#oh boy i can fit so many narratives in here

[queenofmalkier]

Moiraine being 70 vs 40

(Alright this one took me a minute because corralling my thoughts is a challenge in the best of times.)

To begin with I will admit... I am one of the people who was indifferent towards the age change in the beginning. They're Aes Sedai, they live nice, long lives, and I wasn't like, emotionally attached to a younger, canon-aged Moiraine. It does make her early years more poignant, but I'll touch on that later.

Primed for older Moiraine, the show started and after two seasons I can safely say I am so gung-ho for 70 year old Moiraine I might actually be feral.

Here's why I, personally, think it was an excellent choice: Rosamund Pike is 44 as of writing this, so she visibly fits into the book age. As an audience nobody is really questioning her age - a few show-onlys I watched season 1 with actually remarked on how refreshing it was to see an older female character allowed to just exist and be part of the narrative without trying to sex up and/or grandma-ize the role.

Little Did They Know.

So you've got an audience that's mostly accepting of this character being in her 40s, and then you hit them with "Oh she's 70 and lets explore just how horrific that fact actually is together, it'll be fun!"

It was not fun, it was gutting.

One of my main critiques of the book has always been how we have these long-lived women, powerful women... but we never really take much of a look at the reality of that concept. Nor are we given POV characters who are really old enough to remark on it. Pevara at least thinks about her family, but Cadsuane doesn't give two figs about hers.

And here's the thing... they're Aes Sedai, but they're still human. What happens to them as they get older, but the people who fill their life are the ones aging? How does it feel to watch a mother, a sister, a child, friends, acquaintances, EVERYONE succumb to time in a way you won't for a very long time after?

That has to be impactful and I wanted to see those stories - and the show delivered. Seeing Moiraine with Anvaere? Chilling, horrifying, heartbreaking. Liandrin and her boy? A kick in the teeth. Even Alanna with her family, knowing very well she's probably the oldest one sitting at that table.

The point is, being an Aes Sedai means being powerful and respected, but it also means living through a very specific kind of suffering and trauma. They're basically vampires in terms of lifespan and we should see how that shapes them.

In regards to Moiraine being older and therefore not basically a child during the foretelling, it does change that particular hit... but by no means did the show let the viewers not understand how that moment altered Moiraine's life forever.

Instead of her being sort of an unformed girl hardened and honed by a lifetime of searching for Rand, one who never got much chance to be anything else, we get a woman who was already beginning to build her life, who had achieved the shawl, found love, and was exactly where she wanted to be.

And then all of that is taken from her.

It's devastating to watch the double-barreled whammy of Siuan and Moiraine giggling about being fishwives and walking into what was in many ways their deaths. Because the Moiraine and Siuan they were before walking into that room were gone forever. They would never be able to go back to the women they were before. They never even had a chance to mourn that loss. Moiraine went hunting and Siuan set her sights on the Amyrlin Seat.

I do understand for a lot of people her age is a sticking point, and that is completely fair and valid! It's a change that I fully agree did not need to be made... but by making that change we're given such a stark insight into the lives of older Aes Sedai who are just beginning to experience what it means to outlive everyone they know, watching one by one as cherished friends and family members pass on.

Soon all they have left are the children and grandchildren of those people, fractured mirrors that are just enough of a hint at the original that it must be painful to know them - which explains even further why so many Aes Sedai cut off contact entirely with their families. It's too painful to keep them in their lives.

[abibliophobiaa]

talking in your sleep

chapter one - burnin’ for you

- eddie munson x afab!reader; 80s summer camp slasher au.

masterlist

🏕️🛶

warnings: (20k words) overall this fic will be dark in tone, though this chapter is mostly light and fluffy; r has a father for the sake of a future conflict, though they are not named; thriller; possession; alcohol and recreational marijuana use; allusions to sex; oral (f receiving); allusion to oral (m receiving); 18+, minors dni.

additionally— while this is technically an au, the upside down does exist here. the original core st crew has experienced the events of seasons 1-3, but in a different capacity that will become clear through the narrative. also a loose loose loose adaption of s4 with a slasher flair

🏕️🛶

There are rumors that Hawkins is cursed. 

That there’s a gateway to hell in the town’s epicenter—paved by the blood of innocents. 

That there’s a whole world roaming beneath, teeming with monsters who have gaping maws full of endless rows of teeth that walk on twos and fours, screeching bats, and swirling shadow beasts. 

But they’re rumors all the same. 

Hushes in hallways, within the four walls of homes, by conspiracy theorists trying to strike up their next controversial story. 

Stories told around campfires to wide eyed children, fear struck grave and true behind their gazes, or by those wishing to warn others to stay away, to reconsider coming—to turn back while they still have time. 

