#mothball fics

[mothballmilkshake]

I wanted to share the art @ararouge made inspired by my fanfic No Rest For the Wicked: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55935631

Here is a snippet;

There were those who assumed the radio demon didn't sleep at all.

They were incorrect – he did sleep, albeit at somewhat reduced hours than what most would consider standard – but it was still a requirement.

So, on the occasions where it eluded him entirely, he was, unfortunately...

Not at his best.

On the first day, he was hardly different from normal. He had tried to sleep, of course, but somehow the crackling fire and gentle sounds from his false bayou didn't feel as restful as usual. Perhaps it was because he spent so little time in his own rooms these days – but Lucifer had been called away on business, a rare meeting with the other Sins and the Goetia families – so Alastor felt it would be rude to go to the king's rooms without him there.

He had stared at the ceiling for close to an hour, and every time he closed his eyes to attempt to rest, he only ending up tossing and turning, his thoughts focusing on a thousand different things at once.

Nothing important – just things.

[girl-drink-drunk]

i would do slutty, slutty things to the nameless motel manager kevin mcdonald plays in the wrong guy. no exaggeration

[yonemurishiroku]

this fic said that Nico smells like mothball and I... actually kinda like that idea?

[aphroditeinthesea]

Hii can i please request a frank zhang x reader timeless fic. Lik they're adventures on an antique shop or them dancing with timeless a the backsound

“ timeless ”

frank zhang x reader 🐻

i hope this is okay bc if i'm being honest i mostly skipped frank’s chapters sorry 🧍‍♀️

tw none

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

“What about this one?” Y/N said, stopping in front of a shop with a wooden sign reading ‘Auntie Antiques.’

“An antique shop? You sure?” Her boyfriend questioned, squeezing her hand.

She grinned, “yeah, come on.” She pulled him through the creaky doorway into the dusty store.

As they entered, they were welcomed by the smell of mothballs and a elderly woman standing behind a counter, “good morning,” she smiled, “do you need help with anything?”

“Hi,” Frank replied with a mirroring expression.

“We’re just looking right now, thank you,” y/n added before tugging him towards a nearby table. “Look at these,” she gaped, grabbing at the old photographs. The first one she grabbed was of a girl in a sundress standing by a fence with a cow on the other side, the corner of the photo had printed July 1962, “these are so cool.”

The next photo was a couple, a woman in a calf-length dress and a man in an Army uniform, as she turned over the photo it had scribbled on the back ‘my love and me, April 10th, 1944.’

She giggled, handing it over to her boyfriend, “tell me this wouldnt be us 50 years ago.”

He took the picture from her hands, his cheeks warmed slightly at her comment. He admired the photo, looking between the girl in front of him and the one in the picture, “she kind of looks like you, too.”

Y/N looked at the picture, “yeah, she does actually.” She grabbed the the photo out of his hands, “that’s so strange.”

“Hey,” he interrupted, “what’s this?” He began walking over to a stack of chapter books that looked as though they hadn’t been even looked at since 1950.

She followed behind him as she loosely held onto his hand, “looks like some old books, sweetheart.”

He chuckled, “I know that, y/n/n.” He opened one of the books, so much dust blew off that they both broke out into coughing fits.

“What is that? A first edition Odyssey?” She choked out between coughs.

“It’s called ‘The Court Jester,’” he replied, flipping through the pages. He intently read one of the pages in the middle of the book.

“Frank?” she mentioned. No response. “Frank?” No response. “Frank!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he responded, still not looking up, “it looks like it’s about this princess who fell in love with a jester.”

“It was written in 1557,” the old lady suddenly appeared behind them, causing the both to jump. “This copies from 1712 though.”

“You just casually have a book from three-hundred years ago?” Y/N questioned, glancing up at her boyfriend.

“You know what?” The old lady spoke once again, “you can keep it.”

“What?” Frank asked, surprised, “we couldn’t.”

“Oh, no, no,” the woman grabbed the book from his hands and began looking throguh it, “ah, here it is,” she turned over to the very last page. There in the margins was written, ‘a jester and a princess, or I and thee.’

Y/N smiled, “so it was a gift?”

“From one lover to another,” the lady smirked, “I think another young couple should have it.”

“Thank you,” Frank held onto the book again, “we should be going.”

Y/N nodded, tightly grabbing his hand, “thank you, though. You have a lovely shop here.”

“I know,” the old woman said before walking through a door that seemed to lead to a closet.

As the two walked out of the store, y/n spoke again, “twenty bucks says that woman is 400 years old.”

[nsharks]

a secret (and a knife) | simon "ghost" riley

aka rough sex with your lieutenant. (knife included) tags: knife play, oral sex, he calls you slut, afab!reader a/n: has nothing to do with my other fics. this was just for fun.

Your spine digs into dusted floorboards. Thighs wavering; you struggle not to close them and restrict his access to the sensitive flesh between. Keep them fuckin’ open, Ghost has already ordered in a harsh whisper, so you do your best to obey.

But it’s not easy— the heat in your cunt blossoms and ripples under a rough tongue. You’d spent the entire mission charred by the Colorado cold, but now your naked body is heated by the warmth that spreads from your Lieutenant’s mouth. It’s a secret fire that he’s ignited within you, tucked away in a room where none of the sleeping men in the safe house can witness its heat.

“Be quiet.”

Another order. One you understand the weight of. Because these secret exchanges are compromising to both of you— Lieutenant and subordinate, a dynamic that could easily prevent you from serving. Keeping quiet has been the agreement since the first time you’d found yourself taking his cock.

Now—

You hold up your end of the deal by lifting a hand to your mouth, biting the heel of your thumb to quiet your whimpers. But it’s so much— too much. You’ve quickly learned that Simon Riley eats pussy like a man starved. And with a mind that feels muddled by euphoria, you forget his previous command, thighs trembling to shut out his stubbled jaw.

“I said keep ‘em open,” Ghost hisses quietly.

(What he should say: don’t hide my meal.)

Gloved hands roughly pry your plush thighs apart so he can continue his merciless assault.

You try your best, but there’s not much more of his tongue - drinking, slurping, teasing - you can take before your squirming thighs attempt to push him away once again.

“Jesus Christ.”

A silent sneer. Hazel eyes that flicker up to you behind the hollow orbitals of a skull. In frustration, his warm mouth leaves you. You watch him sit up so he can reach for something from his heavy boot— a knife. The black sheath stares back at you only for a moment before he removes it, revealing a silver blade that catches the dim candlelight.

“Keep ‘em open or I’ll carve my name…” and he taps a gloved digit to the supple skin of your thigh, just beside your cunt, “…right here. I swear it.”

A final warning. Cold and quiet. He presses the blade against your inner thigh to keep it in place with the threat of its sharp edge.

You suck in a breath.

He wouldn’t dare.

But the subtle sting, his whispered threat, only heightens your sensitivity. Nerves prickle under the metal and your back arches against the floorboards. He returns his mouth to the fat of your cunt with slurps and dribbles. He hasn't even fucked you yet and your hole already feels used. Your thighs continue to quiver but you seek every ounce of your will to keep them spread open for him, the knife doing well to motivate you.

And soon— liquid pleasure. It erupts from your cunt and spreads to each of your limbs. Drenching his tongue, stubble, lips. You bite your hand with force and your thigh shakes against the blade until you feel it just barely nip that first layer of skin. But you keep them apart, following his command even in your pleasure-altered state.

“Good girl,” your superior murmurs a piece of praise as he licks it up. But he doesn’t give you much time to recover before he’s moving the flat side of his knife to your soiled cunt and giving it a few taps.

Wet mess under sleek blade. You shudder.

“Now stand up.”

Upon weak legs, you lift yourself. Spine bruised from the floor. You stand there wholly naked (he’d been quick to remove each layer before eating your pussy) and instinctively hold your breasts, nipples pert from the chill air. Ghost stands up wholly clothed. His preference. Only his thick gear had been placed on the floor in the midst of it all.

Thick heartbeats. A lick of his wet lips. The smell of sex and mothballs in the room. Then, in a quiet flurry, he presses you against the wall. One hand gripping your shoulder and the other clutching the handle of his knife— the colossal mass of him towers behind you.

“Ghost.”

You almost whine. Pussy drooling: his spit, your cum. You feel ready for him, hands trembling as they press into the wall's wood. Crazed. Perhaps because of the long day you’d had. Possibly because of the knife he has pulled out to threaten you with. Your orgasm has fizzled into the desperation for another and you press your ass back to fill the crevice of his clothed hips.

To the rest of the team, you are a dutiful soldier. Collected. Focused. To him: you are anything but.

“Shh.” He brings his exposed lips to your ear. “Needy little thing. Christ. Just came from my mouth, didn’t you?”

“Want… more.”

He simply shushes you again by letting the knife finds its way to your throat. Another warning. Just barely does he press the cool edge against the skin, but it does well to make you shiver in obedience. The threat, the thrill. He could easily slice your jugular just as he could easily pin you down and carve his infamous name into your flesh; you’ve witnessed him gut men without second thought.

But instead of spilling blood, your Lieutenant undoes his belt. A clank. Shuffling trousers. Soon, his warm, fat cock grazes the back of your thigh. Head weeping. The soft, dewy skin of it is a stark contrast to the sharp steel, but the threat carries the same.

He could do equal damage with both.

Here, in a Colorado safe house while the rest of your unit sleeps, Ghost moves the knife from your throat to the expanse of your bare back. His cock swinging low against your ass. You’re not sure what he’s doing until you feel the pointed tip trail down each notch in your spine, slowly, causing you to shudder and writhe and press your lips together.

Icy metal.

Gooseflesh erected in its wake.

“Like how it feels, do you?” Ghost asks quietly in your ear. His free hand touches his cock, and you know it because the wet head nudges against your ass with each stroke. “Knew you would, little dove. Filthy thing, you are.”

A crackled whisper: “Don’t tease me, Lt.”

Flicker of candlelight. His breath down your neck.

“Shut it,” and the knife’s warning finds your throat once more, “I’ll do what I want.”

But it seems his need is as thick as yours. He taps his heavy cock against your ass cheek only a few times before guiding it between your legs, mushroomed tip feeding into you without reserve. Fat. Throbbing. You feel the ridge of every vein against your velvet walls. A man whose face you’ve never even seen slowly splits you apart, inch by inch, with one of his many knives bared to your throat.

It hurts so good.

“This goddamn cunt…” he mouths a growl into the shell of your ear. Plastic skull pressed against your hair. “…has me doin’ things I shouldn’t.”

A skeletal hand covers your lips to keep you quiet as his cock reaches the hilt, as if he doesn’t trust you even with the threat of his knife. The noises you might make could cost him too much. His slow entrance soon turns into deep, strong thrusts that have you pitifully mewling into his glove until your cheeks turn pink.

And then the blade pricks your neck with a little more force.

An irritated hiss:

“It’s your fuckin’ fault. Gonna get me in trouble, I swear to God. This perfect, little cunt… opening up for me. Suckin’ me in. Jesus Christ, you are such a slut.”

It’s the burn of his filthy words. The sting of his blade. The knowledge that you really shouldn’t be doing this, that there are men asleep out there who could easily slip in and witness your months-old secret. The taboo of it all shouldn’t make your walls clench around him, but it does.

Slut.

You know it.

Your eyes clamp shut.

Your belly flips and ripples with another growing swell of euphoria, to the point that tears begin to bleed from the corners of your closed lids. Sweltering salt that escapes down your cheeks and onto his gloved hand. A few tears make it to the blade, even.

Ghost… Simon. Your Lieutenant. Everything about this man is immeasurable. His size, his strength, his command, his penchant for making you cry. It’s only fitting that the deep press of his cock would be just as overwhelming. Each languid, full thrust presses his head against the plug of your womb. The crescent of his hips meets the jiggling fat of your ass with a force that digs your nipples into the wall.

All of him consumes all of you.

His scent - sulfur, kerosene - swarming your nose as you struggle to breathe. The feeble gulps of air down your throat further dig the blade against your neck until you are certain a pink welt will form.

The knife stings. It gnaws. His cock batters and bruises. You shiver. You bite his hand, but still he doesn’t relent.

It’s his fault.

It’s his whispered words in your ear, nudging you towards another precipice:

“You’re goin’ to cum on my cock, huh?” He gives a bite to your shoulder. “No one gets to see you like this but me. Fuckin’ crying ‘cause you’re about to cum again— bloody hell.”

And you do. His teeth, the knife, his rough hand over your mouth. It’s pain and pleasure. Need and secrecy. The unforgiving cock buried within you coaxes a second orgasm. White-hot. Frothing somewhere in your belly. A silenced moan in his palm. Your walls clench around the thick of him until he follows suit; painting your womb with white seed.

His cock twitches. Pulses. Stills.

He only pulls out of you when the knife against your neck finally lifts, faded sting left behind. A heavy chest breathes deep mouthfuls of air against you. You both try your best to rake in the aftermath without making too much noise, and in the quietness, an unspoken understanding lingers in the air:

This isn’t something either of us are willing to stop.

No— because your imperfect needs entwine perfectly. You have an itch for pain; he has the itch to supply it. You have a desire for pleasure without mercy; Ghost is anything but merciful. The consequences don’t seem to outweigh the way your bodies keep finding each other in the dark.

Moments later, your Lieutenant’s mouth finds your ear again.

His knife— you wonder where it’s left to, but your answer arrives in the cold, flat side pressing against the mess between your legs.

Sloppy drips of him and you coat the metal.

“Dove,” he murmurs in your ear and then brings the knife to your reddened lips. You see it through your hazy vision— all the cum he has collected. “Lick it clean. Go on.”

And you do well to obey your superior’s last order of the night, with a lazy tongue that licks up every drop of cum from his knife.

[qvrcll]

college mellodrama

summary: (text fic) what had started from a coincidental mix-match of partners, courtesy of dina, you’re paired up ellie williams, a cute yet awkwardly fashionable girl who somehow fits like a puzzle piece.

warnings: food mentioned! a bit of cursing here and there

a/n: i’ve been super inspired by @brackishkittie + @totheblood + @sapphicproblem and their fabulously crafted text fics (that are so bloody addictive hello) and decided to have a go as well :-) this will be a series i think, so i might create a master-list soon (help)

Biology. Fifth period. Lockers crammed with paper thin notes and chiselled folders, barely making the cut. It had been easy, being partnered with Jesse. You both had high-five’d it out and split the work two ways, opting to start a few days onward — ideally, who begins project work the day it’s assigned? It’s only when you’re shifting from that transitionary period from locker to front doors, from front doors to the pavement and then back to your dorm room, that you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. You bite a sigh, eyeing the sender, pursuing peace yet finding none of it.

This doesn’t have to be hard, you think. Secretly, the ‘cute’ comment stuck, mothballed into the crevice of your brain, made a cruel impression on you that only hopeless, flattering idiots would fall for. You think you fit the bill — offended? No, just gay. As you press your dorm keys into the lock and stumble into the well aquatinted space with a sigh and massive thud of your bag onto the floor, you find yourself inserting this ‘Ellie Williams’ into your array of contacts. Seriously, who came up with the phrase ‘easier said than done’? This shit was as easy as pie.

This is easy. This is routine, you think, as you simmer down into your casual touch of environment. You quickly grew to love the smell of several beverages whilst at college, a handful of foods and snacks did the job too. Filtering a quick mug of it worked, as it did most times. But your curiosity piques over the smell of it all, and you revisit your phone, punching up Dina’s contact.

