors who are too busy taking selfies to notice you. The bartender glances at you once, uninterested. You order a shot.

Then another.

Then, one more with your friend who just walked over.

You were tipsy before—now you’re full-on drunk. It’s dangerous and smart for this situation. You needed it, but it could also make things catastrophically worse.

You glance back—just once, just to be sure—

And she’s looking right at you.

Her mouth is still curved in a half-smile from the joke someone made. But her blue eyes are locked into yours, and for a second, just a second, the noise of the bar fades.

And you remember everything.

Every fight. Every fuck. Every late-night apology. Every quiet morning. Every lie you swallowed. Every truth you ignored. Every time she held you like she’d never let go.

And then did.

You break eye contact first.

Not because you want to. Not because you’re strong enough to look away. But because the heat of her stare is too much—it crawls beneath your skin, presses against your throat, makes your chest ache in that way that only she ever could. And you’re too fucking drunk to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Too fucking drunk to pretend it doesn’t burn.

So you look away.

Swallow hard.

And then you turn your back on her, like the coward you swore you wouldn’t be.

Your stomach twists as you push through the crowd, arms bumping shoulders, elbows knocking against glasses. You’re headed for the bar bathroom, and you don’t even care how pathetic it looks. You need a second. You need air. You need to not be near her.

You make it to the restroom, barely missing the girl stumbling out with her heels in her hand and lip gloss smeared against her chin. You shut the door, lean back against it, and exhale hard through your nose.

It’s a shitty little bathroom. One mirror. Flickering light that doesn’t help stop your intoxicated brain from spinning. Peeling poster on the wall advertising Tequila Tuesdays. You avoid your reflection because you already know what you’ll see: mascara slightly smudged, lips parted, that look in your eyes—like you’re unraveling. You can feel it. You’re slipping. The drunk is mixing with the memories now. You’re seeing her hands on your skin again, hearing her laugh against your neck. You’re remembering the way she used to back you into this same wall when the two of you would sneak off here together, tipsy and breathless and stupid in love.

You press your palms to your eyes and mutter, “Fuck,” under your breath.

You hate her.

You hate her so much.

Except… not really.

You swore you didn’t miss her. You swore you over it. You promised everyone, including yourself.

But underneath all the anger and the betrayal and the hurt you still carry in your ribcage like broken glass, you do fucking miss you. God, you miss her. The way she smelled. The way she’d look at you. The way her voice would soften when she said your name. You miss what it was like when it was good—when she let you in, when she chose you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe.

Then—the handle jiggles.

Your eyes snap open.

The door creaks. You forgot to lock it all the way.

And there she is. She slips inside like a shadow and shuts the door behind her, slow and certain. Her eyes are already on you—the same icy blue. You can tell by the look in them that she’s just as drunk as you are. You want to scream at her. You want to melt into her arms.

“You were looking at me,” she says simply. But there’s a rasp to it that makes your skin tingle.

You swallow and straighten your, your reflexes all sharp and brittle. “No, I wasn’t,” you snap, defensive, even though your voice cracks halfway through it.

She steps closer—crowding you, closing the distance in two long strides. You stumble back, spine hitting the cool tile wall behind you, and she plants her palms on either side your head, caging you in.

Her gaze flickers—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. She’s reading you like she used to. And then she’s leaning in, breath fanning against your face as she tells you, “Don’t lie.”

Your breath catches. You look up at her, feeling small beneath her height. She was always good at making you feel that way. She’s still staring at your lips. You try not to stare at hers. “Don’t,” you say, and your voice is small, too small.

But she already knows that “don’t” means “do.”

Her hands find your waist, hot and certain. You should push her away. You should tell her to leave. But you don’t. You can’t. Your fingers curl into the collar of her shirt instead, and then she’s kissing you, and it’s not gentle. It’s rushed and tough and months too late. Her lips crash into yours like she’s staring for you, and you let her take what she wants.

Because you want it, too.

Paige’s hands are everywhere and nowhere, gripping and slipping and dragging fire down your sides. You can feel her breath stutter every time your hips tilt forward just slightly, like your body is trying to remember hers on instinct alone.

You’re both far too drunk, you know that. Her balance is all fucked, her touch a little too eager, a little too messy to be calculated, but she’s trying to make it feel that way. She’s trying to keep control. Her arm is braced next to your head, her body angled so your only exit is through her. She always used to do that. Always made herself a wall. And now she’s doing it again, caging you in like she owns the right to.

And worse—you’re letting her.

You’re letting her and kissing her and grabbing at her like you never want her to leave. You’re cheating. You know that. You know that Lucas is probably asleep at home, completely unaware that you’re pressed up against a bar wall right now with your tongue in your ex-girlfriend’s mouth.

And you should care.

But you don’t.

All you can feel is Paige—her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. All you can taste is her Shirley and whatever shots she’s been drinking and your lip gloss that’s been smeared across both of your mouths.

And beneath that—deeper than the alcohol and the anger—is the hurt. Yours and hers, bleeding through your kisses like you’re both too stubborn to admit how much it still matters. You hate her. You fucking hate her for what she did, for how she made you feel, for the way she stopped calling and let everything rot in silence.

But you also want her.

Desperately. Viciously. Shamefully.

She kisses you harder, lips slotting with yours like she wants to devour you whole. One of her hands drags up your side, long fingers bunching in your tank top until it wrinkles under her grip. Her other hand finds your hip and squeezes hard—possessive, rough, like she’s trying to bruise herself back into you. And you don’t stop her. You tilt your head back when her lips begin to trail downward, dragging along your jaw, your neck.

She sucks there, open-mouthed, like she wants to leave a mark. You gasp. Your fingers tighten on her shirt. Your knees almost buckle, and you’re suddenly very grateful the wall is there.

She knows what she’s doing. Of course she does. She’s always known.

When she gets to your ear, she nips—just the edge, sharp and quick—and you inhale so hard your vision blurs.

Then her hands slide from your hips to your waist and she presses her mouth right against the shell of your ear, voice low and warm and dripping with something that feels way too much like the past.

“Come back to mine, mama,” she whispers, pinching your waist for emphasis. “Let’s leave.”

Your breath catches. Everything slows, just for a second. You hear the music pounding from the other side of the door, the sound of someone laughing in the hallway. You feel her breath fan across your neck, her body flush with yours, her large hands holding you with a firm grip.

And you want to say no. You should say no.

But you’re drunk. And this is Paige.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips brush your throat again.

“Okay,” you breathe, so quiet you’re not sure she heard it.

But she does.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and pink, face flushed. She doesn’t smile. She just lifts her hand, swipes her thumb across your lower lip and chin, wiping her spit away. And then she grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door.

You stumble out of the bathroom together, the door creaking wide and hitting the wall like a gunshot in the haze of noise and cheap bar lighting. Neither of you say anything—you just look at each other and then move in sync, turning toward the back entrance like it’s muscle memory.

It is muscle memory.

The same hallway, the same emergency exit sign buzzing slightly overhead. You’ve done this before—slipped out together, ducking before your friends could ask questions or try to convince you to stay, walking home in that stupid little bubble where it was just you and her and the fucked-up, magnetic thing that kept dragging you together. It feels like that again. Familiar. Dangerous.

You push the door open, and the rain hits you in the face like a slap. It sobers you up maybe half a percent, just enough to register how soaked the ground already is. You look up in disbelief. The sky is coming down heavy now, full-on pouring—of course. Of fucking course.

Paige lets out this short laugh, all breath and surprise, like she can’t even believe the timing either. “Jesus,” she mutters, throwing one arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer into her side. “We gotta walk.”

You just nod because you already knew that. Her apartment isn’t far—not that you’ve been to the new one, just that you know the building. It’s about ten minutes if you’re sober and walking with purpose. Which, neither of you are right now. You’re drunk. She’s drunk. You’re dressed for the bar, not a rainstorm. And you’re making the worst decision of your entire relationship history, possibly of your life.

But you go anyway.

The two of you start moving down the sidewalk, feet slapping against puddles, your arm wrapped tight around her waist now, because fuck it, she’s warm and solid and familiar. Her shirt is clinging to her by the minute—white cotton soaked through and sticking to her torso, giving you a clearer outline of the muscle she’s been building all offseason. You glance at her abs, now shiny and wet with rain, and immediately look away again. Mistake. Everything about tonight is a fucking mistake.

Still, your body keeps walking.

The rain is cold and heavy, but your skin is buzzing and hot from the alcohol and the adrenaline and whatever this horrible, electric thing is between the two of you. It’s always been like this—heightened. Too much. Like your nervous system doesn’t know what to do around her except overload.

You try not to think. You try not to remember.

But you do.

You remember the last time it was late at night and raining and you were with Paige. Screaming in the middle of the street, voices cracking and soaked to the bone, fighting like it was the end of the goddamn world. And it kind of was. You ended up having angry sex in her car afterward, teeth and nails and hands clawing for something solid, something familiar, even if it hurt. You broke up the next morning.

You remember the heat of her skin, the sting of her words, the way she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to worship you or run from you.

But that’s how it always was.

You and Paige were never soft. You were sharp edges and blood-hot emotions and never knowing whether the night would end in a fight or a fuck. You both went a little insane because of the way you felt about each other—because neither of you ever knew how to not feel too much.

And now, you’re cheating on your boyfriend just to feel it again.

You shove the thought down as hard as you can. Focus instead on the way Paige’s fingers dig slightly into your waist every time you slip a little on the slick concrete. On the way her hair, long and straight and down for once, is starting to curl at the ends from the water. On how your teeth are starting to chatter even though the warmth from her body is leaking into yours, bit by bit.

And then, out of nowhere, Paige just stops walking.

You barely register it at first—your steps carry you half a beat too far until she tugs you back by the hand. You turn to ask what the hell she’s doing, but then she’s already kissing you.

Right there, in the middle of the fucking sidewalk in a downpour. No warning. No buildup. Just her mouth on yours like gravity snapped and she had no other choice. And maybe she didn’t; maybe neither of you do.

It makes sense.

When you were together and she was drunk, Paige always got like this. Clingy. Touch-starved. She’d pull you into her lap at parties, curl up behind you on the couch, mouth against your ear saying dumb little things that would make you blush. Always wanting to be near you, in you, around you, on you—like proximity made it easier to breathe.

That version of her is here now, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you. Her hands cup your face, holding you steady, but her mouth is anything but—urgent, greedy, moving over yours like she’s trying to memorize every part she’s been missing. Her lips are warm and insistent even through the cold, even through the rain that’s coming down heavy, pattering against the sidewalk, running down your neck, getting between your clothes and skin. It’s kind of miserable, but it also kind of doesn’t matter.

Because Paige is kissing you like she’s pissed off. Like she wants to make a point. Like she’s angry she still wants you, and the only way to get it out is kissing you hard enough to bruise.

And God, you feel it. Your body is lighting up from the inside, every part of you buzzing. You can taste the rain between her lips, the mix of it and her chapstick and the alcohol on both of your tongues. Her hands slide into your hair, tugging you toward her harder. It’s enough to coax a gasp out of you, and that only makes her groan and lick further into your mouth.

It’s clumsy and wet and messy, teeth knocking a little, breaths hitching, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for rational thought. And you let it happen. You lean into it. You want to punish her a little, too—want her to feel it like you do. So, you kiss her back just as angrily, like she’s not the only one with something to prove.

But then the chill starts to creep in. You’re soaked to the bone now, both of you only in tank tops, and the wind cuts sharp across your face as it whips through the street. As hot as you feel inside, you’re suddenly aware your body is freezing. Besides, you need to be somewhere inside to satisfy your real need—the one resting between your legs, pulsing and aching with want.

You pull back just a little—your lips slipping away from Paige’s, breath fogging between you—and try to catch your bearings. But Paige isn’t done. She follows you forward, mouth chasing yours like she can’t stand even the smallest bit of distance. Her nose bumps yours, big hands still gripping the sides of your face.

“Okay,” you mutter, voice breathless, dazed, trying to push her back with shaky hands on her chest. “Let’s go, c’mon.”

She stares at you, blue eyes wide and glossy under the streetlight glow, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Needa—apartment,” you stumble, the words coming out in fragments because your brian is still somewhere back in that kiss. “Like, now.”

Paige blinks like she finally remembers where the two of you are. She exhales slowly before nodding quicker, saying, “Yeah. Yeah.”

It doesn’t take much longer to get to her apartment. She’s in a different building now, not the same one she lived in when you were dating. You don’t even get a chance to look around before she’s telling you, a little breathless, “Jana and Allie are both staying at Azzi and Morgan’s tonight. We ain’t gotta worry ’bout none of that.”

You nod. “Good,” you reply, but it’s barely out of your mouth before she’s already closing the space between you once more.

Her mouth crashes into yours with this messy, impatient heat that catches you off guard even though you probably should’ve expected it. You gasp slightly, back hitting the wall with a dull thud as her hands find your hips and press in like she’s trying to fuse herself to you.

She kisses you hot and desperate, tasting like her Shirley and rainwater and you, like she’s been starved for too long and forgot what moderation is. Or maybe she never knew in the first place. Her breath is shallow against your cheek when she pulls back just barely, only to bite at your bottom lip, gentle at first and then not. Your knees buckle a little.

She starts walking you backwards eagerly, quickly. Your shoes squeak faintly against the hardwood floor, and every few steps, she pauses to kiss you again—at your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each one a little sloppier than the last, like she’s trying to leave her mouth on every inch of your skin that’s currently available. You stop for a second to kick your shoes off, Paige doing the same, before her hands are right back on you.

You let her guide you, stumbling slightly but somehow never really tripping, your hands tugging at her shirt now without hesitation. Your fingers find the hem and you push upward, palms grazing the warm skin of her stomach, the firmness of her abs. She lifts her arms to help you, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as the tank top peels off her like a second skin, damp from the rain and sticking to her in places. You toss it aside without even looking where it lands.

She’s gorgeous like this—hair damp and sticking to her temples, broad shoulders gleaming slightly from the rain, eyes half-lidded and wild, white sports bra soaking into her skin. You pull her back in. She lets you, fingertips digging into your waist as she spins you slightly and then walks you back the rest of the way.

The door clicks shut behind you, Paige’s hand still on the lock as she flicks it closed without even looking. You only catch a blur of her bedroom before she’s pushing you, your back hitting her mattress with a dull thud. The bed’s soft, and it dips underneath you as Paige follows right after, crawling on top of you without a second thought.

She kisses you hard the moment she’s close enough. No pretense. Just mouth on mouth, rough and messy and hungry. Her knee slips in between your thighs like it belongs there, and suddenly she’s pressing forward, using the weight of her body to open you up, her hands already sliding up your sides, tugging at the hem of the tiny tank top you wore out tonight.

She’s always been like this—especially when drunk. She got clingy, reckless, possessive. All hands and teeth and sharp exhales against your throat. She never hesitated to take what she wanted. Clearly, nothing about that has changed.

You can barely think. Your brain is cotton. Static. Her mouth moves down along your jaw, biting just a little at your skin as her hands palm over your chest through the thin fabric, rough and eager, hardening your nipples. It’s overwhelming in the same way you remember. Like she’s trying to devour your whole. Like you’re the last drink of water on Earth and she’s been crawling through the desert.