Those same rumors fueled by the terrible murder of the Creel family, a haunting story of a girl who disappeared and was never found again, the impossibility of the zombie boy who was gone from this world one day and alive the next, the devastating fire that burned down the Starcourt Mall and took the lives of many. 

Tragedies. All of them. Twisted to fit a narrative. Because Hawkins is safe. Inconspicuous. Boring. 

Nothing strange happens there. 

Nothing, that is, until the summer of 1986. 

 ——

 “Hello campers,” you call out through the megaphone. “Welcome to Camp Firefly for the summer season of 1986. Dustin—please stop pulling on Max’s hair. Max, don’t kick Mike in the shins! Oh, Juliet, honey, please don’t eat the gl—”

The megaphone is snatched from your fingers by none other than Steve Harrington. All long limbs and debonair stature. Dark hair gleams in the sunlight, broad shoulders shifting as he raises the megaphone to his lips and shouts, “Okay, listen up shitheads. Unpacking starts now. In one hour, we’ll be meeting in the mess hall for our welcome dinner. Be there or be square.”

You open your mouth to argue, to yell at him for breaking up your speech, but a pair of arms winds around your waist. Eddie’s form thumps into yours, his tall and gangly body having just rushed out of his parked van to hastily barrel into you. Four weeks; you’d gone four weeks without seeing him, and it had felt like years. Sighing, you lean into his embrace. Steve shakes his head beside the both of you, continuing on with the welcoming speech for the rest of the campers who are paying attention. 

You, on the other hand, find yourself preoccupied with the boy insistent upon sliding his palms into the back pockets of your shorts, pulling you flush against him until your noses brush.

A giggle rises from your throat, your face warming. “Eddie,” you gasp out when a hand squeezes on your flesh. There’s a thwack of your hand against his shoulders, arms loosely around his neck, though there’s no true anger to be found there. Only the prickling nervous anticipation over being seen. You drop down into a hushed whisper, “Not in front of the kids!”

“I’ll have you know, my campers know cooties are real. I’d like to think I’m a great teacher.” His forehead presses insistently into yours, breath warm against your bottom lip. He’s so close now you can smell the mint on his tongue, masking the hint of the cigarette he likely smoked minutes ago beneath. “But I myself happen to be up to date on my cootie shots…”

Another thwack to his abdomen this time, but all it does is have him closing the space between you, ignoring the overly exaggerated gagging sounds of his friend Steve to your left. It’s a long, drawn out press of your lips. Weeks of yearning and wishes, pent up desire, pouring out into the spaces between you. A hum spills from you, unwarranted and yet welcomed by Eddie’s firmer embrace. 

Those arms around you that drag you close pull you in tighter, insistent on keeping you near. A part of you wants to remain there. Forever, if he would allow it. But you have too much to do. Between welcoming the returning campers, assisting new campers, and making sure all the counselors are in position for their job duties, your schedule is packed. 

Full to the brim in your father’s absence. 

“As much as I would absolutely love to spend the afternoon doing this, I need to get to work,” you say, sighing breathlessly as your boyfriend separates from you. His nose nudges your cheek, palms brushing along the curve of your jaw. You kiss him once more, grinning. Lowering your voice so no one else can hear, you add, “Meet me in my cabin in fifteen minutes.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart,” he says, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your lips, bowing at the waist. He backs away slowly, finger dragging a slow ‘x’ across his heart. You practically glow with it, heart thundering away behind your ribcage.  

Steve wrinkles his nose beside you and you tip your head to the sky, ignoring him. Eddie’s form is already retreating to your cabin, broad back swathed in a dark tee shifting as he moves throughout the gaggle of children rushing around him like the parting of the sea. 

All around you children giggle. Cars and buses alike weave in and out of the makeshift gravel parking lot. Parents press kisses to their babies' brows and wish their little ones a wonderful month of excitement to come. Wistful gazes meet yours in passing. Friends reunite after months without, hands curling around hands, skipping back to their prospective bunk beds. Girls with friendship bracelets bleached by the sun and time, and boys with their fake swords made of sticks they retrieved in the woods rush along, sights set on their unknown destinations. Your nostrils are filled with the smell of sunblock and the food cooking in the mess hall, the lingering remnants of your boyfriend’s cheap cologne, and the perfume you’d dabbed onto your pulse points earlier that morning for the curly headed metalhead. 

You smile to yourself, letting the summer sun warm your cheeks, and think, It’s going to be a good summer.

 ——

 A fan blows in the distance, but it does little to lower the heat in the room. Does little to chill your sweat slick skin, shirt long pushed high on your chest, moisture pooling in the hollow of your throat, along the dip between your breasts. Your thighs lay splayed out around a narrow pair of hips resting against where you crave him most, fingers dragging lines along the slope of his stomach, the trail of hair leading to the part of him seeking your attention, straining through the sun-faded pair of green shorts adorning his legs, lightened from years of use. 