Your fingers croon out of Dina’s contact, swiftly finding Ellie’s in seconds. It was strange, being so accustomed to a stranger in the span of a handle of minutes. Time felt like kernels. But Ellie was easy to converse with, easy to skim the fat to be left with mutual energy.

Her message leaves you creaking with laughter, as you settle in for a good night’s rest, plastered haphazardly to your bed like the morning would be a crime to wake up to. On the horizon’s edge, however, Ellie lays wide awake on her bed, shut down beneath her massive comforter. The message she’s sent reads ‘read’ but she’s got a million and more messages to card out, despite the time. What do you look like? What’s your favourite colour? Hell, what’s your name? She pauses, blinks with humiliation, and opts to settle the name from Dina.

© 2023 qvrcll. Do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[mrsshabana]

♥CW: None. Pure fluff. Gender neutral reader.

♥AN: I've been wanting to start writing for Shigaraki so here's something small to start. I love mothman Shiggy fics and I had a cute idea, so here's my little contribution.

♥WC: 1,004

This is getting annoying and you’re fed up.

Every time you open your closet, you find your favorite sweaters filled with new holes. How is this even happening? These sweaters are useless in the frigid winter when they are filled with holes. The holes are big too, and there’s only one thing that you can think would have wrecked such havoc on your wardrobe.

You must have a moth infestation.

After buying some moth balls from the local supermarket, you make your way to the closet that night before bed. This should get rid of those pesky moths, you think to yourself.

Opening the closet, you are shocked by the sight before you.

A man with giant wings has your sweater sleeve in his mouth.

His wings are black and white, with an iridescent sheen that lays atop a delicate pattern. Feathery antennae stick out of his shoulder length, white hair. He has a fluffy white ruff around his neck, matching his hair. Ruby red eyes stare back at you with a frown. 

With a squeal you throw the mothballs at him.

He hisses, showing off his fangs in an attempt to scare you away. The scent wafting off the mothballs irritate him, so he simply picks them up and throws them back at you. Returning back to his meal.

“Stop it!” you shout, snatching your favorite sweater from his grasp, “This is my favorite sweater!” You’re more concerned about saving your sweater than you are about the literal mothman in your closet.

He squints his eyes at you, “Hungry,” he growls.

Getting a better look at him, he does seem sickly. Very thin and pale, with scars scattered across his skin. He’s wearing tattered pants and no shirt, the sight of his ribs show you just how hungry he is.

You start to feel bad for the poor creature, not enough to sacrifice your sweaters though. “Stay here, I’ll get you some food.”

He waits patiently while you go to the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. He has sharp teeth so you assume he eats meat, grabbing a raw chuck roast from your fridge. Bringing it back to your room on a plate.

“Here,” you sit across from him, offering him the plate. “You can eat this.”

He crawls towards you, cautiously approaching. Sniffing the meal you hold out to him. 

With a single, swift motion, he lunges forward. Pushing the plate aside and latching his fangs on the bottom edge of the sweater you’re wearing.

“No! Stop it, my clothes aren’t food!” You protest, pushing his head away from you. But he doesn’t budge no matter how much you try to push him away. It’s obvious that his strength is far beyond that of a human.

He chews at your sweater with urgency, like he hasn’t eaten in ages. And he’s shivering too. It’s the middle of winter and the poor thing doesn’t have any proper way to stay warm. Maybe that's how he ended up in your home, he was looking for a warm place to stay through the winter. 

You sigh and stop trying to push him off of you. He’s just hungry after all and you can always buy new clothes. Bringing your hand up to the ruff of his neck, you gently pet his soft fur, “Fine, you can have the sweater.”

He purrs sweetly in response, laying his head in your lap as he continues to eat away at the fabric. You stroke his fur, admiring his beauty for the next hour. Until he’s traveled up your body, and down your arms, devouring every strand of the sweater you were wearing.

The mothman licks his lips in satisfaction, sniffing around your chest to make sure he got it all, before turning around to leave. Figuring that he has overstayed his welcome. Quite embarrassed that he had just savagely devoured your sweater, unable to control himself due to the fact that he hasn’t had a proper meal in weeks.

“Wait!” you reach out to him, “Please stay… at least through the winter. You’ll be safe here.” For some reason, you feel sympathy for him. Yeah he was eating your clothes, but he was only trying to survive.

Why are you inviting him to stay? You should be screaming in fear like the other humans do when they see him. But you’re different… the first person to show him a hint of kindness. He can’t turn you down even if he wanted to, his chances of surviving such a harsh winter will be slim without a warm shelter.

Seeing that he’s not quite convinced, you quickly put on a t-shirt and scurry over to your bed. Holding the blankets open for him to join you. The warmth of your bed beckons him. He can’t remember the last time he had a warm, safe place to sleep. Following his instincts, he slips under the covers with you. Nuzzling up to your chest, purring as you roll your fingers through his white hair.

Surely you must have a death wish, allowing a deadly mothman to huddle up with you for warmth. But you don’t care. So far he’s only shown interest in harming your clothes, so as far as you’re concerned, he won’t harm you.

His tense muscles relax in your touch, wrapping his arms around you with a relaxed sigh. Trying to convince himself that he’s only doing this to warm himself up, no other reason besides that. 

“Tomura… my name is Tomura,” he mumbles. Thinking it rude that he hasn’t introduced himself yet, he doesn’t want you to think he’s some wild animal with no manners.

“What a pretty name. My name is Y/N… you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Tomura,” you say sweetly. 

“We’ll see…” he grumbles. Burying his face into your chest to hide the blush forming across his cheeks.

He’s so comfy here with you, that he might just consider staying through the entire winter. And you wouldn’t mind one bit.

[no-other-mashter]

Sanguine Osculum

Upon exploring an abandoned manor deep in the woods, you find that truth is sometimes just as strange as fiction.

Vampire!Sam Kiszka x Reader

Warnings: Standard warnings for a vampire fic, along with 18+ themes in future chapters.

You'd heard the stories, of course. Deep in the woods, a desolate manor stood. The family who once called it home, they said, had all fallen victim to some illness, leaving the once bustling estate empty and unkempt.

But those who decided to explore it always spoke of an energy that seemed to exist there, of a presence that resided within the worn-down walls. Believers suggest that the spirits of the four young brothers who had once lived there still wandered the halls, unable to accept that they're no longer alive. Others just say it's a creepy old manor, empty and alone. These claims ignited a fire of curiosity within you, and you were itching to explore the place yourself.

The family, it seemed, had originated from somewhere in Europe, their lineage a long line of nobility and prestige. They were revered, held in high regard, as if royalty. Upon arriving here, however, their once illustrious name faded into obscurity. They vanished from the public eye, retreating into the confines of their manor.

This only added to your intrigue, if you were being honest. What secrets lie waiting in that old manor? Was it really haunted?

You decided one afternoon that you were going to find out for yourself, which is how you ended up stood in front of the dilapidated manor, a large pack on your back and anticipation thrumming under your skin.

The manor, once a symbol of opulence and prosperity, now sat in a state of disrepair and loneliness. Time had not been kind to the large estate, with ivy creeping up the decaying walls, nature reclaiming what was once its own. The windows, many shattered, stared out into the world with hollow eyes, as if yearning for what it once was.

The doors were still functional, with a large, ornate knocker staring back at you. Just for the hell of it, you lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it hit the door once, the noise echoing through the halls.

Nothing seemed to jump out at you, no ghosts, no squatters, no animals, so you assumed the place really was empty. You pushed the heavy door open with your shoulder, grateful you had worn something you didn't mind getting messed up as a loose splinter tore a small rip in your sleeve.

While the outside of the manor was in a rather sad state, the inside was surprisingly intact. It was dusty, sure, and some things here and there seemed damaged, but most of the furniture and knicknacks still sat as if no time had passed.

The foyer, once a grand entrance hall, greeted you with faded elegance. The air hung heavy with the scent of neglect, mingling with the faint aroma of aged wood and mothballs. Rays of sunlight filtered through the cracked and dusty windows, casting a dappled light on the old wooden floors. The faded paintings on the walls, still intact beneath the layers of dust, spoke of a time when this place was alive with laughter and vibrant conversations.

You were glad you had decided to bring your camera with you, eager to get photos of this beautiful place. Even the kitchen was elegant; black and white stone floor, white brick walls, and dark stained wood throughout the room spoke of the wealth of the family who once lived here. You wondered what kind of meals they enjoyed that were prepared here.

Your feet carried you to what seemed to be a ballroom of sorts. A large grand piano sat in a corner, intricate carvings decorating its glossy exterior. You were surprised by the lack of dust on it, as if someone took care of it.

The room itself was vast, adorned with chandeliers that hung precariously from the ceiling, their crystal droplets dulled and tarnished. The walls, once adorned with opulent tapestries and intricate artwork, now displayed faded remnants of their former glory. Gossamer curtains, moth-eaten and tattered, danced with the breeze that seeped through the broken windows, casting eerie shadows on the worn parquet floor.

As you reached the old piano, you felt a shiver up your spine. It felt like there were eyes on you, silently watching from some darkened corner. Looking around the sprawling ballroom revealed nothing, not even a mouse scuttling across the floor. Maybe it was just your imagination, but you couldn't shake that feeling.

And maybe you were just overly superstitious, but you didn't want to risk having a ghost angry at you for touching their stuff without asking.

"I-" You spoke up, stuttering at the way your voice echoed throughout the empty room, "I hope you don't mind if I play your piano. I won't break it, I promise."

And suddenly, you felt the tension in the room disappear, as if whoever was watching you was giving you permission.

You gently sat on the wooden bench, letting your fingers drift to the keys. Playing it, you were surprised to find it was still mostly in-key. You didn't know how to play much on the piano, just some simple melodies, but you enjoyed playing it, nonetheless. To be able to play a piece of history was so exciting to you.

You still felt watched as you played, but the gaze felt more curious now. Once you finished playing, you stood from the piano and glanced around the large room.

"Thanks for letting me play. I'll leave you be now," You say again to the seemingly empty room before heading back to the front room.

The sweeping staircase, its banister worn but still sturdy, beckoned you to explore the upper floors. Each step you took echoed through the empty space, reminding you of the tragedy that took place here. You couldn't help but wonder about the lives that once ascended these steps, the footsteps that once filled the hollow emptiness.

Rooms branched off from the main staircase, some to the left and some to the right. The right seemed to be bedrooms, which you left for later. The first room you came across was a library.

As you stepped into the dimly lit space, you couldn't help but be captivated by the sight before you. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with towering bookshelves, their wooden frames weathered by time. The shelves were filled with rows upon rows of books, their spines bearing the weight of forgotten stories and hidden knowledge.

Sunlight filtered through the dust-laden windows, casting an ethereal glow that danced upon the countless volumes. Each ray seemed to breathe life into the forgotten tales, giving them a chance to whisper their secrets once more. You could almost imagine the whispers of the authors, their words suspended in the air, waiting for someone to pick them up.

You ran your fingers along the books as you made your way deeper into the room, marveling at the fragility of their spines and the delicate scent of aged parchment that filled the air. The room was silent, save for the faint rustling of pages as the wind tiptoed through the cracks in the windows.

As you reached the center of the library, your eyes were drawn to an ornate desk, tucked away in a corner. The desk stood proud, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of flowers and vines. You felt watched once more, but this gaze was different. It was wary, but more gentle.

Speaking eased the tension last time, so you decided to do so again.

"Hello... I'm just here to look around. I won't take any of the books."

And again, the air felt calmer. You were certain there was a presence here, but it didn't seem angry or violent. Just... watchful. Careful of it's possessions.

You read some of the papers that sat on the desk. They seemed to be poems, or maybe songs, your eyes trailing along the faded ink. You didn't stay in the library very long, the dust making your throat tickle. You thanked the unseen presence again before moving on.

The room next door was a music room of some sort. Various instruments lay around the room, though two caught your interest: a beautiful violin and a very old guitar. At this point, you weren't surprised when you felt watched again, though this time, you felt a bit of annoyance seep into the room. You decided it would be best to leave the instruments alone; whatever was watching you seemed protective of them.

"I won't touch your things, I promise."

The tension cooled slightly, but you could still tell that you weren't wanted in here.

"Sorry if I'm intruding... I'll take my leave now."

You quickly exited the music room, letting out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. You decided to leave that room be for now; whatever was in there didn't want you in there with it.

The last room on the left side was a sitting room, bathed in the faint light of the slowly setting sun. As you stepped inside, your eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The air hung heavy with the scent of aged wood and lingering spirits.

An ornate bar, its polished surface covered by empty liquor bottles, commanded attention, taking up a large portion of the room. Crystal decanters, now empty and collecting dust, stood alongside tarnished glasses.

On the other end of the room, nestled beneath the glow of an antique chandelier, sat a cluster of chairs. Their faded upholstery now bore the marks of time, their frayed edges and worn cushions a result of the passage of years. A pool table, its green baize cloth marked with faint traces of chalk, stood nearby, its wooden frame showing signs of wear and tear.

You set your bag down and sank into one of the large chairs, the worn leather creaking softly beneath your weight. It was then that you felt it—an inexplicable shift in the atmosphere, as if the room had come alive with an unseen presence. The air crackled with a tangible energy, and a shiver danced its way down your spine.

The feeling of being watched returned, but this time, it was different. It was no longer a mere gaze, but a physical presence that settled in the room with you. You could almost feel the wamth of another person, almost feel the subtle disturbance of the air as they moved.

And then, in the periphery of your vision, you saw it. There was a flicker of movement, a shadow cast against the wall. Your breath caught in your throat as you turned your head, eyes narrowing in an attempt to make sense of the mysterious figure that now stood before you.

You could see dark curly hair and a white ruffled shirt, like the ones you'd see in those period dramas. Curious, dark eyes stared back at you as you stood on shaking legs, unsure of what you were looking at. The figure stepped closer, and you could finally see the rest of his features.

He was handsome, and reminded you of the old Greek statues you'd seen at the art museum once. There was something off about him, though, and his movements were too quiet for your liking.

It took a minute to find your voice, and it trembled once you did.

"H-Hello... I'm sorry for intruding..."

The young man looked you up and down, raising an eyebrow before finally speaking.

"You should leave. Your kind shouldn't be here. It's not safe."

His voice was low and rough, but there was a softer tone to the second half, as if he were genuinely concerned for you.

"U-um... okay..."

You glanced at the door, slowly walking to it and keeping your distance from the man.

"Can I ask if you're-"

"You really should take your leave. It's not wise to be here right now," he repeated.

You decided to take heed of his warning, slipping out of the room and back into the hallway. The air felt different than before, as if the manor itself was watching you. You quickly headed back down the staircase and out the front door, your heart thumping out of your chest.

Honestly you hadn't even realized it was so late, too enveloped in exploring. Reaching for your cell phone, you came back empty handed.

Shit. You left your bag upstairs.

You couldn't just leave it behind; you didn't have that kind of money. And your camera was in it too, and you definitely didn't want to lose that.

So, with a deep breath, you re-entered the manor. Climbing the stairs, you felt like you were making a mistake, but you continued on. You had to.

As you reached the landing, you could see the door leading to the sitting room standing ajar, a sliver of light peeking through the crack. Your heart pounded in your chest, the sound reverberating in your ears as you approached cautiously, one hesitant step at a time.

Pushing the door open, you entered the room once again, your eyes instantly drawn to the spot where you had left your bag. It lay there, innocently perched upon the worn chair, waiting patiently for your return.

With a sigh of relief, you hurriedly retrieved your bag, pulling it over your shoulders before turning around and running directly into the young man from before.