You let her take. You’re not even sure if you could stop her if you tried.

“Paige,” you murmur, just her name because you don’t know what else to say. She hums against your neck, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t slow down. Her mouth catches your collarbone bow, her teeth scraping skin, and you can feel your tank top sliding further up, her hands bunching it near your ribs.

You try not to think. About anything. Not about where you are. Not about who’s on top of you. Not about Lucas. Definitely not about that.

But your guilt creeps in, just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You’re cheating on your boyfriend.

You’re actively cheating on Lucas with your sort-of insane ex-girlfriend—who, to be fair, is currently kissing along your body like you’re something deserving of worship. Like she wants to go back to the night you broke up, grab it by the throat, and shake it until it gives you a different ending.

And the worst part is that you want her to.

You want all of this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if tomorrow comes and you have to lie through your teeth about where you were tonight.

Thankfully, you’re pulled from your thoughts as Paige’s fingers hook into your tank top, pulling it up over your head in one smooth, urgent motion. It gets caught for a second, snagged under your arm, but she doesn’t even hesitate. Just lets out a breathy laugh and helps you lift your arms the rest of the way, tossing the top somewhere behind her.

She pauses when she sees you.

You’re bare from the waist up—unlike her, you didn’t bother with a bra tonight. The tank top was enough. You shiver slightly, skin still damp.

“Fuck, baby,” Paige mutters hoarsely. Her eyes roam across your chest like she’s recommitting your breasts to memory—which, she probably is.

And then she leans back in, mouth fast and greedy. Her lips graze across the swell of your chest, her tongue flicking out against one of your pert nipples. She sucks, cheekbones becoming prominent, as her hand stimulates the other bud. You arch into the touch, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, and Paige just groans in response.

She moves even lower, trailing wet kisses down your stomach like she’s trying to worship every inch of you in the fastest way possible. Her hair is still wet from the rain. It sticks to her forehead, her cheeks. You reach down without thinking and brush some strands behind her ear, and for a flicker of a second, her eyes spring up to meet yours.

There’s something in them—something messy and unspoken and so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. She looks at you like she doesn’t know whether to say “I missed you” or “I’m gonna ruin you,” and honestly, it might be both.

You swallow hard as her fingers slide down your sides, wet palms skimming your hips. She shifts slightly above you, her knee pressing deeper between your thighs, and then she mutters, low and little slotted, “’M takin’ these off.”

It’s not a question, or a warning. Just a statement of fact, like she knows it’s already a done deal. Like she knows how much you want her. It pisses you off, but she’s right. You don’t bother trying to argue; you’re too impatient for that right now. Instead, you lift your hips, giving her room.

The denim peels off in slow, wet scrapes—Paige tugging your jeans down clumsily, muttering something under her breath about how soaked they are. Her hands fumble at your ankles, pulling the cuffs off before she throws the mess of fabric to the floor. Her hands are cold and your skin is goosebumped from the downpour, but somehow it just makes everything feel sharper, more alive.

You watch as her gaze returns to you before stilling. The grin sidles upon her face before she even says anything. Her lip quirks, slow and smug. She blinks once, then twice, like she’s confirming something.

“Well, would you look at that,” Paige murmurs, titling her head. Her voice is thick with amusement.

You frown. “What?”

She reaches out, brushes her fingers over the lace of your underwear before snapping the waistband against your stomach. “You wore these,” she replies matter-of-factly. The way she says it makes your face go hot.

You glance down, your stomach twisting the second you register. Lavender lace. The soft pair she got you when you were still dating, the one that belongs in the set with the bra. Purple is her favorite color. You hadn’t meant to wear them tonight. It just—happened. Bad luck. Or maybe subconscious salvatore. You’re not sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble quickly, but your voice is weak, defensive. You shift your hips slightly, trying to throw her off, but she doesn’t let up.

“Nah, nah,” she says, laughing. “You wore these. Tonight. These.” Her fingers curl just under the waistband once more like she’s framing the evidence. “These are my panties.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Paige just chuckles again—low and smug, the sound all warm breath against your thigh—and leans in. She presses her mouth to the inside of your leg, right above the lace, and bites. Not too hard, just enough to make you gasp, make your hips jerk. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you still as she drags her teeth across your skin again.

You feel her fingers trail up between your legs, teasing, lazy. She doesn’t even go for the waistband. Not yet. Just presses her fingers over the damp lace, at your clothed clit, where she knows you’re already pulsing for her. Her touch is light, maddeningly so. Just pressure, then a slow little circle, then nothing. Then again.

You exhale sharply, a little whimpering escaping before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, all cocky and satisfied, rubbing at your pussy through your underwear—her underwear. “You want this, huh?”

You want to roll your eyes. You want to curse her out. You want to tell her to shut up again.

But you also want her hand between your legs, so.

“Obviously,” you mutter instead, shifting your hips closer to her fingers. “Jesus.”

She smirks. “Still so easy for me,” she murmurs, running her thumb in a slow, purposeful drag over your covered clit again. “Still so wet, even with these on. Shit.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way your body is reacting to her—how warm and staticky and shamefully good it feels, even after everything. Especially after everything. It’s fucked yo. It’s so deeply, stupidly fucked up. But the thing about Paige is that she’s always known exactly how to pull you apart, and tonight’s no different.

Her lips move up your thigh again, kisses slower now, mouth more deliberate. She’s still teasing you with her fingers, but at least she’s pressing harder now. Your legs twitch a little under her hands, breath coming faster.

You grab at her wrist. “Paige.”

She hums against your skin. “Mm?”

“Either take ’em off or don’t.”

Another smug little grin. “Bossy,” she mutters, but she finally starts to tug them down.

And you think she’s gonna rip them off just like the jeans and your tank top, quick and careless, like she can’t get them off fast enough. But she doesn’t. She goes slow with it. Real slow. The lace peels off your skin in soft, damp stretches, catching slightly on the curve of your hips, then your thighs, like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s careful with it, rolling them down past your knees, then over your ankles one at a time.

And then, instead of flinging them off to the side like the rest of your clothes, she hesitates.

She holds them, twisting the fabric around her fingers once. She looks at them for a second, like she’s remembering something. And then, without a word, she sets them down—right beside you on the bed, neat and deliberate like she’s placing something valuable. You roll your eyes; you know she’s trying to emphasize the fact that they’re “her” panties.

You watch as her blue eyes trail over you, before settling between your legs. She can see how soaked and slick you are. When she looks back up at you, that teasing edge in her expression is gone. Replaced by something darker. Heavier. Like the sight of you naked knocked the air right out of her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, more to herself than you.

And then she moves.

No more games. No more slow burn or smug comments or smartass remarks. Just Paige, leaning in with a newfound desperation.

The first thing you feel is her breath. Hot and shaky against your cunt, curling over you in waves that make your toes curl. Then her mouth—her lips, soft and plush and open, parting against you like a question she already knows the answer to.

Your hips buck involuntarily and she groans—low and satisfied and a little dizzy—like the taste of you hit her like a shot to the head. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still as she licks a slow stripe between your folds.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she hums like she’s pleased with herself, and the vibration makes you whimper. Her mouth works steadily, not frantic, not messy, just focused. Eager, but in control. She’s pacing herself like she knows exactly how long it’ll take to make you cum—and plans to stretch it out just enough to make you lose your mind before it.

You feel her shift, settling between your legs like she’s not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. One of her hands slides up, presses lightly over your stomach, while the other stays clamped around your thigh, keeping you open and spread for her. You’re breathing hard already, fingers fisting the sheets, head tilted back against the pillow.

But then she flicks her tongue just right—right there, straight on your clit, the perfect little spot she always used to find without trying—and your whole body goes tight.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hips twitching, hand flying to the back of Paige’s head without thinking. Your fingers tingle in her hair, damp and messy and soft, and she lets you, even leans into the pressure like it spurs her on.

“Mm,” she hums again, mouth still locked on you. Her eyes flick up for a second—just long enough for you to see the heat beneath them—and then she closes them again and gets back to work.

Her pace picks up, beginning to circle her tongue on your pussy with more pressure. Like she’s chasing something now. Like she’s chasing you. And when your hips roll up again, she moans softly like she loves that—like she needs it just as much as you do.

“Paige—” you stumble, her name coming out half-broken.

She pulls back for one second, breath ragged, lips slick and swollen, her nose a little wet too, and murmurs, “I gotchu, mama,” before ducking her head again.

And you know she does—in this position, she always does.

She sucks, lips around your bud, and your legs shake.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Her fingers finally move—trail up your thigh again, then find their way between your legs. Her mouth moves down, tongue finding your entrance, thrusting inside. Her fingers, on the other hand, rub over your soaked clit in slow strokes.

You’re a mess now. Moaning soft and breathless, biting your lip, fucking Paige’s face. It’s too much and not enough.

Paige’s grip tightens. She keeps moving her tongue, rubs her fingers faster. The sounds emitting are obscene. Your whole body is trembling, your thighs clenching around her shoulders, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else.

You’re about to cum. You’re right fucking there. You know it, Paige knows it too.

And then: she stops.

Just for a second. Just long enough to make you want to scream.

Her mouth doesn’t move far. Her fingers don’t leave. She just slows everything down—lets her tongue go lazy, softens the pressure of her fingers into something more like a tease than an intention. Just enough to cool the fire without putting it out completely. Enough to keep you hovering in that frustrating, impossible space where you can feel your orgasm burning in your gut, but you can’t reach it.

You whimper, pathetic and desperate. “Paige,” you say. It doesn’t even sound like a protest—it’s too soft. Too needy.

And she just chuckles. Low and rough and stupidly smug. “Sweetheart, I know you ain’t think I was gon’ let you finish that fast,” she chastises.

She licks a lazy stripe up your center, just enough to make you shudder, then pulls back again to speak. “Uh-uh.” Her lips brush the inside of your thigh now. “Nah, baby. Not yet.”

You try to buck your hips, to chase the pressure, but her hand flattens against your stomach again, pinning you down.

“Be good,” she scolds.

It’s cruel. So cruel. But it’s not mean. She’s not doing it to punish you—there’s no spite in it. It’s worse than that. She’s doing it because she wants to. Because she likes this. The control, the way she can make your whole body lose itself with nothing but her mouth and a couple fingers.

She starts again. Slow. Gentle. Just lips and tongue at first—no fingers—circling softly, tasting you with this lazy rhythm that makes your whole body ache. It’s good. God, it’s so good. But it’s not enough.

Every time she gets you close—every time your thighs start to tremble and your hands fist in the sheets and your stomach starts to tighten like you’re gonna explode—she backs off again. Pulls away just enough go to keep you right there on the edge. And it happens again. And again. And again.

You lose count around the fourth time. Maybe the fifth.

Your entire body is flushed, sweat beading down your neck and across your chest, your breathing ragged and high in your throat. You’re begging now, pride gone. Just soft, broken pleads slipping from your lips.

“Please,” you whisper, over and over. “Paige, please.”

She hums like she’s thinking about it. “Please what?” she asks, voice all innocent like she doesn’t already know. “Whatchu want, baby?”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to cum. But mostly, you want her—her mouth, her fingers, her everything. The full weight of her attention. No more teasing. No more games.

“I want—” You can barely get the words out. Your voice is hoarse. “I want to cum. Please.”

She grins into your thigh, and you can feel it.

“Yeah?” she asks. “You want me to let you?”

You nod hard, nearly gasping. “Yes. God, yes, baby, please.”

She takes her time, still. Like she’s filing that away for later—your voice all cracked and pleading, your body practically shaking with want.

But then—finally—her mouth returns, this time with her fingers. Two of them, slow at first, just enough to ease inside, stretch you open at this perfect pace that makes your eyes roll back. And then her tongue follows—firm and fast and focused again.

She doesn’t let up this time.

Her fingers pump deep, curling just right with every thrust. Her mouth locks onto your clit, her tongue flicking and circling, and you feel it. You feel the difference. You feel her let you.

It builds so fast you almost don’t believe it’s happening—like your body can’t trust it yet, like it’s waiting for her to pull away again. But she doesn’t. She keeps going. Keeps fucking you with her fingers and sucking with just the right amount of pressure until you’re moaning like mad. Until your back arches clean off the bed.

And when you finally cum, you really cum.

It hits like a wave—full-body, all-consuming, a rush of heat and noise and sensation that floods your chest and curls your toes and makes your vision blur. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, Paige’s name breaking on your tongue as everything finally snaps.

She holds you through it. Keeps her fingers moving just enough to ride it out, keeps her mouth pressed against you like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of it. And when your thighs tremble and your hips jerk and you try to push her away, overstimulated, and breathless, she only pulls back slowly, letting you come down soft and dizzy and completely gone.

You collapse against the bed, boneless, the sheets twisted beneath you and your skin flushed everywhere. Your chest is rising and falling like you ran a marathon, your eyes fluttering shut, and your lips are parted like you forgot how to close them.

Paige crawls back up your body, slow and smug and glowing like she just won something. Her mouth is shiny, her chin wet, her eyes softer now. She leans in, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then your hip, then right between your ribs like she’s following a map only she can read.

And then she finally kisses you. You taste yourself on her tongue.

“Still alive?” she murmurs, pulling back just barely, her breath fanning over your lips.

You nod tiredly. She grins.

“Good,” she says, nudging your nose with hers. “’Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Paige,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You can’t, you swear. After all the edging and teasing, you’re fucking spent.

“C’mon,” Paige breathes as her fingers trail back down, teasing light circles on your clit like she’s checking to see if you’re still there. Still dripping for her. Still a mess. You are.

But instead of going soft or gentle—instead of giving you a break—Paige just laughs, low and smug and annoying, leaning closer until her forehead brushes yours. She’s smiling down at you like she’s seen this movie a hundred times before and already knows how it ends.

“You can’t take anymore? Really?” she asks, faux innocent, like she didn’t just spent twenty minutes dragging you to the edge and yanking you back every time you even thought about finishing.

You shake your head, too wrecked to even be embarrassed. Your legs twitch under her, and your breath stutters when she dips her hand again, rubbing faster now, rougher. Quick circles.

Your eyes fly open. “Paige—!”

She’s right there, hovering, looking so calm it’s almost rude. Her voice drops low, warm and coaxing. “You got it,” she murmurs, then leans in, kissing you languidly. “I’mma strap you, ’kay? It’s gon’ feel good.”

You blink at her, heart stuttering. The words hit you like a wave of something—lust, maybe, or memory, or just plain old holy shit, it’s been a while type of adrenaline.

Because, with Paige, the strap is something different. And you remember.

You remember how it used to turn her into almost someone else entirely—more focused, more intense, like she stepped into a role made for her. All that cocky, athletic confidence of hers funneled into every thrust. It used to drive you insane. She’d smirk down at you, hold you steady by the hips, mutter stuff under her breath that made your brain go static. Always so good at knowing when to push, when to slow down, when to whisper something filthy in your ear like she owned you. And, back then, she kind of did.