“Missed you,” Eddie drawls, lips gliding along the soft of your stomach.

Shivers ripple in their wake, toes curling within the tube socks around your calves, lined with that glaring green stripe that mirrors the green accents on your white Camp Firefly shirt. You rip your hand from his abdomen and curl your fingers around his bicep, gasping into open air as he tugs the cup of your bra down and his tongue lathes over a sensitive nipple.

Somewhere against your thigh you can feel him hot and hard and ready—eager and insistent. The wooden beams of the cabin above you blur around the edges as fingers dip down into the waistband of your shorts, teasing at the slickness he finds there. 

“E-Ed,” you rasp, clutching tighter, fingernails digging crescents into his skin at the softest prodding of his middle finger against your center. “Mmm—more.”

That finger dips into the well of slick pooling. Swirls around and around until you’re writhing beneath him, chest rising and falling against his as he leans over to hover above your form, watching the utter bliss sliding over your features. 

“Sweetheart,” he says lowly, voice seemingly dropping an octave. His mouth roams over the curve of your hip bone, nipping at delicate flesh until your stomach clenches and you yelp. “Pretty sure you’re not in uniform.”

He’s right. You’re meant to be wearing the standard white shirt with green lettering or ‘Camp Firefly’ across the front and that silly pair of matching green shorts. But you hadn’t had a chance to change your shorts before the kids started pouring in—before Eddie managed to get you alone. 

He tuts, and with his other hand, Eddie slowly works the button on your jean shorts free, the zipper following suit. The denim brushes along your thighs as he lowers them down your legs, tossing them into the far corner of the room, toying with lace, wet with your want. 

“New?” he murmurs, dipping his middle finger inside you, dragging it in a slow circle that has you clutching at the bed sheets beneath you. At your nod, he grins. “Is this all for me, sweetheart? Should go away on tour more often.”

Eddie’s careful as always as he slides down further toward the foot of the bed, shorts and shirt rumpling. A shudder of breath passes from you as he hikes both your thighs over his shoulders, the balls of your feet resting against the span of his back, as those fingers of his palm at the dough of your thigh. Warm breath skitters across your bare skin, replaced by his mouth a moment later. Warm presses that start at your ankle, dragging up up and up until you’re whimpering, pleading, begging for him without coherent words. Words fail you when he’s like this, intent and amorous, wanting nothing more than to draw out your pleasure, bring you to a peak, have you gasping beneath him in your release, holding you close as you float back to earth with him. 

“Please don’t. Missed you too much,” you nearly beg, eyes rolling back into your skull as he tugs the flimsy fabric aside, nearly ripping it in his haste, and parts you with his tongue. Every other word, every statement, the thoughts you might have shared—they all flutter away into the wind, replaced only by this mouth, these fingers, and this man. “Missed you too much. Oh gosh, just like that, please don’t stop Eddie—”

His answer is the curling of his fingers within you. The blinding white light that dances behind your closed eyes as he licks and teases at your center, coaxing you further along that invisible peak. It burns within your gut, a spark fanned into flame, holding bright into a steady inferno, ready to burst behind your eyelids when a knock sounds at the door, shaking you both from your fantastical reverie. 

Head rolling back into your pillow with a groan, you cry out forcibly, “Who is it?”

“Chrissy…your roommate.” It’s a hesitant voice that greets you. Soft and quiet, but impossibly sweet. The groan that threatens to spill from your lips is swallowed immediately. 

“I totally forgot…” you whisper to Eddie, referring to the girl standing at your doorstep. 

In all your years past, you shared with your father. Now, as the manager for the summer, and Chrissy being the newest addition to camp, you had specifically set her up in your cabin so she could gain a grip on things swiftly in her first summer here at Camp Firefly. Head slumping back against your pillow, you dress in haste, brushing your fingers against your hair and under your eyes to make sure you look presentable, and then walk over to the front door. 

Eddie clears his throat. “Should I head out?” 

You huff a sad sigh, not wanting to see him go. Not after you just got him back. “Rain check?” At his nod, you rush back across the room and press a lingering kiss against his lips. “I’m so happy you’re here. With me.” 

“Me too,” he practically purrs, curling a finger in your belt loop, dropping a final kiss at the center of your forehead. Skin warms under his touch. “Now go—Chrissy’s waiting.” 

There’s a swift crack of his palm against your ass that has you throbbing down to your core, a mock gasp rounding your lips as you turn your head over your shoulder to playfully admonish him. But without the capabilities of doing anything about it, you instead open the door to reveal your beautiful new roommate. 

To say you don’t know Chrissy Cunningham is a lie. Point blank. Everyone at Hawkins High knows her. Recently graduated, incredibly smart, overachiever, and class president. Girlfriend to Jason Carver, and captain of the cheerleading squad. Basically, high school royalty. She’s perfection in a dainty blonde package, with her whimsical laughter and bright eyes, and you can’t help but smile as she pulls you into a hug and excitedly bounces on the balls of her feet. 