"Why are you still here?" He asked, worry in his tone.

"I- um, forgot my things..." You replied, shocked that he wasn't a ghost like you first though. His body was physical, clearly, as you had run into him. His skin was cooler than your own, but not wildly so.

"Leave now. Please," He gently pushed you out of the room, and his tone worried you.

In your rush to head down the stairs, however, you slipped. You felt the ground approaching your face, and closed your eyes as you braced yourself for impact. But it never came. Instead, you felt gentle arms around you, and a new voice spoke quietly into your ear.

"Easy, Darling..."

You opened your eyes and looked up, your eyes meeting honey brown ones. This was a different young man, his short brown hair slicked back, showing off his soft features and slight stubble. He wore an off white ruffled shirt with a fancy jacket over it, his dainty features giving him a charming look overall.

"You should be more careful, Darling. You could've gotten hurt."

He had a boyish tone to his voice and didn't look like he was much different in age to yourself, though you could've been wrong. His hands were a bit clammy, but you ignored it as he helped you to the front door.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It's quite alright, Darling," He cut you off, before smiling softly, "Now, I must ask you to head back home. You shouldn't linger around strange places so late..."

You swallowed and nodded, not missing the way he looked you up and down, his gaze landing back on your face.

"As lovely as it was to meet you and listen to you play, Darling, I must ask that you not return. It's simply for your own safety. Oh, and don't tell anyone you saw us. We don't like visitors..."

You nodded again. You certainly wouldn't be telling anyone about this. It's not like they'd believe you.

The young man smiled again, giving you a slight bow.

"Have a lovely night, Darling," He whispered, closing the door once more.

As you drove home that night, only one thought filled your head.

You had to go back to that place.

-------

The manor seemed just as empty as before when you decided to return, just days later. The overgrown ivy still twisted around the stone walls, casting eerie shadows in the fading light of dusk. The looming structure stood as a silent sentinel, guarding its secrets within. The heavy oak door beckoned you forward, its intricate carvings a stark contrast to the peeling paint and weathered facade. You wondered for a moment if you imagined the strange people who you had met the last time.

You were tempted to raise the heavy knocker once again, but you knew deep down that you would get no response. The manor still seemed abandoned, frozen in time, a relic of a bygone era. Yet, faintly, you could hear what sounded like music drifting through the air, carried on a haunting melody.

Intrigued and unable to resist the allure of the sound, you stepped into the manor once more. The music was drawing you deeper into its depths, the soft creaking of floorboards beneath your feet adding to the somber ambiance that surrounded you.

After a minute of wandering the lower halls, you finally reached the grand ballroom. The doors stood ajar, revealing a scene straight out of a dream— or perhaps out of a period drama.

In the corner of the room, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, a figure sat at the grand piano. His fingers danced across the keys with effortless grace, conjuring a haunting melody that seemed to reach the very core of your being.

Stepping closer, you recognized him as the young man from before, the one who caught you on the stairs. You couldn't see much of his face from where you stood, but managed to see that his eyes were closed and he seemed to move with the music. His brow would furrow and relax with the highs and lows of the melody, and his mouth hung slightly open, quiet mumbles spilling out unconsciously.

The scene before you was captivating, almost surreal in its beauty and mystery. The candlelight cast dancing shadows across the room, adding an ethereal quality to the young man's performance. The melody he played seemed to echo through the vast ballroom, filling the space with a sense of melancholy and longing.

As you watched him, you couldn't help but be drawn in by his music. Each note was played with such emotion and skill, his fingers gliding effortlessly across the keys. It was as though the piano was an extension of his own body, each chord and harmony a reflection of himself.

His body swayed with the music, his movements fluid and graceful. You could sense the passion and dedication he poured into his playing, his entire being consumed by the haunting melody that filled the room. It was a performance unlike any other, and one you knew he expected no one to see.

As the music reached a crescendo, his eyes fluttered open, revealing depths of honey brown that seemed to hold a thousand thoughts at once. But then, he played a sour note, his body going stiff as he slowly turned to make eye contact with you.

"What are you doing here...?" He asked, his voice laced with confusion, "I thought I asked you not to come back."

He stood quickly, his movements as graceful as a dancer.

"I'm sorry... I just- I had to... I needed to make sure what I saw last time was real..." You tried to explain, stumbling over your words as he approached.

"As much as I'd love to keep your company, darling, you can't be here," He whispered, using that name again. The one that only made you want to stay here longer. He stopped a few feet away from you and stood so still you couldn't even see him breathe. It was as if he was afraid to come closer, or even breathe the same air as you.

"Why is it so dangerous to be here?" You asked, taking a step forward, "That's what the other boy said too, the one with the curly black hair."

The young man tilted his head to the side, "Curly black hair... you met Daniel?" His confusion turned to concern, "You didn't happen to meet anyone else, did you?"

You shook your head.

He reached out, as if to turn you towards the door, "Then you still have a chance to leave. I'd do so before either of them know you're snooping around here again-"

"Sam?"

Another man's voice echoed down from the top of the stairs, and the brown haired boy, Sam apparently, stiffened.

"Damnit..." He muttered, grabbing your arm and leading you to a closet, "Stay in here and do not make a sound. Just trust me."

With that, he pushed you in and shut the door, leaving you in the dark, dusty storage closet. You pressed your ear against the door, straining to catch any sound from outside.

The muffled voices of Sam and the newcomer drifted through the wooden barrier, "Sam? Who's down here with you?" This voice was lower and had a slight rasp to it compared to Sam's more boyish tone.

"There's no one here, Jake. It's just me."

The other man, Jake, seemed to be unsure of that answer, his footsteps coming every so slightly closer.

"I can smell that someone else was here, Sam. You know that no one can-"

"Jake, it's probably just from the person who was here the other day. They were messing with my piano, so it probably still has their scent," Sam explained, though you didn't understand what he meant. You didn't stink, did you? You sniffed yourself but could only smell the dust and mildew in the closet. It tickled your nose, and you did all you could to hold in the sneeze threatening to come out.

"Maybe... I just don't like it when people come snooping around. If any of them find out, they'll be here with pitchforks and torches by nightfall."

Unfortunately, you could only hold in the sneeze for so long.

"Achoo! ... shit..."

The sound echoed through the dark, dusty closet, interrupting the stillness that had enveloped the space. Your heart skipped a beat as you realized your cover had been blown. The muffled voices of Sam and Jake abruptly halted, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to last forever despite it only being a few moments.

The closet door was suddenly flung open as you locked eyes with who you assumed was Jake. His brown hair fell effortlessly to his shoulders, and there was an undeniable elegance about him, an air of regality that seemed to set him apart from the others. His outfit was different too; a red vest and jacket that showed off much of his chest and the necklaces that lay there, paired with red suit pants and white pointed dress shoes

But it was his eyes that captivated you the most. Like Sam's, they were a piercing amber-brown, but there was something about the way Jake looked at you that made you shiver. It was as if he was looking through you instead of at you. It was both unsettling and electrifying.

His lips curled into a snarl, revealing unusually sharp teeth that glinted in the sparse illumination, adding to his menacing demeanor. Without a word, he grabbed the front of your shirt, his grip firm and unyielding as he backed you against the wall.

With his face mere inches from yours, you could see every detail of his nearly perfect skin. His gaze bore into you, as if searching for answers you were not even sure you had. The intensity in his eyes was like a storm brewing, ready to unleash its fury at any moment.

"Who the hell are you, and why are you here?" His voice was low and dangerous, each word dripping with anger. The weight of his question pressed down on you, demanding a response that you struggled to form.

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of your own fearful breaths. In that moment, you felt like a mouse caught in the gaze of a cat, helpless and exposed.

The seconds stretched on, each heartbeat echoing in your ears like a drumbeat of impending danger. The dim light cast shadows across Jake's face, accentuating the sharp angles and the intensity of his gaze. It was as if time itself had slowed down, trapping you in this moment of uncertainty and fear.

But just as you thought you might crumble under the weight of his scrutiny, Sam spoke up, placing a hand on Jake's arm, "Let them go, Jake. I promise they're not a threat to us."

Jake's grip on your shirt loosened slightly, but his gaze remained fixed on you, "You know their kind and our kind aren't exactly friends, right, Sam? What's stopping them from ratting us out the second they leave?"

Ratting them out about what? For being weirdos living in some old manor in the woods?

"I- I won't say anything! I swear on my life!" You manage to blurt out, the words tumbling out of you in a desperate plea.

Sam butted in again, "Jake, please. It's the one chance we have to see what people are up to now. Please?" He sounded like a child begging their parent to let them keep a new pet.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jake released his hold on you, stepping back with a wary look in his eyes, "Fine. But if you say one word to anyone, I'll gut you."

Jake turned on his heel and stormed off, his coat billowing behind him. His footsteps echoed through the empty hallway, fading into the distance like a distant thunderstorm. Alone with Sam now, you turned to face him, taking in the subtle downturn of his shoulders and the crease of worry etched into his brow.

"I apologize about him. He doesn't trust people very much anymore..." Sam's voice was apologetic and worried, "He'll eventually get over it. Just, ah, please don't tell anyone about us?"

You sighed in annoyance, still confused about all this, "Tell anyone what?? I still have no idea what or who you guys are!"

It was Sam's turn to seem confused.

"You... you don't? I assumed you had returned because you figured it out..." Sam trailed off, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed, his brows knitting together in a perplexed expression.

"Oh. Well... hmm..." Sam's voice trailed off, suddenly less sure sounding than before.

"Well?" you prompted.

Sam took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of whatever knowledge he carried. He took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I, um... my brothers and I... we're not human. Not anymore, at least..." Sam's voice wavered, the confession weighing down his every syllable.

You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deceit, but all you found was raw vulnerability.

"You're... not human?" The words felt foreign on your tongue, a question you'd never thought you'd say.

Sam nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, "We're something else now. Something different..." His features were drawn with worry, his eyes pleading for understanding, "I know this is a lot to take in, but please... we mean no harm. We're just trying to survive, to exist in a world that isn't made for us."

Not human.

The words echoed in your thoughts as questions fought for attention in your mind, demanding answers that seemed to slip through your grasp like water through a sieve. Not human. Then what was he?

You could touch them, so probably not ghosts; they weren't rotting in front of you, so not zombies, a voice in your mind reasoned, trying to make sense of the impossible truth standing before you.

You looked at Sam, truly looked at him, and actually took in his features. His smooth, perfect skin that accentuated the sharp angles of his face, his amber eyes that leaned a little more red than brown, and his too-sharp teeth, elongated and pointed, glistening slightly under the light filtering through the dusty windows.

Oh.

It all made sense.

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with a resounding click, and suddenly, the world around you seemed to shift. Sam stood before you, a creature of the night, a being that belonged to the shadows.

"You... You're a vampire??" You ask in a hushed tone, a part of you still not believing it.

Sam nodded slowly, his features softened by a hint of sadness, "Yes, I am. And so are my brothers. We... we never wanted this life, but it chose us nonetheless." His voice was a whisper, full of longing for a world long gone.

"Do you... feed on people?" You ask, stepping back.

"No! None of us do. We can stay satiated enough with the wildlife in the surrounding forest," Sam assured you, taking a step to keep the same distance between you both, "Trust me, I don't like it either. I didnt like eating animals even before becoming this. But I can assure you that none of us will hurt you."

You cast a glance to the doorway where Jake had just stormed off, "What about him?"

"Jake's just highly overprotective of us. Most people tend to run screaming when they discover they're standing in a house full of vampires."

You stayed still for a moment, considering your options. You could run away like others apparently had, and try to forget this place and it's otherworldly inhabitants. But there was something in Sam's demeanor, a certain earnestness in his voice, that made you want to stay.

"You promise none of you will hurt me?" You ask, watching as Sam's face perks up at your words.

"I promise. I swear on my eternal life," Sam grinned, placing a hand over his heart. His teeth glinted in the light, but strangely, you weren't scared of him.

"Alright then. I'll trust you... Sam, was it?" You say, relaxing slightly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I never introduced myself, did I? My name is Samuel Francis Kiszka, and it's a pleasure to meet you, darling," Sam bowed dramatically, peeking up at you after a moment with another grin, "But you may call me Sam."

You told Sam your own name, chuckling when he decided to keep referring to you as "darling" instead.

"Now, I'd love to give you the grand tour, if you'd like?"

You, of course, agreed.

As Sam led you through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion, you couldn't help but marvel at the grandeur of the place. You followed Sam's tall figure, his movements graceful yet purposeful, as he showed you around the rooms you had only briefly passed through before.

The ballroom, with its ornate chandeliers and marble floors, stood as a reminder a bygone era. Sam spoke of the nights when music and laughter filled the room, when guests twirled in elegant gowns and tailored suits. His voice echoed in the vast space, recounting tales of extravagant parties and lavish gatherings that once graced the halls.

Next, he guided you to the kitchen, where the scent of spices and herbs still lingered in the air, even under all the dust. The massive hearth, now cold and dark, had once been the heart of the bustling room. Sam pointed out the intricately carved cabinets and shelves, explaining how the pantry used to aways be stocked with supplies from the nearby village, ensuring that those living in the manor at that time never went hungry.

Moving on, you entered the dining room, its long table still set with fine china and silverware. The high-backed chairs stood empty, a stark reminder of the absence of guests. Sam's voice softened as he described the family meals shared around the table, the laughter and arguments that had once filled the room now reduced to nothing but memories in his mind.

The last major room you were shown on the lower floor was the main sitting room. Though also covered in a layer of dust and it's windows cracked and curtains torn, it still seemed grand. The large couches were made of fine velvet and leather, clearly expensive in their time and still worth a hefty sum today. The large fireplace, all of its bricks imported from Europe according to Sam, used go heat nearly the whole house.

"Though, we don't really have a need to keep cool or warm anymore. In fact, we seem to run colder than ever before," Sam explained, "We can feel warmth but it doesn't do much, Sam continued, his voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. As he spoke, you noticed a flicker of something in his eyes, a distant longing for sensations that he could no longer fully experience.

The warmth of a crackling fire, the gentle touch of sunlight on his skin – all of no use to him in the eternity of his existence. Maybe all the romance novels had made you forget how lonely the life of an immortal must be.

"But enough about me," Sam turned to head out of the sitting room, gesturing to the large staircase, "I think you should formally meet my brothers."

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

[irl-simon-riley]

WIP whenever

I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT THIS. I was going to do this last week but I had some stressful health and ID stuff that I had to deal with and just couldn't bring myself to work on my WIPS :( I wanted to get a bit more written before I shared but oh well. Anyways, I was tagged by the very very cool @pricegouge to post a current WIP. I have a lot to choose from since I am an absent father, but I will go with my slowburn ftm bodyguard!ghost x rockstar!soap that doesn't have a working title atm. This fic is inspired by a dream I had. I hope y'all enjoy :D

//gender dysphoria, misgendering & dead-naming in reference to pre-transition self, emotional angst, Ghost's canon backstory, Ghost is ex-military

Ghost watches his feet as he walks along the side of a forested road, the smell of moss surrounding him from all directions. The forest is too dense to be anywhere near Manchester, the growth too old, like something from a nature magazine. The lush greenery shading him from the summer heat, the sun would only affect him more with his all-black gear.

He's not alone. In front of him is his mother, following him is Tommy. His mum crosses the road and the boys follow like ducklings. Ghost's mother says something that he can't quite hear, all he notices is that he's breathing much too easily with his mask on.