So, if you already here, already ruined and half-gone and trembling in her bed—you might as well let her finish the job.

You nod, barely, and Paige’s smile shifts into something more serious. Still soft, but hungrier now. Like she knows this means something and she’s not gonna waste it.

“Okay,” she says, voice lower. “Don’t move.”

Then she kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Her mouth is everywhere at once, moving down in quick little bursts of affection like she can’t stop touching you, even for a second.

You hear the drawer behind her open, the soft jingle of the harness. It takes her no time at all. She shimmies out of her cargos and boxers thickly, and fits the purple thing—same color as those panties she got you—to her hips with the same efficiency she’s got on the court.

She climbs back over you, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking in, making sure you’re okay—not just ready, but okay. Her hand slips under your thigh slowly, lifting it gently to drape over her waist.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just runs her fingers down your side again, resting them low on your hip as she settles between your legs. The silicone presses soft against your skin, and you twitch, already sensitive.

“Look at me,” she tells you, quieter now. Not demanding, more like a reminder. You do. You meet her eyes, and she gives you this look—tender, steady, locked in—that makes your stomach flip.

“You still want this?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

You nod. “Yeah. Want you, P.”

Something flickers across her face when you say it. Then she leans down, kisses you once, deep and slow. Her hips roll forward just a bit, her strap dipping into your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” she mumbles.

Then she starts to move.

And—God.

You forgot how good she is at this. How well she reads you. How every stroke is meaningful—hips snapping forward in a rhythm that builds slow, steady, patient. She’s not fucking around anymore. She’s locked into this, onto you.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, fingers digging into her back, her shoulders, whatever you can hold. Your legs fall open wider around her hips, and the air goes thick between you—all breath and skin and sound.

She leans down, forearm braced beside your head, sweat already starting to gather along her hairline. Her voice is right against your ear now, rough and low, saying, “Fuck, missed this. Missed you.”

You gasp, nails digging into her skin.

She keeps going. Her hips rock into you steadily and your head tips back into the pillow. She’s so deep, so good, and your body is still humming from everything before—all that edging left you raw, still twitching and clenching down around nothing, and now she’s filling you. Driving into you with smooth, practiced thrusts.

She moves like she owns you—like this is hers, has always been hers, and you’re just finally getting back to what was supposed to be. You can barely catch your breath. The slick sounds between you, the pressure building low in your stomach, the quiet grunts coming out of her mouth every time she drives back—it’s a lot.

Paige’s body hovers over yours, strong and steady, blonde hair falling a little wild into her face—and yours—as she stares down at you. Her cross chain dangles above you as well. It makes you wet. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s tracking every breath, every twitch. Making sure she’s hitting the spot. Making sure you feel all of her.

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

Your fingers curl deeper into her shoulders, your voice slipping out in little gasps and stuttered moans.

“Shit,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” Paige says, breath warm against your mouth. She’s grinning again, cocky as ever. “That feel good?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “So good. Jesus—”

“Mmm,” she hums, and then she leans in again, nipping lightly at your jaw and throat. Her hips roll deeper, sharper, like she wants to remind you exactly who is doing this to you. “Don’t bring him into this. You know I’m the one that fucks you like this.”

You shudder—because yeah. She is.

And this shouldn’t be different. Theoretically. Mechanically. You’ve been having sex with a man for months now—Lucas, your boyfriend. He has a real dick and everything. And, with him, it’s been fine.

But this?

This isn’t fine. This is Paige. And what she’s doing to you—this focused, obsessive, filthy thing she’s doing with her strap and her body and her mouth and her fucking words—it’s not even in the same universe.

It’s better. So much better.

She’s in a whole different mode now. Not the teasing, soft, cocky Paige from earlier—not even the sweet, grinning, “let me make you feel good” Paige. This version of her? The one who puts the strap on and immediately goes a little feral? You almost forgot about this side of her. Or maybe you blocked it out because of how goddamn dangerous it is.

She moves harder, faster, her rhythm never faltering as she slips a hand under your thigh and pushes it up, opening you more, giving herself a better angle.

Her voice drops again, gravelly and low, lips brushing your ear. “You miss this dick, huh?”

You gasp. “Paige—”

She laughs, all breath and grit. “Yeah, you do. Don’t lie. You’ve been lettin’ him touch you, yeah? That boyfriend of yours.”

You blink yo at her, brain short-circuiting, and she moans when she sees it—the way you clench around her strap, the way your eyes roll just a little. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You let him fuck you?” she asks, still thrusting, her voice starting to get breathless. “Let him hear you make all those sounds you used to make for me?”

You shake your head—not because it didn’t happen, but because that’s not what matters right now. Not when Paige is here, inside you, her hand gripping your thigh tight and her hips snapping forward like she’s trying to make you forget everyone who isn’t her.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, still talking through shallow breaths.

“He ever get you this wet? Huh?” she asks. “You ever beg him like this?”

You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is whimper, grabbing at her shoulders, your legs shaking with every thrust. Your body—your cunt, mostly—feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” she mutters, more to herself now. “You can let him date you, whatever. But you always come back to me for this. Don’t you?”

You nod. Or try to. Everything’s blurry now—pleasure curling in your spine, building too fast again. The way she’s thrusting, angled to brush against that gummy spot deep inside you every time, it’s criminal. And she knows it. She keeps her hand on your hip, guiding you into her rhythm, using your body like she built it herself.

“Paige,” you gasp. “I’m—fuck, baby, I’m close.”

Her eyes flash, and she slows just slightly, grinding instead of thrusting, pulling out a ragged moan from your chest. “Yeah?” she whispers. “You wanna cum for me?”

You nod fast, begging with your eyes now.

She leans in again, presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “Go ’head. I got you.”

She thrusts—so fucking deep—and your body goes completely out of your control. That pressure builds too fast, too tight, and your thighs shake. You clench around Paige, voice cracking into a high whimper. Your legs go stiff, whole body arching. Paige rides you through it, hips still moving, her mouth catching the sounds you can’t control.

You cum harder than you have in a long, long time. Even harder than the first one tonight.

And Paige—sweaty, wild-eyed, her strap glistening between you—just smirks down at you like she knows.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek again. “That’s my girl.”

She eases out of you slow, careful, knowing you’re tender, and even still, it makes you flinch a little. Your whole body’s buzzing—nerves fried, legs weak, brain a complete blur. And the second she’s out, that emptiness hits you like a gut punch. You sigh, deep and shaky, already missing the weight and heat of her even though she’s right there.

You’re still leaking, thighs sticky, body limp. You don’t move—can’t, really—so you just watch her through heavy-lidded eyes as she undoes the harness and slides it down her legs. She tosses it lazily toward the floor, not even looking where it lands, and then she crawls up beside you, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her pale skin is flushed and glistening. You feel the mattress dip as she pulls herself closer, wraps on long, sweaty arm behind your back, and drags to right on top of her like you weigh nothing.

You don’t resist. You just melt into her.

Her skin is damp and hot against yours, her abs tight beneath your belly, and she lets out a small, winded laugh as you settle in, tucking your face into her neck. Her other hand reaches up, pulls at the hem of the sports bra she’s still wearing. She shimmies it off with some difficulty, then flings it somewhere behind her with zero aim, sighing like she’s been dying to get it off for a while now.

You glance up at her, and she looks down at you, her mouth soft, a little swollen. Then, she leans in and kisses you again—slow this time. Not needy or rushes. Just warm.

You’re so lost in it that you barely notice the way she’s shifting—until her thigh hooks around yours and suddenly her cunt is pressed right against you’re. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. It sends a shockwave through you, makes your breath hitch in your throat and your hips jerk without thinking.

“One more, mama,” Paige murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You almost say no. Almost.

Because your body is fried. You’ve cum twice—hard, both times. And you’re sore and wrung-out and still trembling in little aftershocks. But then she’s calling you mama in that voice again—sweet and wrecked and a little desperate—and you know exactly what she’s asking for.

She deserves at least once. She’s been so patient. So fucking good to you tonight. You don’t even think she cares about cumming, honestly—she’s always been the type to chase your pleasure more than hers—but still. You want to give her that. Want to watch her fall apart, too.

So, even though your body is screaming at you to rest, you give a little nod. And then another.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. One more.”

Paige kisses you hard this time, all teeth and tongue and gratitude, and then she’s adjusting your hips again, sliding one of her legs between yours and guiding your thigh up over hers. And then you’re there, pressed together, pussy to pussy, and fuck—it’s a lot. There’s no slow build. You’re already soaked and swollen, and so is she, and the friction is fast and immediate and sweltering.

She groans into your mouth as you grind your hips down into hers, and you can feel her grip tighten on your waist.

“God, baby,” she mumbles. “Fuck, you feel s’good.”

You whimper, already teetering on the edge again. “’M not gonna last,” you admit, breath catching. “I’m so—God, P—”

“I know,” she says, not missing a beat. “I know. Just wanna feel you. Wanna cum with you.”

She guides you with her hands, rocking your hips against hers, keeping the rhythm steady when your thighs start shaking.

“You’re so wet, holy fuck,” Paige breathes. “You’re makin’ a mess on me, mama. You hear that?”

You do. That obscene, slick sound where your pussies meet, the wetness mixing and sliding. It makes your cheeks burn, but it also pushes you closer.

You want to finish with her—you really do. You want to hold you, want to grind together until you both cum at the same time, messy and gasping. But your body has other plans. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, and it’s Paige. That combination doesn’t give you a lot of room to breathe.

So you finish first—again—your body seizing up on top of her. It’s not big like the others, but it’s sharp and sweet and hits you right behind your eyes, whitening your vision. You let out a breathy little moan and shudder all over Paige, your thighs twitching around her hips, your chest collapsing against hers.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” Paige groans, feeling you cum against her, sliding along her own pussy. She doesn’t stop. She just keeps going, grinding up into you a little more insistently now, chasing her own orgasm.

Her grip on you tightens, essentially manhandling your hips now. She tilts up into you, breath catching, and you feel her tensing under you, her thighs locking around yours.

“God, I’mma cum—shit,” she yelps, one last grind of your pussy sending her over the edge.

Finally, you both go still, the air between you thick and humid and exhausted. You collapse fully on top of her now, cheek smushed against her collarbone, her arms wrapped loosely around your back, her heartbeat pounding under your ribs.

Neither of you talks for a minute. You just breathe.

And then Paige sighs, light and wrecked.

“Fuck,” she curses. “Are we gonna regret this tomorrow?”

You’re too tired to think about it. Too dazed to pretend like you have any clue what the hell any of this means.

So you just press your face into her shoulder, and mumble, because you do know this one thing, “Definitely.”

[sp0o0kylights]

Sometimes I think of a Steve Harrington that is absolutely exhausted by all the horror and bullshit and trying to keep the kids alive through said horror and bullshit, who watches Eddie rock up to him at the beginning of S4 with a dead eyed, flat stare.

"Steeeeve Harrington." Eddie taunts and peacocks and twirls around him, and all Steve wanted was for a couple months to process the trauma, maybe feel safe enough to start thinking about the future instead of stuck in a never ending anxiety loop of what might happen to Dumbass Near-Deatherson, should Steve go to college or move out of Hawkins (bc all the bad nicknames in the world won't erase the fact that Dustin's family, now. They're all family. And when they need help, they go to Steve.) and now he's suffering the unjust ordeal of being haunted by the high school drug dealer.

"His highness has come down from his castle!" Munson will crow, making a show out of Steve picking up the kids like this is a great battle of wits, a scoreboard between them and not like Steve is half dead on his feet, head aching, dreams full of too many teeth. "Quickly hide behind me, he'll try to cut off your heads!"

"Wouldn't he just cut yours off too?" Lucas asked, though the tone was slightly timid, Sinclair unsure if his joke would be well recieved.

(Steve doesn't care if the kid outright insults him. He still recalls the junkyard, the fight with Billy, the blood staining the kid's headband. Lucas lived, therefore, he can be a shit if wants.)

"Mine? Oh, the King wouldn't dare." Munson tosses his head, full of cartoon energy, too big for his body and grin both. "Many have tried you see, but no one had ever succeeded!"

Steve, equally, does not give a single shit that Eddie Munson has decided to play these games with him--until he realizes he's maybe been a little too exhausted and depressed and morose around the kids.

Watches them getting worried over him, whispering urgently and making dramatic gestures and talking to Robin and suddenly, playing a little tug of war over them the way Munson seems to want feels like a good idea. A way to hide all the rough edges, a way to be fine so they can be fine.

"How about you guys skip the dork brigade tonight," Steve taunts back the next time they're all together, standing like the man he used to be, wearing a dead personality. "And we go do something actually fun instead?"

Eddie laughs, lights up, is all too happy to match him tit for tat, and it's so easy to fake this kind of interaction, rolling his eyes and snapping his gum. Steve could match this energy in his sleep, and never once does Munson catch on that Steve's not doing this for him.

That he's not even looking at him half the time, eyes askew, locked on the kids. Seeing them relax as he banters, seeing Dustin glow as he returns to his favorite position, being the center of attention.

So long as they think he's okay, Steve will be okay. If that means putting up with Munson, then so be it.

Its not like he'll catch on.

Eddie doesnt.

(Or rather, he does--but Its months and several deaths later, when they're in the RV, chasing what feels like literal demons, does it dawn on Eddie what Steve is doing.

Has been doing, the whole time.

Steve, sassy, ridiculous, jock- brained Steve makes the mistake of doing it again, using the same trick he had on the kids to convince them he was fine on Eddie. To further convince Eddie that they were fine as a group.

That they'll survive, they'll figure it out, they'll make it.

Loudly bantering with dead eyes, smiling with a mouth robotically locked in. Jokes on jokes on jokes and all of them making the kids take their minds off VecnaHenryOne to screech ineffectively at their babysitter. Winks tossed to the girls, who both roll their eyed at him. A sly look given to Eddie, to include him.

Its then, that Eddie decides to cement his life with Steve's. Because this loyal bastard of a paladin is too good hearted to die, too protective to not try it anyway. The idiot is cutting himself to ribbons to tie them all together and Eddie can't undo the damage but he can grab all the pieces he can, loop them together.

He can make those dead eyes light up again.

And he does.

This time when things are over Steve finds himself unable to pull those little tricks of his. Every time he slides the mask over his face Eddie rips it right back off again.

They fight, a lot, until they start kissing instead and for a while that also, somehow, feels like fighting but Eddie's real good at this. The emotional part, not so much the kissing, but he knows how to draw Steve out. How to break down walls, and annoying his real personality out.

The kissing was just an odd little side benefit.

A thing they don't talk about.

There's a benefit to it, one he doesn't look very hard into, until strangely, one day, Eddie wakes with Steve's head pillowed on his shoulder and comes to the abrupt conclusion that he's screwed.

Or so he thinks--until bright, loving eyes blink awake, and turn on him, and Eddie realizes just how long it's been since they looked dead.

He wonders, vaguely, how long it'll take for Steve to catch on, that this just got serious.

Will laugh at himself when he learns that Steve already knew.

Guess that's what he gets for finally paying attention.)

[cosycryptid]

Modern AU where the party have a famous paranormal investigation and unsolved mysteries youtube channel. Steve is in the background of their first ghost hunting video because he wasn't going to let them go and stay overnight in an abandoned building without supervision. Their audience finds Steve's sarcastic comments and parental attitude towards the kids really compelling and most of the comments on that video are begging for him to become a regular in their on location videos. Before long, Steve is a reoccurring presence in their videos playing the skeptic/concerned parent role.

For example:

Dustin: I’ve connected the dots guys. This must be the work of a demon.

Steve: You didn’t connect shit. It's just an old creaky building.

Dustin: I’ve connected them.

—————————————

In an abandoned hospital.

Max: Hey this giant metal door has some kind of engraving on it.

Lucas: Oh cool, it looks like old graffiti.

Steve: Yeah that’s great, do you know what else it looks like? Rusty as shit. Now get back here and don’t touch anything because your parents are gonna be so pissed if they find out you had to get tetanus shots at 2am on a Saturday because I let you wander around an abandoned hospital with a bunch of shady ass camera men. No offense.

Camera man: None taken.

Mike (from the doorway): Guys! Will, El and Dustin found an operating theatre and there are a bunch of old scalpels and needles and stuff in there.

Max: Awesome, let’s go.

Steve: No! No! Let’s not go! Let’s stay as far away as possible from the room full of potential infections. Where are Dustin, El and Will? They didn’t go inside the room, did they?

Mike: See, I could answer that, but I don’t think you’re gonna like it.

—————————————

While exploring a ‘haunted’ hotel:

Mike: Hey look, all of Steve’s bitches are in this room.

El: There is nobody in there.

Mike: Exactly.

He turns to look directly into the camera with a sly grin and the others start laughing.

Steve: Yeah, yeah. You’ll be laughing when I drive home without you.

—————————————

At the same hotel.

Steve: Dustin. Your little light box thing is broken, it’s been flashing on and off for the past five minutes.

Dustin: Oh my God, Steve! That means it can sense a spirit. Why didn’t you say anything?! Did you not listen to my long and detailed explanation of how the equipment works?

Steve: I’m gonna be so honest with you. No, I didn’t.

—————————————

On their Mothman episode trip to point pleasant.

Steve, staring at the statue (we all know which one): Ok, but why is he kinda…

Lucas: Please stop talking.

Dustin: No sexualising the cryptids please, Steve.

Steve: If they didn’t want anyone to sexualise Mothman, then why would they give his statue such a defined ass and abs?

Max: I mean, he’s not wrong.

—————————————

Eventually, Steve gets peer pressured by the comments into starting his own channel. And since he still has no idea what he wants to do with his life, he decides to go ahead and do it.

At first his audience are super confused because his content is a hard pivot from the supernatural and unsolved mysteries content people are used to seeing him in. He mainly reacts to DIY haircare videos and gives tips on how to do what the people in the videos were trying to do properly without risking ending up bald.

He also makes wholesome baking videos, and has a side podcast with Robin, where they talk shit for 3 hours about anything they want - usually celebrities and assholes on the internet - as well as having a segment where Robin makes Steve watch a movie he's never seen and they review it. People who came from the paranormal channel still love his content because he’s funny and sassy and his videos are surprisingly helpful at times. He’s soon catching up to his friends in subscriber numbers.

Eddie and his band have a channel where they upload music videos, live performances and backstage/tour vlogs. They also make the occassional song covers where they take requests in the comments for metal versions of pop songs. Eddie also has a side channel where he runs D&D campaigns with other influencers (he hates that word).

One day he’s doing a Q&A and when someone asks which influencers he’d like to invite for his next campaign, he mentions Steve and says he’s been secretly watching his videos for a while and they’re kind of a guilty pleasure. He’s even tried some of Steve’s hair care tips because his hair was looking a bit frazzled under the heat of the lights on stage and it was getting in his way during performances. Now he swears by them because his hair has never looked or felt better.

Steve’s never seen any of Eddie’s videos but he starts watching them after that, he particularly likes the metal versions of pop songs because it makes the genre more accessible to him. Sometimes he makes joke song suggestions in the comments. Every single time, the song he suggested gets covered.

The boys are all insanely jealous of this new development because they’ve been fans of Eddie’s channels for years and have been bringing up references to some of his campaigns in their videos to try and get him to consider them for the next one, but so far have had no luck. Meanwhile, Steve, who doesn’t even know the first thing about D&D has his full attention. Steve was going to ask Eddie to consider asking them out of the kindness of his heart, but after they’ve given him a little too much attitude over it, he decides he’s gonna join the campaign instead just to spite them.

Cue Steve going from completely clueless to kind of a decent player and the two of them going from fascinated with each other to constantly flirting and appearing in each other’s videos.

[bigsloppycrush]

collagen [eddie munson]

there was a time while eddie was still healing when he wouldn’t let anyone touch him. eddie’s always been the kind to lick his wounds in private, and for a while it felt like he was all wound. 8k.

undead!eddie (kind of), f!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, angst, first kiss, processing trauma, lots of talk of scars. cross-posted to ao3. originally inspired by my idol @luveline 's fic 'love bites'. go read it.

⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Eddie stares at himself in the small mirror of the medicine cabinet. He contemplates his body from the waist up, trying to discern if any of his scars appear a little fainter, a little less noticeable. His face seems to have healed nicely, no raised skin despite the slightly uneven colouration in places. His body is a different story; deeper wounds heal differently. He’s been using the fancy oil Wayne got him after every shower. He isn’t sure it’s really making a difference but it smells good so he uses it anyways.

Eddie spent a long time recovering after the Upside Down, feeling and looking like the undead. Face gaunt, hair limp, skin marbled with reds, browns, blues. Most days he still feels only half alive. On good days, he plays it up in his mind. How metal is it to be the world’s first zombie, he thinks to himself. On worse days, he can’t do much other than rot in his bed, unsure if he was ever meant to make it out alive.

He traces the big scar he deems the worst of his collection, ghosting his fingertips down his neck, towards his chest. He gets lost in the sensation, absentmindedly running over skin, scar, skin, scar. The thought of you flits into his head and for a moment, Eddie wonders what your fingers would feel like on his chest. He gets carried away briefly, entertaining the fantasy of intimacy. He can’t remember the last time he welcomed the physical sensation of someone else’s skin on his. Certainly it had to have been before he became Hawkins' resident zombie. In the safety of his head, in the privacy of his small bathroom, he rules that your fingertips would feel like angel kisses all over. But what would your lips feel like? The question enters his mind and he flushes, embarrassed to be having thoughts like this about you. You were his coworker and also his friend, and friends do not think about their other friends’ lips.

Eddie shakes his head, trying to dispel the phantom pleasure of your imagined touch. Everything is tingling as he steps into the shower.

X

You're mouthing the words to the song stuck in your head as you step outside. You meet Eddie out front of the Radio Shack that employs half of the young adults in Hawkins, the both of you included. You shrug off the thin hoodie you wear to work, stuffing it into your tote. Eddie looks up at you, eyes tracing your bare arms. He pulls his sweater a little further down his wrists before meeting your smile and offering a charmingly timid greeting.

You've noticed that Eddie’s a diligent type, always the first one to arrive and the last one to leave no matter the occasion. Maybe diligent isn’t the right word. Considerate, maybe. Today, you find him sitting on the curb, patiently waiting for you to finish your shift, unsure of how long he'd been there. On this momentous Wednesday Eddie is taking you to the movies. Not alone, not this time, though it’s something he thinks about. Something pulpy just hit theatres and the kids are just dying to see it. Dustin, having begged Eddie to drive, is dragging everyone out for the evening.

Backtracking into town, Eddie drives the way to pick up Dustin and Lucas, then Mike and El. Steve would be meeting you at the theatre after grabbing Robin and Max. The heat of the day has broken now, the sun getting close to setting. When you ask Eddie about his day, he tries not to look at you for too long in the pinkening light.

“Any progress today?” You ask when you catch his eyes.

“Nah, not much. Was too hot to think.”

Eddie’s been writing lots of music lately. Fewer lyrics, more riffs and melodies. It’s something that brings him out of his head and into his body. He loves the way his guitar strings feel under his fingers and the way the vibrations from the instrument’s body feel against him. He preens a little at your interest. He’s glad you think his music is cool, glad he can share this part of himself with you.

“You should come write in the Shack, it’s fucking freezing in there.”

“And distract you from repairing Steve’s Walkman for the third time?”

“Maybe if you played live he’d have less reason to keep using the poor thing. I keep telling him to just buy a new one.”

“Imagine a rock concert by the VCRs. For one day only: Eddie Munson and The Tapes.”

You make a noise imitating roaring applause and Eddie laughs.

“When are you finally gonna play for me?” You tease. “I’ll keep asking until it happens.”

“You’ll have to buy a ticket just like everyone else, sweetheart.” He glances at you to make sure he got his tone right and he’s pleased when you scrunch your nose at him. Little pieces of himself seem to find their way back to him when he’s with you.

“You really should’ve picked Dustin up first, you know.”

Eddie had hardly registered entering the suburbs. There was no world in which he was ever going to pass up the chance to have a few minutes alone with you. Most of your time together is spent at work or in the company of your mutual friends. Sure, he’s gotten to know you pretty well, and sure, it’s not like you never get the chance to talk one-on-one. It’s just that recently he’s been wondering what it would be like to have you all to himself for a day, to have more time alone with you outside of Radio Shack shifts and outside of the brief stretches of time when everyone else is busy talking to each other.

“So he could ride shotgun? No way.” Eddie’s eyes glint at you. If he had been braver in the moment he might have said something about your seat being reserved for pretty girls but he’s still working on his courage.

Your answering smile warms him, his hands now a little tighter on the wheel.

The theatre is busy by Hawkins standards and there’s a line at concessions by the time all of you are assembled. The kids decide to forgo popcorn to try and get good seats, and leave the adults (air quotes around that word) to make their decisions. You laugh as Steve and Robin bicker about whether or not to get a combo and which one would really be better value. Piping in at first then backing off, it’s clear you recognize your input won’t help or speed things along. Still, you watch amused as your friends have it out. Eddie thinks it’s sweet, both his friends and your patience for their antics. He wants to get involved, rib Steve a little, but he’s starting to feel antsy.

Eddie feels hypervisible to all people who aren’t his people. It’s like everyone in Hawkins can sense the death radiating off of him, his aura drawing unkind eyes and whispers. He starts edging slowly towards the theatre hoping either Steve or Robin might get the hint. As the slow minutes stretch on, he feels his clothes itching against his skin. It’s not that his friends aren’t usually attentive, they’re the best friends he’s ever had. They just get caught up in their fun and he can’t fault them for that.

Eddie almost startles when he notices you noticing his, frankly, scared expression and posture before you turn back to Steve and Robin. There’s a searing second in which Eddie is terrified you’re judging him, that you’ve seen through him and straight into his damage. He hasn’t been in very many vulnerable positions around you and you’ve yet to see him really panic. It's much easier to hold down his anxiety in when he's safe in Steve's basement. He doesn’t know how much you know, how much anyone else has told you about what happened. He knows you’re kind to the others and that they feel comfortable around you, but Eddie knows he’s different. He knows you’ve picked up on his aversion to closeness and his constant modesty. He’s broken in a way the others aren’t. He doesn’t know how to make sense of that. He’s terrified that he’s too fucked to ever re-enter society outside of his fellow survivors. He’s terrified of himself.

He watches as you put your hand on Robin’s arm catching her attention just long enough to let her know you’re heading inside and then turn back to Eddie, nodding your head towards the theatre. You take the first few steps slowly, waiting for him to follow.

And just like that, he feels seen.

Not in the way he usually does, not like you’re surveilling or assessing him. Like you get him. Like you don't mind all the weird.

Eddie trails behind you, eyes still a little wide. When you ask him quietly where he wants to sit he gestures non-committally to some seats nearby. You nod and pick a spot not too far from the door, no indication that you’d rather venture further in to be closer to the screen. Settling in, Eddie tries to breathe quietly, glad there’s nobody on his other side. He’s overly aware of his skin, his scars. Everything is warm. He thinks it’s an anxiety thing, this new full body sensation. He never felt like this before everything.

“You okay?”

You float the question casually, eyes fixed on the previews to give Eddie a moment of privacy. He nods lightly to himself more than anything before whispering an affirmative. Your gaze finally turns to his and you smile softly, your hand reaching for him. Your open palm hovers over his wrist on the armrest between you for a millisecond and he watches you catch yourself, thinking twice.

“Sorry, I should ask before I touch.” You say, withdrawing. You’re still smiling at him.

His body lights up again. You see him. He feels like you see him.

You turn back towards the screen, hand settling in your lap. He knows you well enough now to know you feel a little embarrassed that you reached for him without thinking. He wishes you didn't. He wishes he knew how to tell you he doesn't mind anything you do, ever.

When Eddie gets home later after dropping you off, he won’t remember most of the movie. He’ll remember how he spent the first act imagining your touch and daring himself to do… something. He’ll remember his heartbeat as he eventually, finally reached for your hand and how soft it was against his. He’ll remember the way you gently squeezed his fingers and the heat that rocketed through him. He’ll remember that you didn’t let go until he did, and that his palms itched against the steering wheel the whole way home.

X

A girl is in Eddie’s room. A real live girl is in Eddie Munson’s room. You are the real live girl in Eddie Munson’s room and he’s trying so hard not to freak the fuck out. He didn’t exactly mean for this to happen but, well, you’re here now and he’s doing his best to roll with it.

You don’t work every shift with Eddie, your hours far outnumbering his, but most of his shifts are ones he works with you. Today was one of those days when you were in together but not one where you got to talk as much as he’d have liked to. His favourite shifts are when you’re both on repair. Paired with anyone else he establishes his space, setting up on a small section of countertop off to the side and out of the way. With you though, he’s learned not to curl in on himself so tightly. He’s grown accustomed to and even excited for the chance that you might share tools or that your small bits and bobs might bleed into the space of his small odds and ends. Eddie Munson is not a yearner by any means but god does he spend a stupid amount of time hoping you might brush fingers or elbows while on the clock. Today was a let down in that you were on inventory while he was in his usual spot at the counter. Not only was he unable to figure out what was wrong with the radio he was working on, he also did not get to spend six hours working beside you. You, being as sweet as you are pretty, snuck over when you could though. He both loved and hated feeling you lingering over his shoulder when your manager wasn't looking.

On the whole, Eddie missed you today, which he felt weird saying in his head. So when you asked him about his after work plans (of which there were none) and he asked you about yours (also none), he asked if you wanted to hang out with him before he could think about it for too long. Or think about it at all. In an extended moment of bravery, or maybe brainlessness, Eddie seems to have invited you over and shown you into his room.

Eddie never really liked bringing people home. It wasn’t due to embarrassment exactly, it was something closer to a kind of fierce protectiveness. Eddie loves his trailer and his uncle. Lifetimes ago, when he used to invite people in more loosely, it wasn’t uncommon for people to look out of place there, their stiff bodies lingering close to the door.