He finally looks up, a shotgun-style house in front of him. His mum and Tommy are already halfway through the screen door, leaving him behind. A concrete staircase leads down from the road to be level with the house, as if the house was built before any roads were around. Ghost follows behind them, opening the doors that were shut in his face.  

Once inside he enters the room immediately to the right. His room.

The layout is almost the same as his childhood bedroom, only the door has switched walls and there are no windows.

The walls are covered in pastel purple wallpaper with white daisies that look hand-painted. Light greens and pinks are the only other colors that occupy the space. A quilt covers the mattress, held up by a white wrought-iron bedframe. On painted wall shelves there are trinkets, the only one Ghost can focus on holds porcelain figures of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and a cherub-like angel. Everything is bathed in candlelight, but Ghost can't smell the burning over the scent of mothballs. The room denotes nothing but love and care, the kind that Simon could only dream of as a child---the kind he begged for.

"It's just for tonigh'," He grumbles to himself.

The urge to get out of his gear and sleep consumes him. He turns and his eyes catch on the full length mirror directly next to the door.

He sees... her. Hannah: the name Simon never wished to hear again. A name he thought he left behind at 16, but now... he was 14 again and she was standing in front of him in the mirror. She wears a pink, ruffly tank-top and cotton shorts.

Is this even real? It can't be, he---he's supposed to be out! He got out!

Right?

Simon sucks in a breath and reaches a trembling hand up to the auburn hair that covers his chest and rakes his fingers through it. It's real. Her face morphs into one of fear as she feels the soft strands tendril out between each finger.

In this moment he realizes she's exactly the daughter he was supposed to be; and all the other rooms burn around him.

---

pls help me title this work I am so bad at titles

[devils-dares]

little fic i'm starting on (with the immense help from @gallaghersgal)

-----

“Was it fun? Out there in New York?” You ask, legs dangling over the edge of the cliff you two had hiked up to, fog kissing your shins. He shrugs, cigarette dangling between his lips. 

“S’nice, to get away from here. Had too much build-up, had to leave to get it out. Missed ya like hell though.” His cardigan is ratty, mothball scent and holes all over. It must’ve been sitting in a closet in Chicago, waiting for him to come home. “Nothin’ like it here, but it’s been too quiet since…” His voice trails off, the fresh pain of his brother echoes in the silence.

The quiet breathes its pain and sorrow in and out, the fog thick as ever. The grief is palpable, dense, and you hate it. He’s changed since he left, and you hate it.

[curiositydooropened]

Better Off - Part Two

Four years since Argyle's wedding, Robin invited you and the gang to her boss's lake house. Hoping good memories will be made, you're forced to wrestle with some ghosts of your past.

This fic runs in the same Universe as My Whole Life, Too.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader, Eddie Munson x Reader

Wordcount: 14,132

Warnings: second chance romance, angst, fluff, sex and sex adjacent (minors DNI, thanks!), recreational drinking and drug use, mentions of pregnancy and parenthood, mentions of the loss of loved ones

Navigation • Masterlist • Part One

---

Your gaze blurred on ribbons of gold and ivory, stretched and pulled and flipped as a man in candy stripes worked his taffy on its puller. The air smelled sticky sweet of vanilla and lemon and warmth, and you bundled tighter into your sweater with each burst of cold air and ding of a bell at the door. 

Another worker with rolled sweets pressed and smacked them onto the countertop, the scattering of beads pulling your focus and stirring you from your daze. She offered a sample with a kind smile, and you thanked her before popping the sticky sour drop into your mouth. 

It ached at the stress sore just between your teeth and molars, but you supposed you deserved the slight agony. With a sigh, you dropped your shoulders and allowed Robin to shove you gently back to the cobblestones streets, the outside air a misty chill. Large, grey clouds loomed in the distance, the forecasted storm apt weather for your current state of mind. 

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” Robin groaned for the four hundredth time that day.

You managed to plaster on a smile, though you could feel the dishonesty behind it, and gave her a hand squeeze. “Shut up, please.”

“Yeah, Robin, we’re fine,” Nancy agreed sidling up on her other side, that special Nancy-Wheeler-determination etched between her brows. “All of this shit needed to be aired out anyway. You just facilitated it.” 

Robin rolled her eyes. “That makes me feel so much better.” 

You shrugged. “I’m glad it’s all coming out now, when I have you two for support.” 

Nancy’s facade nearly broke then, the glimmer of emotion in her eyes, but she gave a curt nod. “Me too.” 

Robin groaned and started back on your path down the western side of the road. This little lakeside town was full of antique shops and souvenir stores. Every store had something you liked, in a black or navy, or in a Devil red or forest green, smoked charcoal or honeyed yellow. You’d given up a few stores ago now, understanding the Universe was just mocking you. 

Other than the looming storm clouds and the lingering guilt from the night before, you supposed you were having a lovely, if not much-needed girls day. In any other scenario, you’d be delighted to walk such a pristine little village, smelling the early summer buds and tasting at each little eatery along the route. Plus, the company was ideal.

“Robs, I’m coming to visit you immediately, I hope you know,” you linked your arm with hers and fell into step. “You’ll never see me because I’ll spend the entire trip holed up in a bakery, elbow-deep in baguettes, but I’ll be there. You’ll teach me French?” 

“Bien sûr,” she snickered, tugging you into a vintage clothing shop.

The window display had a little black dress á la Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and the place smelled of mothballs and rose-scented perfume. It reminded you a bit of your grandmother, on your mother’s side. She had an oversized hatbox that was passed down to you, chock full of love letters from soldiers in the war.

A similar hatbox sat near the register, pale pink and pressed satin, and you jimmied the top off to see if any secrets lay inside. No love letters, but a collection of multicolored silk scarves. You pulled one from the top, white with thin, navy Breton stripes and tied it around your neck. “What do you think, Robin? Will I fit right in?” 

Robin abandoned her post near an oversized button bin, hands already full, and waggled her eyebrows, dropping her haul to the countertop. “It’s perfect,” she chuckled, caressing it between her thumb and forefinger.

You watched her blue eyes scan your features, smile softening, and eventually her padded shoulders dropped in a sigh.

“You can’t run away to France with me.” 

You smiled at that. “Why not?”

She shook her fringe from her eyes. “Eddie’s not mad at you, you know.”

You swallowed, nodded. “I know. I’m still going to apologize.” 

“And for what it’s worth,” she dug through the box in front of you, avoiding your gaze. “Steve did love you, maybe does love you.” 

You sighed and untied the scarf around your throat, suddenly suffocated by the stuffy air in here. “Steve loves the idea of me.” You pinched at the bridge of your nose, remembering you were talking to his best friend too. “I just mean… I don’t think it’s fair to start something again when I can’t be certain how I’d like to finish it.”

Robin nodded. “I can appreciate that stance. It’s very… mature.” She commented with the flair for dramatics that would put Eddie to shame, pulling a rose-covered scarf from the box with a flourish and tying it around her head.

You snorted.

“Guys,” Nancy’s voice was so meek from the corner of the room, you barely recognized it. When you turned, she was holding the world’s smallest knit sweater, navy blue with a great white whale, and she was crying. 

—

You recognized the calm from ten years of coastal living. That sweet, soft lull in birdsong, the electricity in the air. Clouds blackened the sky, and off-shore docks groaned under whitecaps’ wake. You stood in your room, looking out the tiny window at the billowing tops of trees, fingers idling at the satin ribbon around your neck, Robin’s treat. You couldn’t focus in the silence, only hearing the thrum of your heart against your ribcage. You could sense Eddie in the room next door, could feel smoke and anxiety attached to a string around your finger, reminding you of the atrocities you’d enacted. Calm before the storm.

With a deep breath and a decided snap of tension, you toed out of the room, floorboard creaking with each step toward atonement.

Only, Eddie’s room was empty, door wide, belonging strewn about like he’d moved in. His window was bigger than yours, curtains drawn and window cracked. A cool breeze whipped around your knees, billowing the soft chiffon of your skirt. You sighed and crossed, moving a handmade ashtray from the window sill to the side table. A well-loved copy of A Wizard of Earthsea sat beside the lamp, dog-eared to all Hell. 

You tugged the window down and latched it when something glinted to the North, catching your eye. 

From this vantage, you could just make out the tip of the dock, and the boat in its mooring, rocking mercilessly back and forth. You cursed and turned heel to find Steve waiting in the doorway, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes turned up at you like he’d been waiting and didn’t know what to say. 

“Did you guys wind the boat up?” You asked before he had a chance to speak. 

He opened his mouth, brows furrowed, and that was enough of an answer to have you shoving past him and down the staircase to slip into your sneakers and out the front door.

“What are you-?” Robin called out from her cozy spot on the sofa.

You waved her off with a “Be right back!” and let the slap of rubber to wood lead you down the winding staircase, past the patio and fire pit, and to the end of the dock. Halfway there, you heard Steve calling after you, heard his curses, the distinct thud of his own feet on your tail.

The boat swayed under its awning. Steve’s voice was lost on the wind. Waves thrashed against rocky shores.

“Hold that steady!” You called after him, pointing to the bow, and he rushed as instructed, wind whipping at auburn hair, the navy collar of his polo.

The boat had been placed under the dock, tied to a safeguard by a tight rope, but you knew that if it wasn’t cranked upwards and out of the water, the metal casing surrounding it could cause some serious damage, depending on the intensity of the storm. And, as you put all of your strength and effort into cranking the oversized metal wheel, the storm began to show you just how intense it could get.

Wind rushed between your legs, stretched wide for leverage, slicking your skirt to your thighs as the sky opened up and rain began to pour. A deluge of oversized drops, ice cold, that trampled your hair and soaked your skin, slipping your fingers from their handhold. You cursed, but Steve was right there to help, hair stuck to his temples, biceps flexed as he cranked the boat upward and out of the water.

You hated that you couldn’t look away, frigid wet to the bone, standing between Steve and the house, waves spraying the shoreline, unmoving as he stared back at you, blinking away rainwater, licking it from his lips. 

A crack of thunder startled you both, and you ran, slipped on the wet floorboards of the dock to be caught in strong arms, hands that gripped your cardigan at your waist line and pulled you in close, warm, led you to an abandoned beach hut to wait out the storm. 

The space was musty and dark and damp, and you were uncomfortable under skin-slicked clothes, pressed against a splintering wooden bench with molding life vests in neon orange. Steve hovered over you, breath heavy in his warm chest, droplets from his hair shaken into your eyelashes and across the tops of your cheeks. His hands remained on your waist, a tether, a buoy, anchoring himself to you and you to the ground for each roll of thunder from above.

Rain pelted the tin roof too loud to hear the racing of your heart, too loud to hear your own anxiety screaming at you to leave, to run back up the hill to safety, too loud to stop you. 

Steve’s grip tightened on your waist, tugging at the material of your skirt, and the tip of his nose met your temple, ice-cold, in a line. Then his cheek was pressed to yours, stubble and sunscreen. His breath warmed the lobe of your ear. 

You helped him lift you onto the bench, the whole thing wobbling under your weight, but you had faith in his grasp on you, his weight between your legs as he helped to hitch your skirt up one thigh, material tacky to goose-pimpled flesh. His hands were ice-cold, but you were on fire as he trailed fingertips from your hip to your knee, hooking your leg up higher on his hip. 

Another roll of thunder wracked through his shoulders, a quake around your frame that you squaring him to face you. His expression was unreadable, pupils wide, but lips drawn downward, jaw clenched. His far-off gaze lingered on your lips, and he licked his own, pawing at the underside of your thigh.

This was the moment of no return. You knew it. You knew he could feel it. Something deep inside was clawing its way up, trying to remind you of all of the heartache you’d endured in the last four years, but the rain wouldn’t let up, and his hand kneaded your flesh in a way that felt so right, so familiar, felt like home.

You caught his elbow to stop his movements, and he tensed, shoulders receding in defeat, like he’d just been waiting for you to stop him, like his mind had been racing like your own. 

You breathed his name, like a prayer, and his gaze snapped back to yours. “Touch me.”

Drowning your better judgement, you trailed your fingers down the rope of muscles in his forearm to grasp at his wrist and guide his hand to where you needed him most. 

God, it felt like coming home. Steve’s hands were made for you, a perfect form to all of the places you needed him, as if he’d made you himself. You were plaster, and he Michaelangelo. He flattened creases formed over time from wear and stress, and kneaded them smooth and soft. 

He stretched and hit places that had your eyelids alight with stardust, places you hadn’t hit in years. Your fingernails caught on the breadth of his shoulders and the rain against the roof dampened the sinful sounds pouring from each of your open mouths. He worked you like he’d been born to do it, a sailor devoted to a life at sea, or rather returning from too many years landlocked, eager and determined. 

He muttered affirmations hot and damp against the shell of your ear that had you keening, begging for him to keep going, desperate to stay afloat, until the band snapped and the buoy became untethered, rope unraveling within you.

The rainfall slowed and the sunlight fell in shallow waves across patches in the siding. Your breath evened against the damp planes of Steve’s throat. Clarity began to sharpen the softened edges. A chill wracked through you, soaked through, and you forced him from your space. Gently, you hopped from the bench, skirt falling around shaky knees.

The beach hut door opened with a creak, and you stepped out into the sun. 

—

Your eyes remained unfocused on the candlelight, too warm and itchy under an afghan and dry clothes to listen to the nostalgia being shared in the adjacent seating room. You hadn’t left the dining table, reassuring everyone you were fine, just exhausted, when you hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of your dinner. All you could focus on was Steve’s grip around the top of his beer bottle, condensation dripping between the soft pads of his fingers. 

“Hey.”

You startled at the intrusion, and tried to blink away the residual flickers in your eyesight, focusing instead on the forlorn look on Jonathan’s face as he scooted into the seat beside you, offering a chocolate bar. You took it with a soft smile, peeling back the plastic wrapping and hunkering further into your patched blanket.

“Remember last month when we were eating pizza at 3AM, laughing about how crazy this trip would be,” he released that cheeky half-smile you hadn’t seen since he’d heard the news.

You snorted, snapping off a section of chocolate to let melt on your tongue. You rolled your eyes, passing it back for him to break off a piece. “Yeah, how’re you feeling?” 

He sighed, ran a hand down his face, shrugged. You watched him stare into the flame for a while.

When he didn’t speak, you reached your hand out to take his, and he met your gaze again with a wry smile, squeezing your hand. “At least I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.” 

“You will?” You grinned. 

He shrugged. “Unless Nancy wants to move overseas. But if that’s the case, I suppose we’ll just take you with us.” 

Your heart ached at the sentiment, and you felt your emotions start to stick in your throat. He was moving to be with her. He was dropping everything he loved, everything he had, to be with Nancy, wherever her dreams took her. And although that made you wildly happy for them, it also further drove home that ache in the pit of you, that spot that hurt. 

A pair of knuckles wrapped at the doorway, stirring your attention from Jonathan. Nancy and Eddie stood side-by-side, hands shoved into pockets or hid in the sleeves of oversized sweaters. Nancy mumbled a goodnight, tiny frame dwarfed beside the gangly man beside her, both of their curls haloed in candlelight. 

“I’ll go with you,” Jonathan hoisted himself upright, planting a soft kiss to your cheek before he followed Nancy up the winding staircase and into the darkness beyond. 

Eddie lingered, shuffling closer to break a piece off your candy bar on the table. “Hey,” he mumbled. 

“Hey,” you sighed. You hadn’t spoken to him all day. More accurately, you’d been avoiding him all day. 