You look perfect though. Like the right throw blanket, or a new window, or something else that’s supposed to tie a room together. Eddie isn’t sure how to qualify exactly what it is he thinks you add to his bedroom, but he's never really been good at interior design. Or having girls over.

“This is where the magic happens.” Eddie’s delivery is half-hearted as his hands find his pockets. He stands in the door frame in what he knows is an awkward approximation of appearing relaxed. You respond enthusiastically, making up for his hesitation. Eyes wide and curious you take a few cautious steps around his space.

“Cool.” You breathe softly, and Eddie knows you’re being sincere.

Tidier than he used to be, his bed is made and his stuff is somewhat neat. Your hands skim over his nightstand and the clutter on it. Dice, figurines, guitar picks and a book lying spine up. Eddie tries to shake the tension in his back but he finds he can't help it. He really, really wants you to like him, even though he's already pretty sure you do. He finds he feels naked despite his usual armour of long-sleeved shirt and baggy joggers.

Turning back towards him, your eyes catch on the shiny red thing hung against his wall. Laying pretty between two dark and dramatic posters, it's easy to tell that Eddie's guitar is a highly treasured possession. This is where Eddie feels confident jumping in.

“This,” he gestures grandly, “Is Sweetheart.”

You ooo appropriately as he takes her down for you to look at.

“She’s a B.C. Rich Warlock, I bought her brand new a few years ago. I saved up for months before I turned 16 and Wayne still had to spot me."

You smile at the pride and fondness in Eddie's voice. He looks pretty like this, eyes turned down, soft and adoring.

“She, huh? I knew there had to be someone special in your life.”

He looks up from the instrument's body, unsure about what exactly you’re poking fun at.

“You’re a catch,” you clarify, “I knew there was no way you were really single.”

Eddie ducks his head quickly before trying to meet your gaze again. He fails at this, eyes jumping right back down to Sweetheart, flattery and insecurity flaring equally inside of him.

"I'd love to hear you play something." Your tone, imploring though not pleading, has the most ridiculous pull on his heart.

"Uh, sure. Yeah, any requests?" Eddie is still trying to be brave.

"Whatever you think I'll like." Your smile makes him ache. "You think about it while I snoop some more."

Your attention is quickly captured by his small yet packed bookshelf. The warmth in his chest persists as he watches you tilt your head sideways to read the titles. Setting down on his bed, Eddie tucks his legs into a crisscross. What would you like? Eddie reckons you like a bit of everything so he thinks he could maybe pick a rock ballad? Something not too heavy but still true to his tastes.

Noodling a little to ease his nerves Eddie can feel the seam of his sleeve pressing uncomfortably between his guitar and his arm. He usually gets changed when he’s home, shedding his shirt in favour of one of his DIY tank tops and his pants in favour of his boxers. He often finds it warm in the trailer and he knows he’s safe here. Thinking about it, he realizes he never plays his guitar with long sleeves on anymore. He decides right then and there that it's uncomfortable and that he doesn’t like doing it. This, of course, is problematic for a few reasons. For one, you’re here in his room and you’ve never seen anything more than slips of Eddie’s wrists, ankles and collarbones. He knows you know something’s wrong with him. Or, rather, he knows you know he has scars. Anyone would notice how they peek out of his clothes in places, not to mention the unevenness of his face. As he plucks away tensely, Eddie weighs his options. He could suck it up and suffer through the sensory hell he’s experiencing, but that’s not seeming very feasible. He could change and put a tank top on, but that might be a bit more exposure than he’s ready for.

“You don’t actually have to play me anything if you’re not ready. I know I can be a little pushy.”

Eddie looks up to meet your soft smile from over your shoulder. Knelt in front of the book shelf, you've twisted around to speak to him. He knows you mean it, and for some reason that makes him all the more desperate to show off. Setting his guitar aside, he rubs his palms against his thighs. He opens his mouth but he’s not entirely sure what to say.

“You can tell me about your books instead? I keep hearing about Carrie, is it any good?”

The sweetness of your redirection dries his mouth. Leaving Sweetheart on the bed, Eddie comes to sit beside you and pulls his collection of Stephen King novels from their places. By the time you leave, you've taken a couple books to borrow and Eddie's promised to rent The Shining for you to watch together. His heart is still a little frenetic driving you home.

Eddie parks in your driveway and there's a pause in which neither of you wants to be the first to say goodbye. As you look at each other from opposite sides of his van, Eddie's chest squeezes and he can't tell if he's getting closer or if you are. He's not sure if you actually make noise when you tell him you'll see him tomorrow at work but he reads your lips all the same. He reaches out to squeeze your hand and you squeeze back, reluctant to let go. But you do, eventually, and Eddie watches to make sure you shut the door behind you after giving him one last wave. Pulling away, he can still smell you in the van's closed circuit of air. He waits until he's a little past the point of overheating to open the windows on the drive home.

X

Sometimes Eddie thinks about quitting his job. Every now and again his life will catch up to him and he thinks about leaving. Leaving his trailer, leaving town, leaving the circle of everyone he knows. He gets swept up by the urge to disappear until Wayne asks him to do his dishes or Steve calls to try and get him out of the house. Then it's all guilt. Where would he go? Would going somewhere else really solve anything? Was this urge really even about leaving at all? Really, he knows what happened to him isn't his fault. What happened to all of them was a freak accident, a case of being in the wrong place at the right time. But it's hard to heal. It's so hard to keep moving when he knows he's not the same and he never will be again. He knows Wayne is overworked and Steve gets worried. Dustin misses him all the time but most days he just… can't. Can't do anything at all. It's a hollowed kind of existence, living in the shape of the person you used to be. The old Eddie left some surprisingly big shoes behind when he went into the Upside-down. This new Eddie has no clue how to fill them.

Wayne is asleep on the couch when Eddie gets in. It's only seven and the TV is playing a sports game that's mostly static. Eddie considers going over to thump the thing so it clears but he'd rather not risk waking up Wayne. Not like he's watching the game anyways.

Shuffling into his room he drops back onto his bed. His head hurts and he knows he should probably have some water. His eyes close slowly. Five seconds of dark, five seconds of lamp light. Letting his head loll to the side, he enjoys the light stretch in his neck. His tired eyes find his bookshelf and the new empty spaces between books where you'd taken them from. On top of everything else to think or not think about, there was also you.

It's weird to want something. For what feels like a long time now, Wayne has been doing all the necessary wanting for him. He goes to work, he sees his friends, he tries to keep the house clean because Wayne wants that for him. Eddie has no problem with that, he's fine listening to someone else. It's nice, honestly. It's some kind of direction at least. But wanting something himself? It feels foreign. Especially not knowing what exactly it is that he wants, or even what he's allowed to want. Wayne tells him all the time: Slow down, son. One day at a time. Or one hour or one minute if that's what'll get you through it. That kind of works when he's trying to get to the other side of bad day, but he's unsure if that can apply to other people too. Is he allowed to just want to see you again, as soon as possible? Is he allowed to want to try to hold your hand and to drive you home as much as you'll let him? Does he have to know exactly how he wants this to go? Because he doesn't. And he doesn't know if or when he will.

Listless, Eddie pulls himself up and into the bathroom. Drinking from the faucet, he splashes his face while he's at it. Cold water is his friend. Although he scrubs his face dry with a towel, the hair framing his face stays wet. Eddie looks the guy in the mirror in the eyes, deeply. Was this someone who acted normal? Was this someone who was, like, bearable to spend time around? Was this someone who could have a relationship? Of any kind? He wonders how he appears to you.

Reaching across himself, Eddie ghosts his hand over his bicep. Brushing lightly against his loose sleeve he tries to recreate the feeling of you knelt beside him, arms side by side but not touching. His own hand is cold where you had been slightly warm. Reaching down to hold his wrist he wonders if he would feel soft to the touch. He's sort of desensitized to the terrain of his skin, he can't really judge objectively whether or not it would feel wrong to someone else. Meeting his own eyes in the mirror, Eddie cringes. He's being weird, he knows. If Wayne had been awake, he would have called after Eddie by now, telling him to stop spending so much time in front of the mirror and asking him to open the bathroom door. Grimacing, Eddie turns the bathroom light off before brushing his teeth in the dark.

X

When Eddie opens his door he finds you vibrating on his porch. All week, you've been excited to watch The Shining. He knows this because you told him when he saw you at work on Monday, and again on Wednesday, and because Steve had teased him after you had told him, too. He did a good job of denying anything was "going on", as Steve put it, and he had assured Robin that nothing was "going to happen" when she caught wind of it too. This was just a simple movie night between two friends with shared interests. Totally casual.

Your grin is infectious. You haven't even said anything other than hello and he's smiling hard, a mirror of your excitement. You don't even wait until you're fully inside before your thoughts start spilling out of you.

"I finished Carrie in like two days, it was insane! I got caught reading behind the counter at work and got told off but I was bewitched, I actually could not stop reading."

Eddie kindly takes your hoodie from around your shoulders and the packs of microwave popcorn of your hands. You continue to talk animatedly as the smell of butter starts to fill Eddie's small kitchen.

"I felt so bad for her, and honestly, I think everything she did was perfectly justifiable. I mean imagine you're seventeen and prom is, like, the representation of freedom and getting to leave everything behind, and then you can't even enjoy it! The one thing you've been dreaming of for years is ruined!"

"Oh for sure, I'd go batshit too. What did you think of the blood bucket? So much more metal than paint, right?"

"It was awful! Like that's actually so cruel, it made me sick." You grimace.

"You're going to love The Shining then." Eddie grins.

Your brows pinch with worry as Eddie's smile only grows.

"What does that mean? Eddie, what does that mean?"

Eddie says nothing more on the matter to your displeasure and his amusement. You whine at him and he laughs at you while he transfers the popcorn to a bowl.

Eddie's hand twitches, too shy to press against your back as he leads you to the couch and something strange swells in his heart when you fall back into the cushions and tuck your legs up under you, looking at ease. He can hear Steve and Robin's voices in his head as he sits down next to you after starting the VCR. Steve's voice reminds him to keep his hands to himself and Robin's chirps at him to leave room for jesus. You shift a little closer to Eddie to make sure he has access to the popcorn bowl and suddenly his skin is hot. The inch of couch between you is both way too close and way too fucking far.

Yep. Totally casual.

Eddie's seen this one before so he doesn't have to pay attention as hard as you are. He loves The Shining so of course he's paying attention, he's just also fine with missing a few of the things happening on screen in order to watch your reaction to them instead. You're rapt. On edge but having a good time, Eddie thinks. He's thrilled to hear your commentary, your low voice in his ear buzzing through him. He's endeared by how fond you are of Danny, and you point out details he'd never think to notice on his own.

It isn't long after the movie starts before you're pressed together, arm against arm, leg against leg. It's not surprising, that's just what happens when two people sit on a couch together. What is surprising though, is how warm you run, and how desperate he is to keep you right where you are despite his predisposition to overheating. He wants so badly to push his sleeves up to allow his skin to cool down a little but he hesitates. Last time you were here, he couldn't do it. He had still been too worried about making a perfect impression, or at least a good one, and he couldn't risk his scars ruining that. But you came back, Eddie reasons. You were back in his house, sitting next to him, excited to spend time with him. Maybe if he moves slowly enough, you won't even notice. He'll cool down a little and then he can cover up again when he's good. He settles tentatively on that plan of action and inches his sleeves up as inconspicuously as possible.

You do not, in fact, notice the newly revealed expanses of Eddie's skin. You're far too busy whispering warnings to Danny as if he can hear you. Clutching the now empty bowl to your chest, your eyes are fixed on the screen, wide with trepidation. But to your, and Danny's, immense surprise, something flashes on screen and you flinch. You all but leap onto Eddie, your hands reaching for and holding his arm, pulling it against your chest, bowl cast to the floor. Automatically, Eddie tenses.

Sure you’d brushed by each other before, usually knuckles against knuckles as you walked or a hand on a shoulder in passing, and sure you'd held hands on one or two occasions. But this was different. You were holding him, feeling his scars with your hands for the first time. It was strange to him, to feel skin on his skin after so long. It didn't hurt like he'd worried. It didn't burn or spark or sear. It was soft. And clearly his skin wasn't made of barbed wire like he believed. You weren't letting go. You hadn't recoiled or even reacted at all. He felt exceedingly…..normal.

Eddie was still sitting stiffly when the scene ended and you released your breath, hands still holding onto him. You turn your face up to him, eyes wide and ready to laugh off the scare when you notice the tension in his shoulders. You notice where his eyes are stuck and you pull your hands away, immediately understanding. 

“Oh! Eddie, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

You shift over on the couch to make space between your bodies and for some reason the small distance between you distresses Eddie more than the feeling of your hand on his arm had. Eddie realizes his awe may have read as shock or horror and he needs to correct that. He reaches for you before he really thinks about it, hand grasping just above your knee, tugging your thigh ever so gently back towards him.

“No– I mean, I’m fine, are you fine?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just sorry, I didn’t mean to–” 

“No, it’s okay, I uh, I just– I haven’t been touched in a while?” The end of his sentence pitches up into a question.

His arm stays extended in the space between you. He wonders if this is the moment he’s been waiting for, the moment where the other shoe drops. He knows you’re a more tactile person than he is, never shying away from Steve’s bear hugs or Robin’s cheek kisses. He knows you respect his boundaries profoundly, and that you'd never want to make him uncomfortable. It's too much to try and articulate in the moment, how weirdly comfortable he feels around you, but he hopes you can still understand the intimacy of his hand on your leg, the heavy meaning of the action. 

You blink at him. The movie keeps playing in the background, casting alternating warm and cool tones across your faces. More firmly, he starts to pull your thigh back against him, and the rest of your body follows. He leaves his hand where it is, hoping you understand what he's offering. He doesn't think you know what to say but that doesn't matter. When you curl lightly around his arm again he thinks you get it. You press a shy cheek against his bicep and his body is all nerves.

When the blood finally spills out of the Overlook's elevators, you hold him tighter, turning into his shoulder to avoid looking.

"Come on, you're missing it! This is, like, the best part."

"That's so fucked up, Eddie."

You're not amused but he laughs, glowing as he rubs his thumb over the inside of your knee.

X

There was a time while Eddie was still healing when he wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Eddie’s always been the kind to lick his wounds in private, and for a while it felt like he was all wound. He’s since come around to light touches. He can handle Steve’s arm around his shoulder, Robin's hip bumps, Dustin's side hugs. But there’s still something about letting people touch his skin that makes him squirm. At the root of it, he’s embarrassed. There's a shame that comes with major illness or injury that's difficult to understand. Steve recognizes it, though. Steve also recognizes that something's changing in Eddie. Steve would still absolutely call Eddie a sulky baby, but he's definitely different when you're around. Maybe it's that Eddie's less scared, less convinced that there's not a place for him anywhere. Whatever it is, it's nice. It helps Steve relax a little too, knowing Eddie's alright.