Another burst of laughter echoed from the living room. Eddie nodded toward the kitchen and moved the chocolate to his cheek to ask, “Wanna chat?” 

With a swallow and a nod, you pulled your chair out from the table and gathered your unfinished dinner plate to follow him into the kitchen, discarding your blanket at your place setting. 

Eddie sidled up to a counter, silhouetted in moonlight, and he stayed silent while you scraped your scraps into the garbage and rinsed your plate. When you were finished, you hoisted yourself to the countertop beside him, shoulder’s hunched, heels kicking at the baseboard cabinet. The light flickered warm from the other rooms, laughter trickling in in intervals of hushed tones. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” you both simultaneously, followed by a snicker of understanding. You elbowed him, and he swayed dramatically, sinking his weight back into you. 

“Shut up,” you scolded. “I’m actually sorry. I was being a dick. You did nothing wrong.” 

“That’s not true,” Eddie countered. “You didn’t deserve what I said. At least, not the way I said it.” 

You sighed and linked your arm with his, resting your head atop his bony shoulder. You felt the press of lips to the crown of your head, his cheek to your hair. 

“You do know I just want you to be happy, right? And that I love you?” 

“I know,” you smiled, tilting your head to kiss at the seam of his band tee. “I love you too.” 

“I, uh…” He raked a hand down his face, callouses catching on stubble. “I talked to Steve today, while you guys were out. He told me what he said to you.” 

You swallowed. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I told him to grow up.”

You pulled yourself upright to see that Cheshire grin poking dimples into pale cheeks.

“And that him hating it just made me want to do you even more. With him watching.” 

“Eddie!” You shoved at his shoulder, and once again he sunk further into you, hiding a cackle behind his hand. “You perv.” 

“Come on, you know he’d be into that.”

Your face heated at the idea. Your mind flashed back to that dark look in Steve’s eyes, in the beach hut, watching you get off on his thick, warm fingers, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest beneath your palms. 

“I would to,” Eddie elbowed you out of your daydream, and you landed a punch, harder this time.

“Stop!”

He snickered and dodged your next attack, rubbing the sore spot you’d left on his bicep. “You’re fiesty under emotional duress.” He grinned. “What does it say about me that I find that really sexy?” 

“That you need help,” you snorted. 

He caught your wrist and pressed your hand to his sternum, deepening his voice. “Yeah I do, sweetheart.” 

You scoffed as his rumble turned into a laugh, and since you couldn’t take your hand back, you gripped his t-shirt to pull him closer, resting your forehead to his chest. He tucked you under his jaw and released your wrist in favor of wrapping you in a tight hug. Cigarette smoke and sunscreen and rumbled laughter and lithe limbs and still, somehow, it wasn’t enough. Something dammed at your throat, and you clenched every muscle in your body to rid yourself of the anxiety building. 

Eddie began soothing ministrations up and down your spine. “You need to talk to him.” He mumbled into your temple, breath hot and chocolatey against your skin. “I mean, really talk to him. Like just the two of you, hash it out for hours. You get out everything you need to. Let him tell his part. We both know you won’t be able to make a decision until you get everything out on the table and really look at it, as a whole.” 

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Make a decision?” 

He pulled away, pressing soft hands to your cheeks, dark eyes beneath a furrowed brow. “Promise me something?” 

You hummed. 

“Promise me you’ll talk to him sometime this week. It can be right before we leave, for all I care. But I need you to tell me what you figured out before you get on that plane.” 

There was something hopeful in his gaze, features softened to that lost little boy you’d tutored. There were too many meanings behind his words, too many things that spun in your mind and caught somewhere in the ventricles of your heart. “Eddie…” You muttered.

He released your face and wiped nervous hands to his jeans, suddenly shier than you’d seen him in years. “Christ, I didn’t mean it as like an ultimatum or anything. I’m not that guy.” Not like Steve. He scratched at the back of his neck, took a few steps backward. “I just need to know if I need to hide the liquor bottles or if Hawkins’ is getting a new resident.”

God, why did each phrase feel like an extra stab in the gut?

“I’m sorry,” Eddie stammered a laugh, wrapping ringed fingers against the flat plane of his chest. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He never drank more than one. 

You reached your hand out, stretched all the way across the gap until the tips of your fingers brushed the silver of his rings. 

He sighed and took your grasp, allowed you to pull him back into you. 

“I promise I’ll talk to him,” you chewed on the inside of you cheek, ducked to catch his gaze. “And I promise I’ll talk to you.”

The dimple tucked into his cheek beside those plump, pink lips, stretched thin in an awkward smile. He nodded. “I’m gonna go to bed.” 

You nodded. “Okay.” 

Then, he leaned to press his lips to yours. It was chaste, soft, a cascade of curls around your face, and lithe fingertips against your cheekbone. Your eyes didn’t have time to flutter closed. Then he was kissing your knuckles and bending his slender frame into a dramatic bow. 

“Goodnight, m’lady.” 

You managed a choked laugh. “Goodnight, Eddie.” 

—

Kneading dough was grounding, cathartic. It made you feel like everything was right in the world. Soft, sticky between flour-caked knuckles, the dull thud against the rolling board, the squeaky wheels of the rolling pin, the sweet smell of apples caramelizing in a nearby mixing bowl, all of it felt like heaven to you. You were at peace with an apron tied around your waist, lakeside wind sweeping in through the opened window, oven making the small space a bit stuffy and warm. 

The others were down at the patio, or out on the water, you weren’t sure. You stayed behind to think, to clear your mind, to distract yourself from the constant tipping of a scale one direction or the other. You’d tossed and turned all night thinking of Steve’s hands and Eddie’s lips and the complications to your life that each one brought. So you decided midmorning should be spent centering yourself, alone with your craft, and at peace.

You’d pressed the dough into its tin, trimming the edges and balling the scraps to be rolled and cut into strips for a lattice work top. You poured the apple slice mixture, all cinnamon and sugar and nutmeg and clove, watching the sun sparkle against their wet flesh. You indulged in licking the spoon, tangy and sticky. Then you sprinkled flour to your surface again to start rolling out the remaining dough, humming to yourself as the birds chirped outside. 

You flattened and cut and worked a lattice and ate the scraps, admiring your handiwork before you placed it into the oven and set the little wind-up timer on the stovetop. It was shaped like an egg. Your mom had one when you were young. It disappeared somewhere over time, or in the move. You contemplated stealing this one. 

You poured yourself some fresh-squeezed lemonade, tart and sweet, and leaned yourself against the countertop. You watched the sparkle of waves just off-shore and sipped and tried not to allow your mind to wander until the subject of your wandering mind entered your kitchen with mussed hair and sun kissed skin, pulling expensive sunglasses from the freckled bridge of his nose. 

“Smells amazing,” Steve smiled, reaching past you for a glass to pour himself some lemonade. You watched his forearm handle the full pitcher with care. You watched the length of his throat as he drank. You watched his tongue dart to lick a drop from the corner of pink lips. He set himself against the counter opposite you, ten feet away and still too close.

“Where’s everyone else?” You asked, praying for Robin to come prancing in with a bucket of ice cold water.

“On the boat. They just left.” He set his glass beside him. “We should talk about yesterday.” 

You turned to start the washing up, sink full of mixing bowls and measuring cups. The counter was white with flour. You turned the tap on hot, and the rushing of water into a metal sink had your brain buzzing with images of rain against the tin roof of the hut. You swallowed. “Yesterday was a mistake.”

You weren’t even sure you said it out loud, didn’t dare look to him for confirmation. You just held your front two fingers under the water to gauge temperature, although to be honest, you wouldn’t be able to tell scalding from freezing right now anyway. 

“Sure, yeah, totally,” his tone was oddly light. Out of your peripherals, you caught him entering your space, sidling up to the opposite side of you now. He smelled of expensive cologne, deliciously Steve. “Or… we could just make some adjustments to our truce.” 

You looked up at him then, caught breathless by the dark look in his eyes. You swallowed. “What?” 

He shrugged, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Well, we agreed to be civil and not bring up the past.” He held your gaze. “We only have a couple of days left. Might as well… I don’t know, make the most of it?” His jaw was firm, but there was something playful in his tone, a fire behind his eyes you hadn’t seen in years. 

You scoffed. “You’re serious?” 

He shrugged again, leaned into your space to brush flour from your shoulder, sweeping your hair back as he did so. God, he was good. “You had fun, didn’t you?” 

“Steve,” you peeled yourself away, scrubbing melted sugar from the rim of a measuring cup.

“Come on,” he boxed you in, his frame folding around yours, warm and broad and strong. “You’re on vacation.” The tip of his nose found the shell of your ear, sending sparks from skull to tailbone. “You deserve to relax, babe.”

Babe. So flippant, so casual. It’s what he called you, before, when it was just the two of you playing house in hotel rooms. You elbowed him off of you, grateful when he respected your boundaries and stood a few more feet away.

With a sigh, you turned off the faucet, only the singular measuring cup squeaky clean. You dried your hands on a hand towel embroidered with dairy cow and its milkmaid, and you turned to face Steve.

He had a fantastic pokerface, to add to the list of vast differences between he and his housemate. Where Eddie showed every last thought that came into his mind, Steve remained stoic, strong brow furrowed, jaw tight, keen eyes watching your every movement. He kept his shoulders squared, but lax, and his strong arms kept him upright against the lip of the counter, strong arms you were desperate to have wrapped around you again. 

“Be civil, no bringing up the past, and have fun while it lasts,” you agreed before your brain caught up with your words. 

All at once, Steve crowded your space again, pressing your backside to the damp countertop, an arm to either side of your hips, dipping his nose to meet yours.

You pressed your fingertips to his chest to push him away a few more inches. “Don’t call me babe.” 

His lips split into a grin at that, and he chuckled a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

He was eager, so eager, and you felt the buzz in your waist, the flutter under your sternum. You watched his tongue wet soft, pink lips, and were suddenly reminded of the third grade, of Tommy H.’s birthday, of the surprise smooch in a treehouse and of wanting to savor that kiss for the rest of your life. As Steve dipped his head low once more, you turned to face the oven, ducking away.

“And I’m not going to kiss you.” An odd boundary you didn’t know you had until it was there, presenting itself in a panic clawing at your chest. You just knew if you kissed him, you’d be done for. You’d be packing everything you owned into a U-haul and signing the lease next to his name. Just like Eddie said. 

Steve’s stoic facade seemed to falter for a split second before he nodded and pulled away. He eyed you for a beat too long before he lowered his voice to ask, “Am I allowed to kiss you?” And the implications in his tone had your knees weakening. 

You swallowed in a vain attempt to lubricated a parched throat, and nodded.

He emitted a groan from somewhere deep, and you bit down hard on your lip as you watched King Steve Harrington sink to his knees before you, hands traveling up your skirt to knead at the flesh of your thighs like it grounded him, like it made everything right in the world. 

He tugged your shirt free from the waistband of your apron and skirt, watching you, amber eyes painted black. His breath was hot against your stomach, your hip bone. “Can you see the front door?” He asked.

You peeled your gaze from him to look through the entry way to the front door. You nodded. 

“Good. Keep watch for me, sweet girl.” 

— 

“Scale of 1-10, how hot do I look?” Robin did a pose, hair stuffed under a wide-brimmed hat and blue blazer sleeves rolled. 

“Ten,” you and Nancy affirmed simultaneously, blotting your own pink lipsticks in the full-length mirror on the back of Robin’s bedroom door. You wore a low-cut blouse with flowy sleeves, and Nancy looked sleek in black, and she helped stick a bobby pin into your scalp when a curl threatened to fall out of place. 

“What are the odds there’s a single, hot lesbian looking for a hook up?”

“At a country western bar?” Nancy peered back at your friend, and you chuckled. 

“Robin,” you reassured. “I promise there will be at least one single, hot lesbian looking for a hook up.” 

Robin sighed. “Yeah. Me.” 

She’d picked the venue for your night out, spotted it on your walk through town the previous morning, and convinced the group to go after their late evening naps. The sky had started to soak in peaches and golds, and the warmth had cooled from a breeze that billowed curtains and chilled your fevered cheeks. You’d spent the day distracted, praying no one would notice the smile that ached at the corners of your lips. You were thankful for the excuse to be chipper.

“Ladies, I need advice,” Argyle called from beyond the door, and you gently led Nancy to the side so you could open it to meet him. He wore a leather vest with a spearmint button-up beneath it, and in his hands were two ties, one a shocking pink, the other a bolo with a cubic design in brass. 

“Bolo, always,” you confirmed. 

“That’s what I said!” Eddie called from the next room over. 

“Alright,” Argyle nodded and toed back to his own room to put his tie on in a mirror. 

Nancy slipped out beside you to meet Jonathan at the top of the stairs. Your heart ached in your chest when you watched his lips meet her temple, and his hand slip into hers. They shared sweet words and walked down the stairs together. 

Robin shoved past you. “Sorry, gotta brush my teeth. Will you check on Steve for me? You know he always takes the longest.” 

You stood in her doorway for a long moment, staring at the wood of Steve’s bedroom door from across the hall. Your hands clammed up at your sides, but you released a held breath and closed the distance to wrap your knuckles against the panels. 

“Come in,” he called from inside, and you turned the handle and pushed yourself inside.

Steve’s room was a mirror of your own, window facing the water, slanted ceiling, headboard against the opposite wall. His bed was neatly made, pillows stacked at attention just like his mom taught him. The bedside lamp illuminated everything soft and warm.

Steve stood at a dresser putting on his watch, forest green polo taught over the muscles of his back. He glanced up at you when you entered, cheeks turning up in a grin. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey,” you breathed back, propping yourself against the wall beside the door. “Robin wanted me to tell you to hurry up.” 

“I’m ready,” he held his hands out to show himself off, and you admired the stretch of denim across his thighs. 

“You look good,” you affirmed, swallowing when he closed the distance between you, eyes flickering to the hallway just to your right hand side. 

When the coast was apparently clear, he placed a hand on your waist. “So do you. Tonight should be fun.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you nodded. You felt giddy again, like he had you pressed up against the school lockers, hiding from the principal between classes. 

“Yeah?” His voice graveled, and he pressed himself even closer, wedging his thigh between your legs. 

“Dingus! You ready or what?” Robin shouted, and all at once, Steve was gone, his warmth replaced by cool breeze. 

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he groaned, fidgeting with the watch at his wrist. “Thanks for the help,” he waved it your direction, and you furrowed your brow before noticing Robin’s head poked through the doorway. 

She narrowed her eyes your direction, but grabbed Steve’s other wrist to lead him out and down the stairs. 

You took a minute to calibrate, a few calming breaths, before you followed them. When you rounded into the hallway, you startled at the sight of Eddie in his own doorway, lithe frame covered in black, damp curls hung in his eyes. That dimple carved deep into his cheek. 

“You look smoking hot,” he greeted. 

You rolled your eyes but hooked your hand into his elbow and let him escort you down the stairs to meet the others. 

—

Tequila was great after the initial burn. Once the tang of lime shocked your taste buds, you were smooth sailing. The music was live and loud. The room filled with smoke and the sweet smell of alcohol. Wooden walls were lined with neon beer logos and antlers. A dart board sat in one corner, a pool table in another. You were warmed from the inside, tingling fingertips and toes. 

The first round alone had you doing things you ought not, like catching Steve’s gaze over the top of Nancy’s head. He’d been staring, lips glossy and eyes hungry, and you couldn’t look away until Argyle bought round two.