Steve knows he's staring but he can't help it. You're sharing a chair with Eddie, having come around from your end of the table to listen to whatever Dustin and Eddie are arguing about. Dustin's pointing agitatedly at the menu, likely dying on a hill of little consequence. It's as if they've never been here before despite Benny's being the only place in town that can always accommodate a group of twelve without notice. The seats are small so you're all but on top of Eddie. Your arm comes up behind one of his shoulders and, if Steve were to hazard a guess, Eddie's probably holding your leg against his own under the table. Steve wonders why you didn't just sit together to begin with. Eddie feels Steve watching and sends him a less than discrete middle finger. Totally casual my ass.

Eventually you give up on sharing and Eddie makes Mike switch seats with you so that you can be across from him. After Dustin finally settles and everybody orders, he's surprised to see Eddie sharing. He holds his burger (featuring quite a unique combination of toppings) out for you to take bites and you let him sip your milkshake in exchange. In contrast, Eddie's hand keeps slapping Dustin's away when he reaches for some of his fries. Very subtle.

“Apparently, when you get scurvy, all the collagen in your body starts to break down. Your scar tissue dissolves and every wound you've ever had reopens.” You tell this to an enthusiastic audience. You're embellishing a little, knowing the boys are prone to theatrics, but it's all in good fun.

"That's so sick." Dustin enthuses while Mike and Lucas agree.

The kids, having recently rented some stupid movie, are now deeply interested in running a pirate themed campaign.

"That could work as a hazard, what do you guys think? Instead of starvation the effect could be scurvy." Will is writing quickly into his notebook, looking down while he listens to the ensuing clamour.

"Where'd you learn that?" Eddie prompts you while the kids start to bicker about whether vitamin C potions should exist in game.

“Some article online. I was reading about afflictions."

"Afflictions? Slow down, Heathcliff, you know regular people say sickness, right?"

"Watch it, geek. You know regular people don't have Wuthering Heights memorized, right?"

You're both smiling impishly at each other, greatly diminishing the bite of your words. Eddie throws a fry weakly in your direction and you reach over to flick his fingers. Robin pokes Steve to ask if he's seeing what she's seeing.

"Totally casual my ass." She whispers.

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Steve mutters.

After dinner, when the kids are unlocking their bikes and Robin's already waiting in his car, Steve watches Eddie close the passenger door of his van once you're safely inside. Steve's not stupid, he can see exactly what's happening. Eddie is stupid though, and probably doesn't have a clue what to do with himself. When Eddie catches Steve watching from across the parking lot, Steve smiles big. Eddie rolls his eyes dramatically and gets in the van, looking to make sure you're buckled before backing out.

X

Tucked into bed after work, Eddie counts the things in his room like he does every night to help him fall asleep. Eight corners, seven posters, one dresser with five drawers, four pairs of shoes shoved under said dresser, three shirts that missed the laundry basket, one lamp. There are less books on his book shelf than usual. He counts 33 out of his usual 37. You're still holding on to his Stephen King books even though you've already read through them all but Eddie doesn't mind.

Today was a difficult day. In true undead fashion, there was just something about excessive sunlight that bothered Eddie. It was maybe less about the sunlight and more about the uptick of reminders of his brokenness. Seeing Sarah Teagan from high school holding hands with a shirtless Kevin Cooper on their way to the pool on a beautiful day was irritating. Knowing Robin was going to watch an outdoor movie with some new friends in the park was cutting. Catching wary glares from behind sunglasses while he ducked into the gas station was steamrolling. Sunglasses don't make you imperceptible, people. It's the wishing that gets to him. He wishes and wishes and wishes. Eddie wishes he could walk shirtless down main street. He wishes he could make friends effortlessly. He wishes anything, everything was different.

It's not all bad, though. He takes great pains to remind himself of this. He might not buy into gratitude journals but he still knows it's good to remember the things he likes, the things he's looking forward to. He's DMing a game for the boys next week and he can tell they're frothing at the mouth to play. Steve scored two tickets to a rock festival in Indianapolis next month. He has this weekend off. With any luck, you might even want to see him sometime soon.

Turning his head into his pillow, Eddie feels his face start to warm. Despite having known you for a little while now, you were still a new development. It had been a long time since Eddie blushed at such a frequency. It was profoundly humiliating. He never blushed in high school. But obviously, lifetimes had passed since then. He was a different person now, mentally and physically. He’s more nervous, less confident, worse at flirting. When he blushes, he feels it in his whole body. He becomes overly aware of his skin, his scars. Everything kind of fizzes. It’s not necessarily unpleasant, it’s just unnerving. It makes him feel vulnerable, like he might come apart at the seams. In his head he avoids the obvious, that there's really only one cause for this new angst. If he pretends, he can believe he's not obvious. If he pretends, he can believe you can't tell.

With a heavy sigh, Eddie shuts his eyes tight feeling all kinds of miserable and lonely and, worst of all, hopeful. He turns onto his stomach and falls asleep with the light on.

X

Summer will soon come to a close in Hawkins but for now the sun still beats down.

On a blanket spread out on the grass behind Steve's pool, you and Eddie sit next to each other drinking twin pouches of juice. Eddie thinks you’re a strange pair, you in your swimsuit and him in long pants. He's traded his usual long sleeve for a t-shirt because of the weather, feeling only slightly, kind of, just a little bit, completely, utterly naked. He can feel how warm your skin is when your arm brushes against his and he knows you should both find a way to cool down soon. Steve is losing to Lucas in a cannon ball competition scored by the other boys. A much calmer Robin, El and Max are hanging out the shallow end of the pool.

Sore loser that he is, Steve eventually huffs his way across the yard while the boys yell after him. Eddie looks up to find his dripping body towering directly over your sitting forms.

“And how can we help you, Steve?” Eddie sounds grumpy. The heat must be cooking him.

With a wicked grin Steve shakes his head hard, spraying you with pool water. You squeal and Eddie groans, much to Steve's amusement.

“You dog!” You chastise, wiping water from your face.

“As if you weren't about to get in the pool.” Steve snips lightheartedly, setting down hard on the blanket near the both of you.

“I was going to. Later. When I felt like it. On my own terms.”

“Get a load of sassy.” Steve addresses Eddie as if you can't hear. You reach over to punch Steve’s arm.

You decide, stressing that the decision is solely of your own volition, that it's time to get in the pool. Steve laughs at you as you get up because he knows it'll wind you up.

"You're a shit." Eddie admonishes.

"You can join her if you want, lover boy."

Eddie narrows his eyes, choosing not to answer so as not to give Steve more ammunition.

Steve leans back on the blanket, propping himself on his elbows and sprawling his legs out parallel to Eddie. There’s a calm silence in which Steve suns himself and Eddie watches you in the water. The skin across your shoulders and the back of your neck has already started to darken, he doubts you put on sunscreen. You and Robin are motioning wildly, very likely as part of a game the two of you invented sometime in the last two minutes. A breeze shoots by him, sneaking up into his sleeve and he misses having your body beside his. He’s not sure how he should be reacting to Steve teasing him about you. He knows he’s been acting out of character. He’s coming out more, wanting to go where you go. He smiles more often. His laughter comes easier. He's pulled towards you, comfortable enough to let himself touch and be touched in little ways, even in front of the group.

“You can give yourself permission.” Saying this, Steve keeps his eyes closed, still sunning.

“What?”

“Like, to be happy.”

“What are you, my therapist?” Eddie’s words come out with a little more bite than he wanted. He can feel himself recoiling from a possible moment of vulnerability and the overbearing heat is not helping his mood.

“Eddie, it’s okay.” Steve opens his eyes to look at him earnestly. “It’s good that you feel good, it’s great even. You can give yourself permission."

Eddie twists his mouth. He wants to tell Steve he doesn't know anything but the truth is that Steve probably knows Eddie better than anyone on earth. If Eddie's going to take advice from one person in the world, it's gonna be Steve. Still though, where does Steve get off telling him what to do.

"Gee, thanks Mr. Know-it-all. I'll be sure to run all my very private personal decisions by you from now on."

"Dickhead. Don't be stupid."

"And here I thought you loved me."

"I do. You know I do. Don't be stupid." Steve closes his eyes again, confident he'll get the last word in. "She doesn't care, you know. She clearly has a thing for freaks."

Eddie holds up two emphatic middle fingers to the side of Steve's unseeing head.

X

“You can ask me,” Eddie offers on the drive home. "About them. If you want."

The rest of the afternoon had passed peacefully despite your sunburn and Eddie's dehydration. You had insisted you could walk from Steve's but Eddie wouldn't hear it. A pretty thing like you walking home by herself? No chance. The two of you sit tired and sun-soaked, cooled by the van's AC.

Much to Eddie's chagrin, Steve managed to get through to him earlier. He knows the hangup is inside of him. Really, he thinks you'd say yes if he asked you out. He thinks you'd say yes to most anything he asked. But annoyingly, Eddie is still on the never-ending journey of working on his courage.

“If you’re… If we’re… ” He trails off, his hands tensing and un-tensing on the wheel.

You look over to see him, watching him watch the road. Your eyes drift down to his forearms, following the scar pattern that's starting to become familiar to you.

You take your time answering. 

“I don’t need to know, Eds. I’ve never needed to know.” 

He nods but stays quiet until he pulls into your driveway. He puts the van in park and turns off the ignition. You wait patiently for him to put together what he wants to say.

“I want to tell you.” He turns in his seat to face you. “I want to tell you but it's so much and I wouldn't even know how and—" 

He cuts himself off, getting frustrated. You're patient, giving him all the time he needs to find the right words. When you offer your open palm, he takes it, holding your hand with both of his in his lap.

“You make me feel like I have scurvy."

You pause, not quite understanding. “I make you feel sick?”

“No, not like that, it’s like–” He forces himself to breathe. "It's like I'm falling apart in all the places I used to be open. I used to be…I mean I'm better than I was but it's still hard. And it's not a bad feeling, it's not like it hurts or anything, but when I'm with you I just feel so raw sometimes. Like, after everything, I had to learn how to be a person again. I have most things figured out but with you…I don't know what to do with myself sometimes."

"Am I doing something wrong?" You know he's not blaming you for anything, you just want to know how to help.

Eddie shakes his head.

"No. No, I feel like I'm the one doing it all wrong. I feel like I am wrong."

He doesn't meet your eyes.

"There's not a right way, Eddie. There's just…There's you and there's me and there's what feels good. To both of us. That's kind of it." You speak softly.

"What if I don't know what feels good. What if I don't know."

"Then we try things. I'm not in a rush, Eddie. I'm here for you, not anything else."

You can see him thinking. He looks up with pinched eyebrows and you try to tell him what you said again with your eyes.

"Can I please kiss you?" He barely manages to whisper.

"I would like that."

It takes a second for Eddie to move. He lets go of your hand to hold your face, feather-light. He treats you as if you're the skittish animal, moving tentatively but with purpose. You want him to know you're not scared so you still, letting him take his time in this moment. He tilts your head gently, his nose brushing yours. Both of you breathe shallowly. He finds your mouth with his and presses gently. Something heavy inside you dissolves. He pulls back to take a shaky breath before kissing you again, just as tender as the first time.

Eddie stops at two because it's what feels right, for now. Your eyes are so bright and he knows his are glassy. He tries not to let his mind blind him by spiralling beyond right here. For now there is only you and him and all of his collagen.

☆

[bitofanupsidedowner]

we're past the appropriate rejection window honestly. remember how steve is rejected by robin in the same season he develops feelings for her? or how dustin is symbolically rejected by max in the season he develops feelings for her? that's because it would have been a super weird choice to build it up for a really long time and then end it with a rejection.

there's a reason why in season three when joyce rejects hopper, we all immediately know it isn't a real rejection, even though they're fighting, she's grieving and planning to leave, and he's being unreasonable and unfair. there's reason after reason to think it's not going to happen, but because he's had feelings for her since season one we know it's going somewhere.

who waits on the edge of their seat to watch someone get turned down? who stays subscribed to netflix for that? that kind of thing would not be interesting, it would just be a confusing way to spend the increasingly limited time right before your show ends. penultimate season. every scene has to mean something bigger, all the way down to lucas talking about new coke or mike trying a new kind of pizza.

in writing you primarily only want to wait and build up to things if the result is going to be worth waiting for. rejection of the perpetually tortured gay kid is predictable and doesn't function to do much at all story wise. easy to write around, too, but they did the opposite. they built will's character around this.

they also have no need to dip back into the rejection pool narratively, doesn't add to the story. especially this late into the game. (sidenote, weird how people were not nearly as sure robin was going to be rejected despite her love interest being mirrored to mike, significantly less developed, and introduced so late, but i digress)

if they wanted mike to reject will, it should have been during the van scene. he should have given mike the painting and said something along the lines of, "i know you don't feel the same, but i really want you to know how el sees you, how we all see you. you're the heart. we'd fall apart without you." it would have still been sad but it would have been an ending.

because plotlines need to end! they need to end when it makes sense for them to, not before or after. dragging it along means they either realize they have something worth dragging, or have deliberately decided to prolong a plot point past its logical conclusion for the sole purpose of milking every last second of misery they can out of will, which would be needlessly cruel and so, so gratuitous.

it's not like the van scene NEEDED to happen exactly how it happened. any scene that is solely character driven with no impact on the plot can be rewritten over and over and changed into whatever it has to be. it was written as the most romantic mike moment in any season, and it was filmed and lit and directed extremely specifically. zero accidents.

robin and vickie was unnecessary without a plan. mike and will was unnecessary unless they have a plan.

so they must have a plan. if mike was going to reject will, it had to be in season four. but mike didn't reject will. not at all. he was actually very, very moved by what will had to say, he just didn't entirely realize what it was he was saying.

in fact, they made sure that this plotline was not just unsolved, but that it was obligated to come back, by having it go against the character's most consistent moral line of friends don't lie. and gave it to the character who, in his introductory scene, refuses to lie. dishonesty has genuine ramifications in this show, and will's is attached to a physical (treasured) object that has to come back into play. they can't sweep it under the rug and mike can't reject will without it coming off as... just... far too late.

[sleepinghypnos]

The Manager (Aespa)

Named Male x Female Idol/s

Tags: Smut...

Note: (The "Male" has 13 inches long and 5 inches thick schlong, so it's size kink and it will be prominent in the story. Sorry. If you feel uncomfortable with size mentions, DNI).

Extra Note: Another series i'm not going to finish... Let's go.

A/N: Wattpad... 2nd Person's POV

Ms. Lorelei smiled at me... "Lucas, here's a new assignment for you!" She said, while pointing to the chair in her office. I was welcomed by a folder labeled "Management".

I'm looking at the files and saw the name "Aespa".

"Another one? I thought I'm done looking after idols?" I said to my dispatcher. "I already made myself clear that I'm done doing stuff like this."

She look at me and smile a little, a smile of guilt. "It will be different this time. You're going to manage a four-member idol girl group. They have huge projects waiting to be fulfilled. And you're not going to go back and forth like last time since you'll be living in the same house with them." She said as if that will change my mind. I'm done with these brats. That's why I specifically told the agency to not give me anything related to idols. I somewhat have an authority since I've been doing such a good job with my assignments.

But looks like this time I will be forced to go. "Fine." I simply said.

She handed me a key. "That's the key to your room. You'll be living with them, so you can respond to emergencies as fast as possible. Make sure to be there after three days."