Round three had you on the dance floor, pressed against the warm rumble of Eddie’s chest while he hummed a balad just under the crooning of the band’s lead singer. Flirting with Eddie was another thing you ought not do, but holding back felt impossible, tequila or no. Especially when he held you so close, thigh between your knees, swaying you back and forth to some slow and sultry tune. 

“Have I told you you look smoking hot tonight?” He indulged in another rake of your features, not shy from peaking down your blouse.

You sucked your cheeks between your teeth to avoid the smile aching at them and managed to shrug. “Might’ve mentioned it.” 

He chuckled, shaking his hair from his eyes. “Yeah, I like that top.” 

“I look better without it,” you countered, cocking a brow.

“I know you do, sweetheart.” His dark eyes shone under dim lighting, and his plump lips turned up at the corners. He was all curls, cigarettes and spearmint, and something in his eyes sank your heart. It was Eddie’s heart on his sleeve again, that poker face slipping just long enough to show you the longing beyond the lust. 

You swallowed and placed a hand to his cheek, thumbing over scruff and stubble. His name caught in your throat. 

“Song’s almost over,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose with yours. “Do you trust me?” 

You nodded, and the air was expelled from your lungs when he dipped you low. He gripped your thigh at his waist, and you felt the trail of his nose up your sternum and throat as he pulled you upright, breathless and warmed.

Your audience whooped and hollered from their high-top.

Stage shy, you allowed Eddie to take your hand and tug you back to the table. His grip was strong, thumb administering distraction circles upon your wrist. Nancy slid you a full glass of iced water, and you thanked her for it.

“Okay, why the fuck are you both so hot?” Robin scoffed, chugging her own red plastic cup of water.

“Born this way, Buckley. Don’t act so shocked.” Eddie reached over to flick her forehead, and she swatted at him.

“She’s right though,” Jonathan pitched in, saucy grin playing on boyish features. He slung an arm around Nancy’s shoulder, and she grimaced before shoving him off. 

“Yeah, you guys should make a porno,” Argyle nodded, mustache turned down in thought before he snapped his fingers. “Baker and the Beast.” 

“Jesus Christ,” you snorted, thankful for the water to hide your warming face. You took a long drink, praying for the ice to cool you down. 

“Sex Dungeon Master,” Robin chimed in, and you nearly did a spit take. 

“Full Metal Banging,” Steve piped in to everyone’s surprise. You looked up at him to see a playful smirk across those sinful lips, and he shrugged, nodded, took another sip of his beer. “I’d watch it.” Something in you ached at the low tones of his voice. 

Eddie shook a ringed finger Steve’s direction. “I fucking knew it! I knew you liked to watch. Harrington, you dirty dog!” 

Steve merely shrugged, pokerface stoic again while his eyes offered you something more salacious. You wondered if the rest of them caught him staring the way you did, wondered if they could tell what transpired between the two of you in the beach hut, in the kitchen. 

A new song kicked on, much faster, more familiar than the last, and Eddie finally released your hand, now cold and clammy, to snap his fingers in Robin’s direction. “Come on, Buckley. Your turn.” 

Robin sighed and extended a hand for him to take. “Fine, but no cleavage licking.” 

“Come on,” Eddie whined, and before they trailed off to the dance floor, you heard him say, “I washed my tits before we came!” 

You laughed and fell into a spot beside Nancy, avoiding Steve’s gaze as you drank your water and attempted to sober yourself up. Maybe three was your limit, maybe two, but you felt just primed enough to give away all of your secrets. 

“Nancy,” Argyle stood from his seat and tightened the bolo around his neck. “May I have this dance?” 

Before the warmth of Nancy beside you had been replaced by air conditioning and the smell of stale beer, a strong hand had slipped itself between your knuckles. 

“Jonathan, watch the table,” Steve said, pulling you onto the dance floor. 

Under a swirl of lights, and to the fast rhythm of bass and drums, you were tucked close to Steve’s front and backed toward the center of the dance floor. People swung and dipped around you, and Steve bobbed and weaved your way through them with laughter rumbling deep in his chest. God, you missed that sound. 

He was wildly off tempo, and a little off-balance, but maybe that was the tequila affecting your equilibrium. He had one hand to the small of your back, the other swinging wildly, and he stepped on your toes more than once. 

“You’re a terrible dancer,” you leaned in to shout into the shell of his ear. 

He pulled back to shoot you an incredulous look before pulling you in close again, breath hot on the side of your face. “You taught me how to dance.”

You shook your head, but released a laugh that bubbled high in your chest. “I did not!” 

“Yes you did,” he argued. “At prom. I told you I didn’t know how to dance, and you promised you’d teach me. So if I’m horrible, that’s on you.” 

You smiled into his chest, and allowed your mind to wander. You wondered what she would think of you now, senior-you, prom-going-you. You wondered how she’d feel, swept around a dance floor in King Steve’s arms all these years later. 

You could still remember walking down the staircase to meet him. You could still see the flush of his cheeks when he saw you, could remember the distinct kick of butterflies in your stomach.

“Hey, dingus!” Robin’s voice sliced through your memories. You blinked back into focus to find her and Eddie beside you. Eddie was using Robin’s hand to swat at Steve’s side. 

“Will you two grow up?” Steve scolded, ever the dad of the group.

“We have a question for you two,” she ignored him, continuing to prod at his bicep and then yours when he spun you to use as a human shield.

“What?” You laughed. 

“What’s the best sex you’ve ever had?” Robin’s voice carried over the music, swam in your head, heated you from the inside out as you felt the stares of intrigue from your dance partner and hers.

You snorted, shook your head, and avoided their gaze. “Yeah, I’m not answering that.”

Robin booed you.

“You’re so drunk!” You laughed.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Eddie grinned, sidling up beside Steve. He had mischief in his eyes. “We can handle it.” 

Steve squared up then, stopped your sway, and his mouth stretched into an equally devilish grin. “Yeah, Munson can handle it.” 

You cocked a brow, still in Steve’s grasp, and looked straight into Eddie’s big, brown eyes, conjuring a memory you knew would earn a reaction from the both of them. “Campsite at the coast? Back of the car?” 

Eddie nodded, big, dramatic, hair swinging in front of his face. He pointed at Robin. “That’s what I said!”

“Holy shit, Harrington, you want some ice for that burn?” Robin cackled, high-fiving you and Eddie both.

When you found Steve’s gaze again, he was blinking back at you, mouth slightly ajar. You tried and failed to bite back the giggle that bubbled in your chest, doubling over into his stunned chest while you wheezed a laugh, tequila taking over. 

You heard Robin and Eddie yell run and squeal beside you, and when you looked up, they were spinning manically away. Steve’s mouth had closed, and he licked at his molars, nodding slowly. You worried for half a second before the corner of his mouth turned up, and he spun you away and back. You yelped, narrowly avoiding a speaker.

You crashed into his chest and laughed the tune of his own rhythmic chuckle, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck to hold yourself steady. 

“If I had known this is what it’d take to make you happy, I’d have gone down on you at the beginning of the week,” Steve grinned.

“Steve!” You admonished, glancing around to make sure no one was around to hear what he’d said. You were far from the table now, and definitely out of earshot. 

“Tell me about the campsite.” When you met his gaze again, it was that same delicious look that set you on fire from the inside out, unwavering.

You breathed his name again, faltering a little on your feet, but he caught you. 

“Come on,” he swayed your hips in his hands. “I gotta study my competition if I want to know how to come out on top.”

You licked your lips, searched his honeyed eyes for any sign of a trap, but he was just as tipsy as you were. Tequila painted the hollows of his cheeks pink. “It was the middle of the day. Campers everywhere. We had to be quiet.”

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His grip on your waist tightened, and he pulled you impossibly closer. You could feel every ripple of muscle beneath the luxurious fabric of his top. He looked around the room before his eyes trailed your face, your lips, down the front of your blouse and back. “This is a room full of people, and the music’s so loud you wouldn’t have to be quiet.”

His words sent heat through you.“You’re drunk,” you sucked in a smile and glanced back across the room at Jonathan drooping in his seat, a soft smile on his face as he watched Nancy and Argyle dance. Robin and Eddie twirled and dipped in a far-off corner.

Steve pressed the tip of his nose to the baby hairs at your forehead. “So take advantage of me.”

In that moment, you realized Steve Harrington could be dangerous, commanding, a force to be reckoned with. 

—

The hot, sticky glow of three shots of tequila faded to heart palpitations and a burn in your calves. Though, that could be the dancing, the grin that ached at your features, the early morning burrito, or the anticipation that kept you buzzing, bouncing the balls of your bare feet against floorboards while you counted the creaks and footsteps outside your door. 

You turned in earlier than the others, feigning exhaustion related to old age, just to prop yourself against the headboard for nearly an hour before the raucous laughter died down beneath you and the sounds of your compatriots readying themselves for bed filtered in under your bedroom door. 

Anxiety replaced that warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You listened to Robin’s hiccups on high-alert, pulse thudding to her steady rhythm. You toed to the door, pressed your ear to the wood to listen to the mutterings of goodnight, the faucet running in the bathroom, the steady pad of feet just beyond. 

Your hand hovered over the lock on your brass knob, but you snatched it away, pacing to the foot of your bed and back. Once, twice, three times. You caught your reflection in a mirror above the bedside. You’d left your makeup on, curled hair falling around your shoulders in tendrils. The bra you wore beneath an oversized t-shirt pinched at the skin under your arm, but it was the prettiest you’d packed in periwinkle lace to match the panties hiding beneath plaid night shorts. 

You were making a mistake. Throat dry, you crossed back to the door, reaching for the knob to lock it and turn yourself in for the night. 

The cool brass turned under your touch, and the door swung your way, narrow, allowing a shadowed figure to step into the honeyed glow of your bedside lamp. 

“Hi,” Steve smiled, towering over you, breath fresh and hair mussed.

You swallowed. “Hi.” 

“Sorry,” he hissed, closing the door behind himself. The click emitted feather-light. “Robin wouldn’t let us go to bed. I was worried you fell asleep.” 

You shook your head, managed a weak smile. “Nope.” 

“Good,” he said. “Are you cold?” His warm fingertips ghosted the skin beneath the hem of your shorts, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. 

You shivered, shook your head again, allowing your eyelids to go heavy as his other hand came to cradle to your cheek. 

“Do you still want to do this?”

He had the power to see right through you, always had. You released a shaky breath, shoulders to your ears in a shrug. You swallowed. “I don’t know.” Honesty spilled out. You hadn’t felt this vulnerable with him since Louisville, not this nervous, not this jittery. 

A crease tucked between his brows, and he dropped his hand from your thigh to catch your fingertips in his. “I’m not going to push you.” 

“I know,” you squeezed his knuckles, hands dwarfing yours. “You never have.” 

He smiled at that, nodded toward the bed. “Want to just hang out?” 

You nodded and drew him to soft covers and an old mattress. It sunk under your weight, a burst of air puffing out between you as Steve plopped himself down, hands resting on his chest, hair splayed against patchwork. You were drawn to him, fingers itching to run themselves through his hair, to trace the bridge of his nose, connect-the-dots with his freckles, but you hesitated, tucking your knees to your chest. 

He turned his head to look at you, lazy smile crossing beautiful, dark features. “I’m glad I sobered up.” 

“Yeah?” You were on the fence.

“Yeah.” He groped around the blankets until he found your hand at your side. He massaged at your wrist, your palm, wide stroke with his thumb that smoothed aching joints and eased your mind. He pulled you ever-closer, before trailing your pointer finger over the bridge of his nose. His lashes fluttered closed, and he hummed as you painted his cheekbones with your fingertips, catching on the stubble of his jaw. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” you whispered. He brought your fingertips to his lip, soft and pink and damp. You exhaled his name. 

He looked at you then, eyes dark, and placed a kiss to your palm, your wrist, the flesh of your forearm, tugging you gently from your fold until you leaned over him, your hair a curtain separating you both from the glow of the bedside lamp. “Do you want me to leave?” 

Your throat was dry, your breath staggered. You shook your head. 

Steve’s hands found your waist, smooth dregs of his palms up your ribcage until his thumbs met the underwire of your bra. “Do you want me to stay?” 

You nodded, sucking in a breath when his hands worked higher, palming at silk and lace.

“I need to hear you say it, babe,” his voice was hoarse, thick.

You faltered on the pet name, a rule broken, his eyelids heavy, warm hands on your breasts, but you didn’t want to think anymore, didn’t want to worry or panic. So you washed it all away, pushed guilt to the back of your mind, and threw a leg over him to straddle his slender waist. “I want you, Steve.”

He sat up, pushing you both upright to drag the soft cotton of your top up and over your head. He groaned at the sight of you, and you felt his lips find purchase at the crux of your throat and shoulder, his mouth wet and warm. 

You sunk your fingertips into his scalp, indulging in the vibrations of his voice against your skin. 

He pushed the lacy straps down your arms, pressing soft kisses into the bits of flesh that were creased and red. He reached around to undo the clasp, and relief flooded your waist from where the elastic bit at your skin. You released him, allowing the scratchy fabric to fall to the ground at the bedside, and Steve lowered himself back to the mattress. 

You felt self-conscious, suddenly, as he drank you in, hands ghosting the bits of your flesh that were marred or torn, burn-scarred, pock-marked. You wondered if you’d aged since he last saw you like this, if you had more wrinkles, more pudge, if the weight of you sank different onto his slender hips. You wondered if your boobs sagged, if the flesh of your thighs doubled over your panty line. 

Steve’s eyes didn’t give anything away as he raked your frame, hands molding to you like they were meant to, and after too long of a moment, he spoke. “Shit, babe. My memory doesn’t do you justice. You’re fucking perfect.” 

A chill caught on your spine, a chuckle of embarrassment building at the compliment, and you folded yourself back to him, squirming under the scrutiny. “You think about me often, Harrington?”

His nose brushed yours in a nod, and he palmed the swell of your thighs beneath your shorts, grinding you down onto him. “Every single day.”

The honesty stuttered your breath, his fanning your lips, and you knew if you didn’t back away now, you’d be lost to him. As he leaned forward to close the gap, you turned your head, cursing yourself when soft lips met your cheekbone. 

You avoided his gaze, moving instead to press a kiss to his jaw. Stubble scratched your lips, you chin. You nosed at his throat until he turned his head, and you wrapped your lips to his soft earlobe, delighting in the rumble of his chest against yours. 

His hips snapped into you once more, hardened length pressed to the inseam of your thigh. 

“Then we better give you something to remember,” you hissed into his ear.

Before you could act on your promise, Steve had you rolled over, pinning you to the bed with his hips. His lips were on you, hands kneading, frantic, eager. He pressed himself upright to strip his t-shirt, collar first, and when it hit the ground, you both heard the pad of footsteps on the floorboards outside.

You froze, suddenly remembering where you were, who occupied the room all around you. Your pulse thundered in your skull, anxiety licking at every inch of you, until you felt Steve Harrington’s perfect teeth graze your nipple and everything coursed through you like livewire. 

“Can you be quiet for me?” He hissed to your skin, gathering your wrists to pin above your head, and you gave a fervent nod, swallowing the saliva flooding your mouth. 

Steve was trouble, danger, desperate kneading hands and the rhythmic snap of hips. He was brute strength and roped muscles and demanding. He worshiped and praised God and you and mumbled praises into the crux of your throat, your sternum, building you to the highest high before crashing down on you like a wave. 

Even after all this time, he knew how to work you, how to mold you, bend you, command you in hushed tones, hand over your mouth to keep your sinful sounds from spilling between his fingers. He delighted in the challenge, wanted you begging but silent, asking if you wanted more, asking if it was good with his chin to your shoulder, your face buried into his to muffle your moans.