"Thanks, I guess..." I stood up and went back to my house to pack my things...

I spent the next three days packing my stuff, steeling myself since I'm going to deal with brats again. But still making sure to be professional.

Then safely moved to the house where Aespa lives while they are out. I'm excited to be on the field again but at the same time weren't because of this idol management stuffs.

Since I already did this before, the dispatcher also gave me the some lists of likes and dislikes in terms of food.

I bought something for each of the four members of Aespa. They are doing some individual projects as of now. I'll be dropping by their location one by one.

Using the designated van that I'm going to be using for my managerial work for Aespa, I drove to the location of the first member.

-

Stopping by at a beach called Gyeongpo Beach located near SM Entertainment... Karina is the first member I'm going to be meeting today.

I searched for the people doing photoshoot and saw Karina with her beach attire, not some bikini or something but still beach like style. She's promoting a brand of beverage.

Aespa has 4 managers, managing each one of the members and I'm assigned to be the general manager. Her personal manager came up to me, I showed her my ID and she report to me on how the photoshoot was going smoothly and point me to the dressing room.

I went to the dressing room, putting down her food. Tonkatsu, Carbonated Soda, and Coffee Jelly. Then Karina suddenly bursts through the door startling me a little.

"Oppa?!" She said, her voice filled with excitement.

"Nice meeting you. I'm your group's new general manager." I replied, extending my hand to her. Gesture of politeness.

She shook my hand and said "I knew it. I saw you before! You are Red Velvet's former manager. I can't believe it's our turn now."

"I'm glad that you are happy to see me... Well, I'm here to drop the food I prepared for you." Pointing to the table where her food is.

"Sweet! I like these! Thank you so much, Oppa!" She exclaimed and hugged me. I patted her back and she let me go.

"Your personal manager told me that the photoshoot is going smoothly, keep up the good work." I said to her while smiling. "I'm assuming you are on break... Why don't you eat your food now. I can't have you starving..."

She indulged herself with the food I prepared for her. Humming and cutely dancing while eating. Karina finished her food aside from the Coffee Jelly...

"I thought you liked Jelly? Is Coffee Jelly not part of it?" I genuinely asked, if she doesn't like it, I can removed it from the Jelly options.

"No, it's just that... It lacks cream!!!" She said to me that raised my eyebrow...

"What do you mean?"

"Just sit on the sofa, and I'll get the cream myself." She knelt between my legs...

This time, I already know where this is going... It's the main reason why I don't want to work with idols anymore... These girls are sex deprived, with their dating ban, they can't see or date anyone, they don't even have the time to actually date since the media would be on their asses if they saw them with someone.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked her as she unbuckles my pants.

She nodded. "I was so happy to know that you are going to be our general manager, Red Velvet unnies always brags about you... I'm so curious why they praised you so much."

And with that she successfully freed my cock from it's enclosure.

"I think I already know why they praised you..." She said stroking my non-erect cock... "You are already big 'soft' but you are for sure a grower..."

Karina then strokes my cock, making it grow longer and bigger... She can't close her hands while holding my member, her soft delicate fingers can't wrapped around it properly...

"I knew it! We got a grower!" She exclaimed, shock is audible in her voice. She measures it with her forearm and smiled as if she hit a jackpot when she saw how big my cock is compare to it. "You're so fucking massive, Oppa!"

"Where do you even learned that?" I asked as I watch her make my cock harder.

"Sooyoung-unnie!" Karina casually claim.

After answering, she immediately dove down and engulfed my cock with her warm mouth. She bobs her head, I can tell that this is her first time sucking dick...

I let her do her own thing, with her own pace...

My hands on her head, guiding her a little but she's still in control of her actions.

She gained confidence with how I reacted and starts going for a deepthroat. I can feel the tip of my cock slamming to the back of her throat.

Her unrefined fellatio makes this encounter a material for domination.

I stopped her from deepthroating me. "Let me..." I simply said and she nodded, already know what's going to happen.

I held her head in place, slowly thrusting back and forth in her mouth... "Here I go!"

GLUCK!! GLUCK!! GLUCK!! GLUCK!! GLUCK!!

The sound of her gagging on my massive cock filled her dressing room. I threw my head back, enjoying the warmth of Karina's mouth. I keep thrusting into her throat until she can take half of my massive cock.

GLUCK!! GLUCK!! GLUCK!! GLUCK!! GLUCK!!

Her eyes rolled back as her throat convulsed around the brutal invasion, her body shuddering in a mixture of pain and pleasure. The forceful thrusts sent shockwaves through her entire being, making her feel like she was drowning in the abyss of my massive cock.

Gagging reflexes kicked in, but Karina's perseverance allowed her to relax enough to take it deeper—her jaw unhinging further with each merciless plunge into her esophagus.

"Aaaaahhh... F-fuck...!" She struggled to maintain composure, desperate not to gag or choke on my unrelenting assault.

As I continued ravaging her throat, Karina's mind disintegrated into a haze of lust and submission. Her vision blurred from the intense pressure building behind eyelids that threatened to burst at any moment. "Y-y-you're going too fast...!" She whimpered between gulps for air.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she felt herself reaching critical capacity—her throat straining under the relentless pounding. The intense sensation made her own arousal peak, juices dripping from her quivering slit.

"P-please... Oppa... don't make me choke..." She begged, voice muffled by my monstrous cock.

GLUCK!! GLUCK!!

Despite the danger of asphyxiation, Karina's addiction to my massive cock kept her consuming it with reckless abandon—her body responding only to the primal urge for more.

"I'm close!" I said to her. Still thrusting into her throat. "I'M CUMMING!!!"

Karina's eyes widened in shock as the first thick ropes of cum began to erupt from my cock, flooding her throat and stomach with a deluge of hot, sticky seed. The sheer volume was overwhelming, causing her belly to swell grotesquely as I pumped load after load directly into her gullet.

GLUCK!! GLUCK!!

Her mind reeled at the sensation—her body convulsing involuntarily as she struggled to swallow the torrent of jizz pouring down her esophagus. "Aaaahh...! F-fuck...!" She gagged and sputtered, tears streaming down her face from the intensity.

GLUCK!! GLUCK!!

The feeling of my massive cock pulsing inside her stretched-out throat sent waves of pleasure coursing through her veins. Her own arousal peaked intensely—juices gushing from between her thighs as she came undone. "OOOOH!! FUUUCK!!! SHIT, OPPAAA!!!" She moaned around my shaft, voice muffled by the relentless stream of cum.

As I continued to unload deep inside her stomach for what felt like an eternity, she could feel the pressure building in her abdomen. Her belly distended obscenely, looking ready to burst at any moment. "P-please... Oppa... it's too much..." She whimpered weakly, barely able to form words through the haze of pleasure and pain.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, you pulled out with a wet pop. Karina gasped for air desperately as thick globs of cum spilled from her abused throat and splattered onto her heaving tits. "Haaahh... haaahh..." She panted heavily, body trembling from the intense experience.

She looked down at her seemingly full stomach—stretched taut by the sheer volume of semen inside—and groaned softly. "S-so full..." She mumbled deliriously before collapsing back onto the bed in a boneless heap. "I still have a photoshoot, you jerk!" Karina playfully smacked my thigh.

"I ask you if you are sure about this..." I replied. "What a first day back to the field."

"Woooh!" She's still out of breath but still have the guts to smirk at me. "Thanks for the cream, Oppa."

I help her fix herself, and someone knocked on the door. "Ms. Karina, It's time for the photoshoot again."

"See you at our house later..." Karina said and gave me a peck on the cheek.

I look at the clock and it's time for me to go to the next member... Giselle

[lazysoulwriter]

who's that woman? - Pedro Pascal.

requested! thank you so much for sending, hope you like it. ♡

---

The after party buzzes with static energy — music, flashing lights, laughter bouncing off the walls. You feel it in your chest like a second heartbeat. Your heels are killing you, your curls are sticking to the back of your neck, and someone spilled something suspiciously sticky near the bar. But none of it matters.

Because you're dancing.

Dancing like no one’s watching — even though everyone kind of is. The DJ is deep into a 90s setlist, and you’re in your element. You know every lyric, every beat drop, every over-the-top bridge. And you don’t care how you look doing it. You’re having fun. Real, shameless, sweat-slicked fun. And the people around you? They’re feeding off your energy. Laughing when you point to them mid-verse, clapping along when you hit a dramatic air guitar solo.

You’ve always been the life of the party without even trying.

What you don’t know is that, from across the room, Pedro Pascal is watching you — completely mesmerized.

He’s leaning against a wall with a half-empty drink in hand, tired from small talk, already plotting his escape when he sees you. And it stops him cold.

Your smile, your joy, your wild abandon — it’s unlike anything he’s seen in a long time.

“Who is that woman?” he murmurs out loud, not meaning to be heard.

But someone beside him answers casually, like it’s obvious. “That’s Y/N. You don’t know her? She’s the indie singer of the moment. Absolutely magical.”

He repeats your name under his breath. Y/N. It sounds good already. His eyes never leave you — not even when the song ends and you finally step off the dance floor, cheeks flushed, skin glowing, laughter still lingering on your lips.

You head to the bar, needing water more than another drink. And he sees his chance.

He walks toward you — slowly, calmly — but just before he reaches you, someone else gets there first.

A man leans in close to your ear. Says something low. You throw your head back and laugh.

Pedro stops in his tracks.

Of course she has someone, he thinks. Why wouldn’t you? You’re radiant. Magnetic. Everyone wants to be near you. And he isn’t the kind of guy to flirt with someone who’s taken. Even if all he wants to do is hear your voice. Ask what song you were dancing to like it was saving your life.

He’s just about to turn away when the man — whoever he is — looks up and locks eyes with Pedro.

And then he smiles. Waves him over like they’re old friends.

Confused, Pedro approaches. “Took you long enough,” the guy says, easy and amused. “Pedro, right? I’m Luca — co-producer on the indie you’re shooting next month.”

Pedro laughs in recognition. “No way. I didn’t recognize you without five assistants and a clipboard.”

Then Luca turns to you and says, almost too casually: “This is my sister. Y/N.”

You smile at Pedro with that same effortless warmth that had everyone watching you dance. “I love your work,” you say, offering your hand. “Your voice? I’d listen to you read my grocery list.”

He laughs, starstruck and completely at ease. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And from there — the rest of the night falls into place like it was always meant to.

The party fades into background noise. You end up sitting close, knees brushing under a tiny table, talking like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

He’s funnier than you expected. A little shy at first, but playful, too. Sharp. Thoughtful. You tell him you write better lyrics after two drinks. He confesses he’s cried at every animated film he’s ever seen. You tease him for dancing too well for a man over 40. He tells you you’re like his childhood best friend — the one who dared him to do ridiculous things just to see if he’d say yes.

You feel it. That pull. That click.

And you can see he feels it too.

He looks at you like he’s remembering something. Like you remind him of a version of himself he thought he’d outgrown — but misses more than he realized. You’re loud where he’s quiet, fearless where he’s careful. But underneath? You’re made of the same stuff. Passion. Curiosity. Heart.

Six months later.

You’re sitting on the kitchen floor in mismatched pajamas, eating cold risotto straight from the container. He’s across from you, eyes soft, cheeks a little pink from the wine.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t have a speech. Just pulls a small box from his hoodie pocket and says your name like a question.

And you say yes before he even finishes.

Now, in a quiet interview for a glossy magazine, Pedro leans back in his chair, fiddling with the silver ring on his hand. The journalist asks about you — how you met, how it happened.

He smiles, slow and sure. “I never believed in love at first sight,” he says, voice warm. “Not until her.”

---

[enwoso]

that feeling again | alessia russo x child!reader

-> based on this request🍼

grumpy masterlist

you'd dressed yourself for the occasion which was obvious to anyone who saw you.

you'd picked a denim shorts with had patchwork on them as the design, a purple hoodie with sparkly stars, and your no so white crocs which had little football gibbets on which you had said made you look 'super cool'

in your hand was esme, your beloved stuffed elephant, who'd been through enough adventures to look legally classified as 'distressed.'

"mummy, do i have to share esme with baby rosa?" you asked as they pulled into the driveway of alessia's brother, luca and his wife lauren's house.

"no, lovie," alessia said patiently as she placed the car into park. "but rosa's just a baby. she won't want esme. she just wants milk and cuddles.

you looked unconvinced from your car seat. "she better not chew on him."

alessia stifled a laugh. "she won't, lovie. but you've got to remember, rosa's only a couple weeks old. you've got to be very gentle, yeah?"

you nodded gravely waiting patiently for your mummy to come and unbuckle your seat belt. "like when i pat the neighbour's dog and it smells like socks."

"sure.. exactly like that."

inside, the house was already alive with soft voices and the sound of your grandparents chatting in the kitchen. alessia's mum and dad had arriving just before you, arms full of home cooked food and gifts wrapped in pink tissue paper. the smell of tomato sauce and freshly brewed tea drifted warmly through the air.

your uncle luca met the two of you at the door, beaming. "there's the squad."

you wrinkled your nose. "i'm not touching your baby if she has wee on her."

"she's clean! i promise," luca laughed, ushering the two of you inside.

on the couch, lauren sat with rosa bundled in her arms. her hair was tied up messily, and she looked both glowing and sleep deprived in that way only new mums did. alessia remembered the feeling fondly as if it were only yesterday.

beside lauren sat alessia's mum, carol, looking fondly at the newborn in her arms as you tiptoed closer, eyes wide and filled with curiosity.

"woah, she's smaller than my football," you whispered to your mummy as you tugged on the bottom of her sweater slightly.

"she is," lauren said gently as she looked at you with a warm smile. "but just as much trouble."

rosa stirred then, stretching one arm dramatically like she was waking from a century-long nap. you gasped. "she's doing yoga!"

there was a laugh from the whole room, and you stepped forward protectively, eyes narrowing when your uncle giorgio swooped in dramatically with a camera and an obnoxiously shiny baby bib.

"shush she's sleepin'," you snapped, positioning yourself in front of rosa like a tiny security guard. "don't stress her out."

carol smiled from her place on the couch. "protective already. she's a proper big cousin."

"oh lovie is taking it very seriously," alessia said, watching as you leaned down and whispered instructions into rosa's tiny ear—probably something about biscuits or cartoon rankings.

carol looked over at alessia, a soft knowingness in her eyes. the look all mums had. "watching her like that doesnt give you a little bit of the baby fever?"

alessia blinked, startled by the suddenness of the question. "me? no. god, mum, i've only just figured out how to handle one."

carol smiled, amused but unconvinced. "you're doing a better job than you think, less."

alessia let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "no, seriously. lovie still eats toothpaste if i'm not watching. and she thinks hot dogs count as vegetables."