He was strong, confident, delicious, salt-to-the-wounds and salt of the Earth, and you fell apart on his hands, his lips, the crash of his hips like waves across a rocky shoreline. Your eyelids sparkled, the ceiling spotted with starlight, and you came down with the weight of his head on your chest.

Steve placed a chaste kiss to your collarbone and looked up at you, a smug grin etched upon his features. He rolled himself to the side, breath ragged. You closed your eyes and listened to the deep in-and-out, trying to match your inhales with his, to slow your heart rate, to stop the pulsing of every muscle now aching in your body. 

“How was that?” He whispered into your neck, turning to wrap his arm tightly around your waist.

You huffed a laugh, shrugged. “Top five, at least.”

He gnawed at your throat and squeezed you tighter into him, both of your bodies sticky with sweat. 

Sleep tempted you, darkening your vision, weighing you further and further into the warm squish of the mattress and your pillow. Steve’s breathing calmed against your back, his nose tucked under the shell of your ear, and you wondered if you’d fallen asleep so easily in the last four years. 

Steve muttered your name, and you hummed, drifting on the edge of bliss. “I do still think about you every day.”

And you wish he hadn’t said it, wish he hadn’t broken the spell, wish he hadn’t reminded you why you were here, what this was all about. The moonlight filtered in through treetops out the window beyond, and you tucked the blanket higher around your shoulders. Maybe there was no harm in late night truths whispered between lovers. 

“The campsite wasn’t the best ever,” you confessed, voice weak. Steve loosened his cradle. You turned to face the ceiling, staring up at vaulted shadows. “Remember that first night in Louisville? I hadn’t seen you in so long, and we were tiptoeing around each other all night, but then the door’s closed in that elevator…” 

Steve had propped himself up beside you, cupped your cheek. You felt the soft pad of his thumb against your lower lip. “I really want to kiss you.”

The only rule left to be broken, and your heart ached for it. You took a deep breath and avoided his gaze. You couldn’t do this to yourself again, couldn’t do it to him. It was selfish of both of you. You slipped from his grasp and out of the covers, digging through the dark for your t-shirt and sleep shorts. “The other’s will be awake soon.”

—

The sun cast the tops of your cheeks and nose in warmth, golden light filtering through your eyelids while you bathed in a lounger, allowing your Munson-special pancakes to settle. Your friends seemingly revived from breakfast, splashed a level below you, voices and laughter filtering up the wooden walkway. You battled the melancholy of your final full day with memories from the night before that had a smile aching at your lips. 

You sighed and let your mind drift to the weight of Steve’s body against yours, the slam of his hips, the tight grasp of his hand to your wrists above your head. 

“I’m heading up to take a shower,” his voice sliced through your daydream, graveled from a late night. “You guys need the bathroom before I go up?” 

Nancy shook her head beside you, glancing up at him from above the sunglasses perched on the soft bridge of her nose. 

Steve looked to you, and you squirmed under his gaze, shaking your own head with a smile. “Kay,” he smiled back. “Be back in a bit.” And you couldn’t resist in watching the slope of his thighs as he climbed the hill beside you to walk into the house.

“Holy fucking shit,” Nancy slammed her book down on her lounger.

You jumped and sat upright, glancing around you for something to cause her reaction, a giant bee, a severed arm. 

“You slept with Steve.” 

You halted your search and slowly met Nancy’s gaze. Her lips were pursed, and there was something twisted in the way she looked at you, like she was both pissed and proud she’d cracked the case.

You cowered under her gaze, picking at a sliver in the lounger, and fumbled through an excuse. “I don’t know what - ”

“Don’t bullshit me,” she snapped. “I saw him walking out of your room at 5AM when I got up to puke, and that little exchange you two just had confirmed it.” She waved her finger in the air to exemplify her point. 

You felt your face heat. You didn’t appreciate the accusation in her tone. “Okay, so? We’re consenting adults.” 

Nancy stuffed her arms under her armpits and turned to face you. “So are the two of you back together?” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, the ragged rate of your breath speeding your pulse, or maybe it was the other way around. “No,” you huffed. “We’re just having fun while we’re here.” 

Nancy rolled her eyes. 

“Hey, no, don’t come at me with that. What about you and Jonathan, huh? Or should I say Robbie?” It was a low blow, and the moment it fell from your lips, you wish you could it all back. 

Nancy sucked her lips between her perfect teeth and turned back in her sun lounger, hands flattening against her lower abdomen. “Yeah, well we learned our lesson, didn’t we?” 

You blanched at the thought and shook your hair from your eyes. “Jesus, Nancy. I’m sorry.” You mumbled.

She didn’t respond for a long minute, looking out on the water, listening to the chirp of birds along the tree line. Then, she turned her head to face you, sun sparkling off the chrome tint of her sunglasses. “Do you remember that summer after Louisville? That night out on the Cape, just us girls?”

You barely remembered it, a drunken night out in a bar where everything smelled like the country club Steve’s parents frequented. You remembered sequins sticking to your face on a tiled floor. You remembered watching couples spin on a dance floor and wanting to splash your drink in the face of every single one of them. You remember feeling empty, broken, lost. 

“I don’t think I realized how in love you two were before then.” She continued, turning back to sunbathe, as if this was the easiest breeziest of topics. “I mean, I knew you were close. You always spoke about him like family. And we all knew you were fucking, even though you tried to hide it.” She raised an eyebrow at you. 

You swallowed.

“But that night’s when I realized how heartbroken you were.”

You closed your eyes, released a shaky breath, tried to maintain the happy memories that were quickly slipping from between your fingers, an anchor of your past traumas rocketing you to the bottom. 

“I can’t begin to imagine how he felt.”

“Nancy,” you chided, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Come on,” she argued. “He won the fucking jackpot with you. Plus, he’d been burned too many times by other self-hating idiots to let himself get close enough to you. That’s why he never asked you to be his girlfriend, why he never left Hawkins to be with you. He was terrified you’d bail, and then he realizes he can’t live without you and what do you go and do?” 

That hit somewhere deep, a dull ache that spread like hot liquid through your chest. “I didn’t…” 

“Of course you didn’t know,” she muttered, offering an innocuous wave to Jonathan who swung his arms in the air from the level beneath you, perched atop Argyle’s shoulders in the shallow water, Robin atop Eddie. “You guys haven’t talked in four years. And it wasn’t my job to tell you. My job, as the best friend, is to tell you you don’t need him. That you’re strong and beautiful and independent. My job is to cheer you on through your accomplishments and listen about your escapades with new and exciting men.”

God, you loved her, and you didn’t want to cry because she was right, you were strong and confident and independent, and you didn’t want to cry because Nancy wouldn’t cry, but you couldn’t help the emotion damming at your throat.

“He was supposed to tell you all of this, but clearly you two are incapable of communication.” She sat upright in her chair again and scoffed. “You know what? No. You’re going to talk to him, right now.” 

You blinked, heart racing at the idea. “What? No.” 

Nancy stood from her seat and grabbed you around the elbow, hoisting you upright. “Yes, right now. I’ll distract everyone else. This can’t go on any longer, or we’re all going to implode. You’re going into that house, and you’re going to hear his side of it. Because we all know you won’t be able to make a decision until you do.” 

—

The floorboards creaked under your weight, a groan at each step to remind you of where you were going. Your bare feet, sun soaked, stuck to the finish. A breeze caught gossamer window dressing, but did nothing for the slick of sweat beading your upper lip, the creases of your palm, your lower back. The steam from Steve’s shower framed the bathroom mirror and permeated the upper floor with his scent, squeaky clean and expensive. 

Your hands trembled against the surface of his bedroom door. You heard the shuffle of fabric on the other side, and a low, soft hum. You’d almost forgotten that about him, the way he sang when he thought no one was around. If he had an ear worm, or just felt happy about something.

You took a deep breath, pressed your forehead to the door, and knocked.

“Yeah, come in,” he called, and then “Hello?” after your lengthy hesitation. 

You turned the brass knob and entered, clicking the door behind yourself. Steve stood across the room, nearest the window, tugging at his watch straps again. His white t-shirt was speckled grey across his shoulders where his hair had dripped into a freckled pattern. When he saw you, his honeyed eyes lit with recognition, something hungry in them.

“Hi,” you managed, and there must have been sheer terror in your eyes because Steve’s face flashed with alarm, and he made a slow cross your way.

“What’s wrong?” His tone reminded you of too many late night phone calls, his voice keeping the nightmares at bay. 

You swallowed, allowed him to lead you to the edge of the bed, felt his fingers slot into yours, tried to ignore how soothed you felt already. “We need to talk about Louisville.”

He searched your eyes for a moment before he turned his attention to your hand in his, tracing your knuckles, brushing a thumb over your nails. “What about it?” 

“I want to know what happened,” you sighed, allowing yourself to flop backwards onto a hand knit throw, the mattress swishing beneath you. “I want to know where it all went wrong, why I lost you. I guess I just need some insight, Steve. Because I’ve been wracking my brain for four years trying to figure it out.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he sighed, and you saw his teeth chew on his bottom lip. Then he brought his nail beds to his mouth, a bad habit from his youth. 

You stopped his wrist, pulling his hand back into yours. “You were my best friend, and then you just quit calling.” You don’t think you’d let the hurt sink in until that moment, heard it catch in your vocal chords. You stared at the ceiling, a blur of white plaster and amber beams.

“I thought you didn’t want me to,” his voice was just as small as yours.

You shrugged, didn’t let the wobble in your jaw deter you. “We had fights before, bigger than this one. I figured we’d get over it.” 

“You told me you didn’t want to marry me.”

You propped yourself on your elbows to face him. “Steve, come on. You weren’t serious. You didn’t want to marry me, not really. You were just at that stage in your life where you thought that’s what was supposed to happen.”

He rolled his eyes, shook his head, pulling his hand from yours to run through his damp hair. Flecks of water marked your skin. “Will you quit saying that? Quit invalidating my feelings like that. I didn’t just want to settle down out of convenience. That’s always bugged the shit out of me.” He snapped. 

You barked a laugh, wry. “Okay, you had feelings for me. I get that. You know I love you too, but you can’t just spring a marriage proposal on a girl because she’s naked in your hotel bed. You didn’t even have a ring.”

Steve stared back at you for a long moment, and something in his eyes excited you. You hadn’t sparred in ages, hadn’t talked your genuine feelings out with your best friend in four years. 

“Fuck it,” he said and stood from his seat beside you to cross to his opened suitcase, everything neatly folded and tucked inside. “If I show you this, you have to promise me you won’t say a word until I’m done talking. Alright?” He held something behind his back and pointed a finger your direction. “Not a God damn word.” 

You rolled your eyes but held three fingers his direction and pretended to zip your lips. Then you caught a little black box he tossed at you. Your heart began to thunder in your chest, fingers trembling around velvet. You blinked at it a few times before looking back at him.

Steve was stone faced, if not a little pale, and his arms were crossed over his chest like he was waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, he took a step forward, and then back, shifting weight on the balls of his feet. Then, he gestured to the box in your hand, a curse spilling from his lips. “I bought it the second day,” he said, “in Louisville.” 

You couldn’t move, breath short, hands a vice grip on the box in your lap, terrified to look at it.

“We had that first night, the one you mentioned with dinner at that cantina, and we took that long walk past all those big houses, and I felt like I was holding my breath all day. And I can hold my breath for a long time, I’m a damn good swimmer. But sometimes with you, it feels like I’m drowning.”

You could remember every second of that night, had thought about it a thousand times, compared every date to it, hell every happy moment. 

“And I think I just realized I couldn’t tread water with you anymore. Sink or swim, Harrington,” he groaned, scrubbing his hand down a freshly shaven face. “So the next day, while you were at your conference, I went to a jewelry store and bought that.”

Once again, your attention was drawn to the tiny box in your hands, and although your curiosity was piqued, you were still too terrified to open it. 

“I chickened out pretty much the entire weekend. I think I just didn’t want to ruin the fun, and then on that last morning, I panicked. I freaked the fuck out because we were going home, and I didn’t want to be away from you anymore. So I said what I said, and we fought, and I kicked myself the whole way home.”

You were glad you’d promised not to speak, glad you’d zipped your lips, because you didn’t think you had words anyway. Too many thoughts and emotions and memories zooming through your headspace like speedboats, leaving casualties in their wake. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t go to Argyle’s wedding,” his voice was soft, and his arms found their spot across his chest once more. “I know I promised you I’d go, but I think dancing with you at someone else’s wedding felt like a twisted joke.”

You swallowed, nodded. 

“Please don’t think I brought it here because I thought I could win you back, or whatever,” he hurried as an afterthought. “I honestly wasn’t sure what would happen this week. I was shitting myself that I’d somehow make everything worse, which maybe I have.”

You shook your head.

“I just keep it in my suitcase,” he gestured to the box again. “I don’t care what you do with it now. Hock it, pawn it, chuck it into the lake. You know, do what you want with it because it’s yours. It always has been.” 

You watched as he crossed to you, taking a slow and awkward seat beside you, just beyond your reach. 

“That it,” he sighed, shoulders slumped. “That’s my piece, I guess. You can talk now. Or not, if you don’t want. No pressure. At all, about any of this,” he glanced around the room. “If you want to go back to the way things were, I totally understand. I meant it when I said I just wanted a truce for this week. We agreed you reserve the right to live your own life.” 

“No,” you croaked. You cleared your throat and shook your head. “I don’t want that. I mean, I want you in my life.”

The corners of his lips turned up at that, and he let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Me too.” 

“This is all just…” You clasped the box until your knuckles whitened, just to stop the trembling. “It’s a lot to take in.” 

“Oh yeah, totally,” Steve stood from next to you. “I’ll give you a few minutes, or you know, whatever you need. I uh… I actually think I need some air.” He thumbed to the door.

You stood on shaky legs, nodding. “Yeah, me too. Water, I think, might be good.” 

“Totally,” he held the door open for you, and the two of you walked side-by-side to the top of the stairs. The floor groaned beneath your feet. 

“Come find me later?” His voice was soft, warm, forehead creased with concern.

You smiled, nodded, and watched as his lanky frame retreat down the staircase and out the front door.

—

A batch of cookies baked in the oven, caramelized brown sugar and butter permeated the air. Three other cookie sheets sat prepped at the ready on the countertop nearby. You’d washed and dried your mixing bowls and measuring cups and hung the apron on its hook inside the pantry door. Your glass of lemonade lay untouched, glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

The small black box rolled in your pruned fingertips, and you glanced around the kitchen for any signs of onlookers before cracking open the seal, hinge groaning, for a peak at what rested within the pink satin lining.

You nearly dropped it, throwing your hand to your lips to contain the gasp that rattled when you saw the perfect diamond in its fitting on the perfect, most delicate little band. It was everything you would have wanted, subtle and sleek and sweet. You wondered if you had mentioned the details, mumbled into Steve’s chest after a night out, senses liquored and secrets spilled. 

Or maybe he just knew you, better than anyone else could.

You glanced around the empty house once more before risking to pull it out of its casing and slide it over the summer-swollen knuckles of the ring finger on your left hand. It was the perfect fit, sparkling in honeyed sunlight, casting rainbows against the cabinets and countertops. 

“Smells amazing in here, dudette,” Argyle entered the small kitchen.

“Thanks,” you choked a laugh, shoving your hands behind your back to greet him. “How’s dinner coming?”

“Good, good,” he bobbed his head, long hair swishing against a broad chest. He sidled up to the counter opposite you. “Came here to check on you though. It’s our last day. It’s not the same without you.” 

“I know,” you smiled, waving at the cookies with your right hand. “Let me finish these up, and I’ll be right out.” 

“Sure,” he saw right through you, a grin forming beneath his mustache, a glint in his eye. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’m here for you.” 

The honesty there cut deep. You nodded, wondered how much he knew, felt guilty for not telling him more, or for taking too much vacation time with your petty drama. 

“Can I tell you a story about me and Eden?” His eyes lit up when he spoke of her, a big grin formed across soft features.

You nodded again, toyed with the ring around your finger behind your back. “Please.” 

He scratched an itch at his mustache, and you saw him twist his own ring around his finger, gold, outdated, oversized. “Remember that day in the military tent? When we were all waiting for orders, and Steve pulled you in so we could explain what the Hell was going on?” 

You swallowed. You’d never forget that day, though you were grateful you thought about it less and less as time went on. 

“Sorry to bring it up,” Argyle nodded, held a hand up in apology. “I only do because I remember it more vividly than any of those days. I mean, I was high for a lot of everything before, and everything after felt like one big firefight. But I remember that day specifically because you lost your mom and Steve brought you into that tent, and he just held you.”

The emotion that had been rising all day started to spill, a causeway that rolled warm down your cheeks, and you were frantic to stop the flow, trying to push back those awful memories, the flashes of orange and camo, Steve’s strong arms wrapped around your collapsing body, knees gave way. You nodded to encourage Argyle to keep going, to reassure you were okay. 

He reached a hand out anyway, pulled you into the cushion of his shoulder, rubbed at your arm. “We were all so young and so dumb, and I just wanted to go home.”

You sniffled and hugged around his middle because you understood.

“Not home to Lenora, but home to this girl I met a week earlier with brown hair and brown eyes because the moment I saw her, I knew I’d do anything for her. I wanted her to hold me the way Steve held you.”

Home, this place you’d always had in Steve Harrington, a place you always would. 

“That’s the day I realized she was my one-and-only.” He always waxed so poetic about his wife, and until this moment you’d always rolled your eyes with fondness for the man. Until this moment, you never really understood. “Are you picking up what I’m laying down?” 

You nodded, laughed wetly. “I think so.” 

The wrap of knuckles against the doorframe grabbed your attention, and you looked up to find Eddie. His hair was frizzy from air dry, and he looked impossibly lanky in a black tank top and red shorts, and the handsome smile from his face fell when he saw the tears in your eyes. “Everything okay in here?”

Your heart sank.

“All good, my dude, just talking to her about my beautiful wife,” Argyle gave you one more tight squeeze before releasing you to stand at his full height. He gave you a wink before pushing past Eddie to head back outside to be with the rest of your friends. 

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, the breeze trailing in to float his air from his eyes. You weren’t sure how to start, what you could say to make it right, but you didn’t have to. 

Eddie let out a whistle, long and low, and crossed the room to meet you. “I always knew Harrington had good taste.” Before you realized you were fidgeting with your ring, he took your hand into his, holding it up to catch the light like you had done earlier.

You swallowed, watching the subtle hurt etched between his brows. Eddie Munson, heart on his sleeve. You whispered his name. 

He shrugged, dimples poking through his goatee, and shook his hair from his eyes. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it. I just want you both happy.” He ducked his head then, inches from yours. “Are you happy?” 

You thought to all of the friends that had held you throughout this week, throughout the past twelve years, throughout your life, and you nodded, fighting back the new tears that threatened to spill. 

Eddie caught them with the calloused pad of his thumb, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest. “I’m never going to stop loving you.” 

“I know,” you laughed, closing your eyes as he pressed soft lips to your forehead. 

“You know? Wow. A bit full of yourself, sweetheart,” he teased, and you swatted at him. He dodged your aim and grabbed you by the waist to pull you into a bone-crushing hug, jaw pressed to your temple. 

“I love you too,” you whispered into his neck, cigarette and spice and sunscreen. 

“Have you told him yet?”

You froze, shook your head. 

The egg timer went off, shrill and loud, and in that exact moment, under the honeyed glow of the late afternoon summer sun, with the room smelling of your mom’s chocolate chip cookies, you felt like she was sending you a sign. 

Your hands shook, and you mopped at the tears in your eyes and pointed at the oven. “Can you take those out?” You asked Eddie, breathless, heart thundering in your chest. 

His lips split into that Cheshire grin, and he waved you off. “Go get him, sweetheart.” 

The rubber of your soles squeaked against every wooden step on your way down. The patio was empty, sounds of splashes and crackled firewood and laughter could be heard from the shore, and when you rounded the little tin roof beach hut, you saw your friends, your family, roasting kababs and drinking beer and smiling. Nancy and Robin shared a log to sit on, while the boys stood around the grill with hands in their pockets, breeze ruffling their shirts. The smell of ash and smoke and meats rose to your nostrils, something that just felt like another sign.

Steve was the closest to you, his back turned, broad shoulders in navy blue, running his hand through his hair. You hit sand and called his name, and he turned to face you with a squinted gaze, hand up to see your approaching figure. 

You closed the gap in four strides, dragging him down by the collar to press your lips to his, the final rule broken. 

A sound of surprise turned low when the realization hit, and you felt his hands snake around your waist and hips, lifting you on the balls of your feet to kiss him deeper. Your hands found his hair, one of his cupped your cheek, and all at once you felt at home. Once lost at sea, now you’d found your mooring. 

You breathed a laugh that mirrored his, the tip of his nose pressed to your cheek, and it wasn’t until the ringing in your ears stopped that you noticed the ruckus of friends around you.

“Is that a diamond ring!?” Robin screeched somewhere behind Steve. 

You sucked back a smile and pulled your hand from Steve’s hair to admire the ring on your finger. Steve looked back at you glassy eyed, mouth open to speak without words. You shrugged, smiled, allowed the diamond to sparkle in the sunlight. 

“Yeah, I guess it - ” You were cut-off when Steve planted another kiss on you, lifting you into his arms. 

—

The windows had been closed for the night, pale yellow curtains no longer flowing in the breeze. Your hair smelled of campfire, and your eyelids grew heavy from an eventful day. You were full of kabobs and Mom’s chocolate chip cookies, and you squished onto the tiny couch between Steve and Robin, who were flicking each other inches above your head. 

“You’re both children,” you snorted, swatting their hands away as they began to flick you instead. 

“Wheeler, are you crying?” Eddie’s voice turned all of your attention quickly to Nancy, who sat between Jonathan’s legs, mopping at the tops of her freckled cheeks.

“No, fuck off, Munson,” she scoffed.

You scrambled to sit upright, leaning across the coffee table to take her hand in your own. Jonathan gripped you both. “What’s up?” You bit back a smile, seeing Nancy’s eyes roll in annoyance at being the center of attention for something she’d rather keep private.

“I just never thought we’d be here.” She sighed. 

“Yeah, Kurtis was really generous leaving his house with a bunch of assholes like us,” Robin agreed. 

“Shut up,” Nancy groaned when you all laughed. “I just meant… after all this time, I’m really glad I still have you guys.” 

“Can’t get rid of us that easy, Nance,” Steve grinned, swinging an arm over your shoulder. You leaned into him with a sigh.

“It’s true, dude. We’re like parasites,” Argyle piped in, mouth full of cookie. 

You tried not to let her words seep in, tried desperately to tread water, to fight back the current of emotions that prickled when you realized you didn’t know the next time you’d all be together like this. Robin was off to France. Nancy and Jonathan had their own adventures, baby in tow. Argyle lived across the country.

You met Eddie’s gaze, warm browns and Cheshire smile. “Besides, we’ll all be together again soon. I heard there’s going to be a wedding in Hawkins.”

You cocked a brow, ready to retort, but Steve beat you to the punch.

“Hard to plan a wedding in a place we don’t live.”

---

A/N: This fic was definitely a labor of love for me. I actually had this planned before I wrote My Whole Life, Too. And I have so many other details of their lives and pasts that I'd love to dive back into. Thank you so so so much for reading xo xo

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[mothballmilkshake]

As always, @ararouge has created something absolutely beautiful off one of my fics. I can't believe how blessed I am to have such a talented artist working with me!

This is from one of the chapters of Stolen Moments- Show Me, Show You - Showstopper! https://archiveofourown.org/works/59553343

Snippet;

Lucifer's finger ran over a particularly ridged set of scars set just to one side of Alastor's spine – claw marks, if he remembered correctly, and from an attack that had come long before he'd gained enough strength that his battles rarely caused him such issue – a squeak escaping him as Lucifer brushed against nerves that had healed slightly twisted at the edges of the scar tissue, over sensitive in some places, numb in others.

“Sorry,” Lucifer muttered as Alastor's ears pinned back in reproach, static crackling in the air. The man leant forward and brushed his lips against the marks, soothing Alastor's irritation before it had even had a chance to grow into little more than a spark. He let out a huff, mollified for the time being.

A moment later, Lucifer shifted – swinging his leg off Alastor's rear and resting on one hip at his side, prodding gently at his ribs.

“Turn over,” Lucifer grinned, a pleased and altogether too self-satisfied expression on his face as Alastor flicked him a disinterested glance, one brow raised. Still, after the morning they'd had – he wasn't particularly inclined to argue.

Perhaps they might get through the entire rest of the afternoon without a disagreement – start the counter going once more.

Unlikely, but one could always hold out hope.

[pearlypairings]

pairing : steve harrington x chrissy cunningham summary : steve and chrissy are experts at avoiding boredom at their parents' country club. while on a mission to raid the club's storeroom for alcohol, they have to escape chrissy's mother, but may not be able to escape their undeniable chemistry. tags : friends to lovers, country club shenanigans, light underage drinking, almost caught, tooth-rotting fluff, confessionals, happy ending wordcount: ~5k & Inspired by this post!

full fic on ao3

Sneak preview:

And there he was, front and center, wearing someone else’s patchwork tweed cap and leaning against the long rack with a smirk: Steve Harrington in all his glory and adorably stupid shenanigans. “Took you long enough, Bonnie,” he said, twirling his pair of sunglasses like a toy. “Ready for our next caper?” She squinted, approaching him with a sly expression, and crushed the borrowed hat over his ears. “Oh, Clyde—seems you finally found something nice to cover your outrageous hair.” “You like? I was thinking of asking the Crypt Keeper of this monstrosity if I can borrow it sometime for a date…” “You wouldn’t dare,” she laughed. The coat closet had been their meeting place for well over a year now. It was far from luxurious, reeking of mothballs, a stringent mixture of perfume, and a whiff of grandma's house. In the winter, their hangout was often soaked by melting snow and they'd have to remember not to rub up against the wet coats and ruin their cover. But there were major pros to meeting in this closet. No one really went in there after these events commenced except for a few of the staff, and they didn’t seem to mind the two teenagers as long as they kept a low profile. Her fingers traced the edge of Mrs. Polk’s cashmere scarf; she always wore it with her signature blue peacoat. She pressed the material, letting it melt between her fingertips. Steve watched her, silently smiling at his own joke, she supposed. God, his eyes were pretty. She looked to the scarf in her grasp. “Sooo,” Chrissy said. “How will we be surviving today? What’s the grand plan, King Steve?” In her periphery, Steve nodded solemnly, replacing the hat back over the numbered hook she hoped was the correct one. “I think it’s time.” “Time? Time for what?”

[smooth-boob]

The Good Daroga

by fabalafae22

New pharoga phanfic just dropped! Read the tags!

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandoms: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay Relationship: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian Characters: Erik | Phantom of the Opera, The Persian (Phantom of the Opera)

Additional Tags: Pining, Unrequited Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Foot Fetish, Gothic Horror Sex, Hurt/Comfort, No one asked for this and in fact someone asked me not to do this, First Kiss, So Married, are they lovers? worse

Summary: An attempt to uncover the true mystery man of the opera: The Persian, and his strange affairs with a man known as the Phantom.

The chair that had comfortably embraced my tired head was now holding me prisoner. I gripped the armrests as Erik drew nearer. He knelt before me, and the smell of incense, mothballs, and mildew filled my senses…

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59007508/

Note that all my fics are available to registered users only, so you may need to paste the link into browser!

[jaded-but-queer]

Daughter of Discord but Queer is basically what I’m going for ✨ and also a lot of my changeling lore will be incorporated into it because I find them interesting

Some aspects that I will including into this

- fluttershy and discord will NOT be toxic like oh my god BOD did the both of them WRONG 😭

- Screwball will be openly pansexual and genderfluid, and Mothball will be bisexual and gender nonconforming

- Rarijack will be a ship instead of Applejack x Spike (EW) and Rarity x Fancy Pants

- I’ll probably be changing a few of the ships/context to match up more with the actual show instead of strictly following the BOD/DOD timeline since even I’m sure DF would’ve portrayed things differently had she started writing during the show’s later seasons

- I will try to have Twilight serve a more important role as Screwy’s mentor/unpaid babysitter

- The changelings will function as a tyrannical monarchy and Chrysalis’s Royal title will instead be Empress instead of Queen

- They will also be a conservative matriarchy, to help shoe in just how out of place mothy will feel once he enters Equestria with how everything feels backwards/frightening to him

- I’m replacing Dinky’s role with Flutterby Lily (who I have renamed and redesigned to be Lily Sterling) because Dinky felt really dull to me and Flutterby was meant to be a childhood friend of Screwy in the og fic

- that reminds me I also designed Apple Blossom into Bloomin’ Apples and she is now Big Mac and Sugar Belle’s daughter

[lokisgoodgirl]

Writer Self-Rec Fics Ask Game

Rules: writers list your top 5 favorite fics of yours and then send this to 5 writers! :)

MWAH <3

@fandxmslxt69 Firstly, your eyes do not deceive you - yes it has been about 9 months since you passed this my way and I put it off because of the ollll imposter syndrome but after speaking to @superficialdomina who ✨harassed✨ me into answering the question here we are. Thank you for thinking of me.

LGG's Top Five Fave LGG Fics (oneshots because adding series would be the end of me)

(also in no particular order because fuck that)

Hail, Commander [Oneshot] Why? The ceremony, the respect, the BEAT OF THE DRUMS, the battlements of Asgard and the filthy, battle-worn dirty talk. This one and the follow up, (The Feast) play in my mental homescreen a lot as background.

A Fine Silk Robe [Oneshot] Why? I love the quietness of this one. And that it's an intimate (yet hopefully hot) insight into Loki having a truly decadent wank and what's not to like about that. It also has one of my favourite lines I've ever written: The hour was late on Asgard. And its Prince was horny.

The Ceremony [Oneshot] Why? This was my first fic purely based on the idea of 'shit I made up that defo happens on Asgard' and I was expecting mothballs. Mothballs. But apparently, people find it as equally hilarious and erotic as I do - so long live the ceremony and long live Loki wanking onto a golden platter in front of an audience.

The Legend of Long Dong Laufeyson [Oneshot] Why? Firstly, the name. Secondly, the jangly souls of climaxing women trapped in his hair. It's mad, it's dirty, it's theatre, there's crewplicates. It's very me.

A Slice of Kindness [oneshot/drabble] I don't know why, I just love the softness of Loki's realisation that someone actually cares about him. I think the pace is nice, and I now also can't look at a cake without mentally referring to it as a 'malevolent sponge'

I'd love to know if anyone has any faves I haven't mentioned here :) Always a nice little boost and good inspo for future ideas too🥰 but no pressure, no biggie.xx