"that's the typical five year old," carol said simply, still looking at alessia as if looking for something that could say alessia was feeling that way. "and you're raising a good, kind and caring little girl."

that should've been the end of it. but as alessia looked over and saw you gently rocking rosa in your lap with the help and support from lauren but it was still her wild child sitting still for once, completely entranced by your baby cousin—something unfamiliar tugged deep inside alessia's chest.

it wasn't longing, not exactly. not the way alessia felt when she first found out she was pregnant with you. that had been panic wrapped in uncertainty, followed by love and instinct and the steepest learning curve of her life.

this was quieter. softer. more like... curiosity. the question of what if?

but no. alessia couldn't. not now. not with her career still demanding so much from her. not with the way each day moved so fast. not with the way her relationship was with leah and the way it was blossoming so well.

not with you still needing so much of her. alessia wasn't ready to start from scratch again. she was just getting the hang of bedtime without tears…well, some nights.

and yet—

"less," carol said gently, watching her daughter's expression shift even as alessia tried to hide it but a mother always knew. "i wasn't trying to get in your head. just... you've always had that heart. the one that holds more room than it realises."

alessia smiled thinly, forcing a shrug. "one at a time, mum. that was my rule."

but even as alessia spoke, rosa gave the tiniest squeak in your arms, and you looked up—eyes wide, proud, and completely in love.

"mummy?" you asked suddenly. "yeah, lovie?"

"can i have a baby too?"

alessia blinked. "you mean like a toy?"

"no. like a real baby. a sister. or a brother, but i'd rather a sister. then i could teach her everything, like how to play football and where we hide the chocolate biscuits."

the room went quiet for a beat too long.

alessia opened her mouth, closed it again, then laughed nervously. "lovie, baby that's not really how it works."

you shrugged, completely unbothered, to innocent to really understand why. "well, it should be. you just get one when you're ready, like a puppy."

"i'm not ready," alessia said quickly. "no way. not even close."

you turned back to rosa, undeterred. "okay. i'll wait."

and just like that, you went back to gently patting rosa's blanket with a seriousness that made you look far older than five.

alessia looked at her mum, whose smug little smile was already in place. "don't say it," alessia warned under her breath.

carol just sipped her tea, shaking her head slightly. "hey.. i didn't have to."

[mercvry-glow]

Busy bee was so cute - just picturing Lucas drawing a picture for Mel as a thank you and Jack’s like ‘he really liked you - thanks for taking care of my kid’ It just has Mel beaming looking at the kids drawing

little continuation of busy bee

“He really liked you,” Jack said softly as he stood next to Dr. King while finishing some charting.

Mel looked over to him a bit confused, before realizing Dr. Abbot was talking about his son. “Oh yeah- uh… he was very sweet.” the blonde gave him a meek smile, now thinking of the young boy she had spent time with a few days prior.

Slipping a hand into the pocket of his cargos, Jack pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to the younger woman.

"It's supposed to be a thank you, I think. Lucas drew it for you and told me "I had to give it to Dr. King" so... there. He put a lot of work into it supposedly, no idea how it came out. though" He gave her a flat smile, his way of showing her respect for helping out with the incident that had occurred.

"Thank you for being him," and with that said, the two fell into a comfortable enough silence.

Mel walked away, feeling the urge to open the little piece of paper right away—though not in front of Dr. Abbot.

That felt too personal.

Stepping into the bathroom she took a moment before unfolding the parchment. Inside was a smattering of little colorful doodles, many of which were purple.

Flowers, the sun, a dog, and in the middle a drawing of a woman with a blonde braid and glasses.

It made her smile.

The lines were messy, as expected from a five-year-old, but the details were unmistakable—Lucas had really tried to capture her. The figure had a stethoscope around its neck and was standing beside a smaller stick-figure with curly hair, both of them holding hands. Above them, in all capital letters and some backward ones too, reading

"THANK YOU DR. KING 💜"

Mel’s throat tightened just a little. Not realizing how much the moment in the family room had affected her until now—how quiet and scared he had been, how tightly he held her hand.

And now, this.

She blinked a few times, pressing her lips together to keep the emotions at bay, then carefully refolded the picture and tucked it into the chest pocket of her scrubs.

She splashed a little cold water on her face, gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, and left the restroom with a clearer head.

Out on the floor again, things were picking up—alarms chiming, stretchers rolling past, voices rising in coordinated urgency. It was never still for long in the Pitt. But amid the chaos, Mel caught sight of Dr. Abbot at the end of the hall, already with a new patient, eyes locked in as he gave orders.

He hadn’t looked her way again. He didn’t need to.

She was starting to understand Jack Abbot now—how his gratitude was quiet but honest, how fiercely he cared beneath all that defensive sarcasm and night shift wit.

And somewhere in her pocket, a crayon-sketched thank-you from his son warmed her chest.

your honor I love them all

[chillinwithbyler]

Something that I truly believe the GA just won't understand is how much Stranger Things can actually teach you.

Like, we have a plethora of diverse characters and no two people are the same.

Will is a sensitive person, more so than ANY other character in the show. He cries, he likes to paint, and he loves EVERYONE even when they've hurt him. He's one of the characters who bears a lot of trauma, but he doesn't let it shape who he is. Will is DIAGNOSED with PTSD. God forbid he lets himself cry. He never gets angry at people because of what happened to him, and he always dismisses it if he's going through something. And his biggest problem is Mike 'We're friends. We're friends!' Wheeler.

Joyce is a baddie. She doesn't need no man on her shoulder to be a good mother. When Will went missing, she fought tooth and nail to bring him home even when EVERYONE, even her eldest son, was calling her crazy. She's a leader and she's a character who has so much willpower and doesn't let anything stand in her way.

At first glance, Jim is a fucking asshole. I didn't like him when the series was just starting out. But that's what makes it so good, because he wasn't an asshole for no reason. He lost his KID. And he was given a second chance with El. He can do it better this time and he's going to be there for her as long as he can help it. In season five, I'll expect them to be a separate team from the others. Which is what she deserves. She doesn't need to be with Mike to be an amazing character.

Nancy, Joyce, Robin, and Max are all GREAT examples of women who can lead without some MAN telling them what to do. El can be the same. What she needs is the chance to be independent and learn about herself. Mike can't give her that. She needs to figure that out for herself.

Billy was an asshole. Through and through. There was no excuse for him to be racist towards Lucas, even if he had a bad childhood. Just look at what Will went through, and he's still a fucking angel, so Billy literally has no excuse.

The amount of feminism that Nancy projects is INSANE. She doesn't listen to anybody and when she has an idea she GOES FOR IT. When something bad happens? SHE GRABS A GUN. When someone says she should do something this specific way, it's BULLSHIT and she does it her own way. When the kids are in danger, she puts herself directly in the path of danger.

Mike is one of the most complex characters in the show. He's a natural born leader and goes out of his way to save people. When he first met El, he didn't save her out of LOVE. He did it because he's a protector. Originally, he was going to send her back to the asylum and only let her stick around because she knew where WILL was. And that's what was important. Will. He was hellbent on finding him. In season five, I can GUARANTEE he won't be leaving Will's side. And the only time they'll be separated will probably be because Will is off his rocker this season and too busy fighting internal demons and disappearing all the time.

Because he's been reminded of what's important. And it's not El. She can protect herself. But we know Will can be vulnerable. He doesn't believe he's loved, and that's a good opportunity for Vecna to go after him. Only when he truly starts believing that he is loved will he find the courage to come into his own.

We have so many characters all with different backgrounds. We have mental health, domestic abuse, sexual assault, eating disorders, bullying, homophobia, anger issues, neglect, internalized homophobia, racism, and literal DEMONS FROM HELL.

But you're telling me the GA can't grasp something as simple as two boys falling in love? How emotionally dense do you have to be to be so ignorant?

If you're going to DNF the show just because of Byler, then I'm sorry but you smell like hotdog water and you've missed the entire point of the show. This is about not fitting in. Instead of the protagonists being some..chiseled jocks who are heroric and attractive, we instead have four weirdo nerds obsessed with a game. Four people who are smart as fuck and have been cast out from society and bullied for being different. Especially Will.

And the whole show centers around him. BECAUSE he's different. Growing up and feeling like you don't belong is one of the most difficult things I've ever had to go through. And as a fan of the show since the EARLY days of season one, I can't even begin to describe the happiness I feel when I see Will Byers.

He was not made for you. Will Byers belongs to the people who grew up as a misfit. He belongs to us who feel like mistakes in our own bodies and struggle keeping up with social norms.

Will Byers belongs to US. Not you.

If you have a problem with him because of Noah then I assume you're either a 12 year old who has spent too much time on a screen and not enough time touching grass or you're a 47 year old bald man who doesn't know what common courtesy is.

If you hate on Will just because he's gay then I'm sorry but Stranger Things is not the show for you. Try Riverdale instead. We do not want you here.

Stranger Things is not afraid to put homophobes and racists in their place. Troy pissed himself and suffered a broken arm. Steve got his face ruined and got a redemption arc. Billy literally fucking died. And they aren't afraid to put queers on a pedestal either. To make THEM the important characters. Instead of being sidelined, it's often the queers and the nerds and the people who don't fit in who are given the important roles.

And that's what Stranger Things is all about.

Like it or not, Will is an important character. He deserves this time in the spotlight. When Byler is canon in season five, don't say we didn't warn you. We've been trying to open your eyes since season two.

Byler is the perfect representation of what a HEALTHY and ROMANTIC relationship looks like. Two people are so alike and are quite literally color coded through the whole series and are just so painfully gay for each other it HURTS.

Mil*ven is the perfect representation of what an UNHEALTHY and TOXIC relationship looks like. It's full of arguments, no heart to hearts, NO mutual respect, gaslighting, lying, and literally just zero chemistry.

Over and out.

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

wicked game

chapter 10 - charming

synopsis: y/n is sarah’s roommate and the embodiment of sunshine. rafe, on the other hand, is her complete opposite. when the boys place a bet that he can't win her over, rafe takes the challenge without hesitation. after all, he never backs down from a dare. the closer rafe gets to y/n, he finds himself drawn to her warmth in a way he never expected, and for the first time, he wants to be more than just the guy with a bad reputation.

but secrets don’t stay hidden for long, and when y/n finds out the truth, rafe is left to face the consequences. now, he has to prove that somewhere along the way, the bet stopped mattering, because losing her was never part of the plan.

masterlist

cw: language, alcohol

it was a long, exhausting night after lucas left. you felt numb, empty, lost. but a part of you felt relief. and you felt so guilty for feeling that.

you didn't let the girls come over straight away, you wanted to deal with it yourself and process it, but you knew you needed to go out tonight to stop yourself from moping.

by the time the evening had had arrived, your chest still felt heavy, but the grief had dulled into something quieter. something you felt able to carry.

you allowed yourself to get dressed up, promising the girls you would meet them there as you just needed to take your time.

you stared at the dress hanging on the back of your chair that sarah had given to you back when you first became roommates. "wear this when you want to feel hot. trust me." she had said to you that night.

this was one of those nights.

you put it on, did a quick once over and decided it was good enough for right now.

the kappa tau house was, as always, buzzing and full of energy by the time you got there.

you found kie and cleo, who both did a quick double-take when they saw you, expressions flashing from surprise to concern to that unspoken thank god you’re here kind of relief.

"you made it,” kie said, immediately pulling you into a hug. "how are you?" she asked with sincerity.

you gave a weak smile. "ask me after drink number three."

cleo handed you a red solo cup like she’d already prepared for that answer. "you don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to."

"i know," you said, taking a sip. "i just want to be with my girls tonight."

"speaking of..." cleo nodded towards the corner where john b and sarah were making out. "she's been a little preoccupied."

you laughed, "so they're official huh?"

"apparently so. they're fucking whipped." kie sighed.

"she's never in our dorm anymore. always at his." you smiled softly, glad she had someone like him. "i'm happy for her." they nodded in agreement.

for a little while, it was easy. you laughed, danced, and let the negative thoughts stay hidden. but as the night went on, you felt yourself overwhelmed and in need of a break.

"i'm just gonna go get some fresh air for a bit. you guys carry on." you said to the girls.

"are you okay? do you want us to come with you?" kie rushed, always the first one to worry.

"i'm fine! i promise. just getting a bit sweaty."

"ok, but we're here for you, yeah?" cleo spoke with concern.

"i know i know. i'll be back shortly." you stepped away, slipping through the crowd in the living room and making it out to the garden. it was quieter, darker, with the slight flicker of cigarettes being lit and phone screens.

you exhaled deeply, the cool air hitting your skin like a reset button. you leaned against the wall, letting your head fall back, eyes closed, just trying to feel something besides the dull ache in your chest that comes back as soon as you're alone.

"you always sneak off during our parties?"

the voice startled you, pulling you out your trance.

"i didn’t know you were out here," you said quietly.

"didn’t know you were either. guess we both needed a break."

you glanced at rafe for a moment before returning your gaze to the backyard. "you always this good at finding people when they want to be alone?"

"not really. just tends to always be you." he shrugged, "why do you want to be alone?"

"just not really in a people mood right now."

he tilted his head slightly, watching you. "rough night?"

"lucas and i broke up." you responded bluntly.

rafe didn’t say anything at first, just nodded slowly. no told you so. no smug comment. just a shift in his expression. shock and a hint of sympathy.

"you okay?" he asked after a few minutes.

"yeah," you said finally. "i think it wasn't good for a while. he wasn't like, bad or anything. we just grew apart. it felt pretend. and that's exhausting in itself."

he didn’t push you for more. "i get that," voice softer now. "sometimes it’s easier to fake it than admit it's kinda falling apart.”

you looked over at him then, his face barely lit by the glow of the inside, his eyes steady on yours. there was no judgment there. just a weird kind of understanding.

"you always this philosophical at parties?" you let out a small laugh.

he cracked a smile. "only when i run into pretty girls in gardens."

you rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged into the faintest smile, "charming"

"you smiled," he said, "that’s gotta count for something."

"we seem to end up together at parties away from everyone else quite a lot." you said, sitting down against the wall.

"is that a problem?" he sat beside you, close but not too close.

"not really," you said after a beat, voice quieter now. "just… interesting."

he hummed in response, resting his arms on his knees, head tilted slightly like he was trying to read between the lines of your words. "maybe it’s a sign."

you looked over at him, brows raised. "a sign? for what?"

"that you secretly like my company," he said, glancing at you with the smallest smirk, but it didn’t come off cocky. "or maybe you just keep ending up in the same places i go when i’m trying to get away."

"away from what?"

"the pressure of being a frat guy."

you both burst into laughter, you swatted his shoulder, but rafe caught your hand before it could hit him. and he didn't let go. holding it before slowly brushing his hand against yours, just gently. just enough for you to decide.

you hesitated, then turned your hand over, letting your fingers curl lightly into his. it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t even flirtatious. it was steady. grounding. quiet.

his thumb grazed your knuckles, barely there. "you’re allowed to feel relief," he said softly, his voice low and warm. "even if it hurts. even if it’s messy."

"you always like this when you’re not pretending to be an asshole?"

he let out a small laugh. "don’t tell anyone. ruins the brand."

you smiled again, this time more real.

"i'm glad i keep bumping into you." you whispered after a while.

"yeah." he replied, just as quietly. "me too."

a/n: i hate this chapter wahhhhhhh anyway how much of this is bet rafe and how much is real rafe mwahahha

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