It reminds you of your first summer here as a camper. Wide-eyed wonder, with all the hope in the world to go along with it, taking in all the sights, the people, the things. Years later, Camp Firefly still holds that incomparable charm. But it’s different now; especially as a counselor, in charge of making sure all these children have fun, are fed, enriched, and remain alive for the four weeks they’re in your care. 

Though you don’t press them about it, Chrissy and Eddie are technically late. Most of the staff arrives days prior to the campers arriving to run through protocols, to ensure everyone has their proper safety training, the kayaks are checked over for damage, the craft rooms are stocked, meals are decided for the summer session, lifeguard duty is handled, and the like. But this is Eddie’s third summer, and he knows these woods by heart. Chrissy, on the other hand, is a late addition requested by her boyfriend, Jason. You’d been reluctant at first, but another sports coordinator wouldn’t be the worst thing, so you’d added her to the staff list. 

Just as she steps back, you hear the gentle glide of your cabin window shifting upward. A white Reebok covered sneaker presses up to the ledge, drawing Chrissy’s curious gaze from where she stands at your back. Chest burning, you wiggle your fingers at him, his shoulders shrugging. 

“Hey, Chrissy,” Eddie says, grinning widely. She mutters a breathless ‘hi’ back. “I don’t usually make it a habit of sneaking through this window. In case you were wondering…”

He does. 

“I’ll be out of your hair in two seconds,” he adds, boosting himself up and over the windowsill and onto the grass below. At your slowly arching brow, he laughs, “I could have…used the door.”

“Could have used the door, yeah,” you agree, that increasingly familiar sticky fondness toward him bubbling up within you. “See you in the mess hall.”

He backs up as you say it, keeping his eyes on you, thumping against a tree and getting a bunch of leaves caught up in his wonderfully unruly hair. The tops of his cheeks stain red, visible in the slowly setting sun. Smitten—he’s so damn smitten, and he’ll try to hide it from everyone to keep up that metalhead slash dungeon master persona, but he’s absolutely terrible at it and you love it. 

“Bye, Eddie!” Chrissy says gleefully, just as Eddie starts to wave and brush at the leaves poking out haphazardly from dark curls. 

Grinning, you waltz over to the bedroom window, leaning your head out to look at your summer boy turned all year boy. 

“Bye, Eddie,” you drawl a little teasingly, affection dripping from you, sliding the wooden frame shut. 

He pouts and you wave, quick to once more mouth ‘rain check.’ Then, with his form finally retreating to his assigned cabin for the summer, you whirl around to face Chrissy. 

“Okay! Sorry about all of that. I’m the…well, I’m your manager this season. Fred Benson will be your assistant manager, should you need me and not be able to find me at any point. Welcome, we’re so happy to have you here. Now how about we get started on a tour of Camp Firefly?” 

 ——

 Camp Firefly sits on the outskirts of Hawkins. An outdoor oasis nestled deep within the woods, about an hour and a half from the rest of civilization, and home to many campers when the summer season arrives. Stomping grounds of the counselors who roam their wooden cabins, teaching, mentoring and playing with their bright faced youths. 

The sun sits, bright and golden, over the endless sea of emerald green trees. The barest hint of wildflowers and the lake water down the hill hits your nostrils, blown in by the two fans set up around the room to cool the humid summer air. Vaguely, you hear the cicadas bursting into life, the birdsong filtering through the trees kissing heaven, the rush of water in the distance. Beneath it all is the chatter of children, some of the earliest arrivals likely already pestering their counselors about the many activities they’ll be wanting to do, though the first event is always the welcome dinner in the mess hall. 

Gesturing for Chrissy to follow, you usher her out the front door and peer out over the front porch, extending your arms to show her the view from just outside your shared bedroom window. Through the lush foliage just outside your bedroom window, you can see the grassy hill, the sparkling blue water down further below, a long wooden dock that’s also home to a storage cabin full of water sports. Kayaks already bob in the water, their bright colors sparking joy. Vibrant yellows, greens, reds and blues—awaiting their eager pilots. The water gleams a gorgeous azure blue, reflecting a cloudless sky above. 

Your favorite part of every morning is seeing the kids. All their bright smiles, their shoes kicking dirt up as they skip, run, walk and mill about. Those first day jitters remind you of being a younger girl, still a camper, freshly out of school for the session with summer break standing before you and a summer of endless opportunity ahead. You recall your favorite counselors, the way they made you feel, how loved and special it was to spend every day playing, learning and growing. 

And now—now it’s your job. Now you’re in charge of protecting, teaching and encouraging the youth. It’s your job to make sure they never go one day without knowing just how valued, appreciated and loved they are. Seeing their smiling faces, their reception to your encouragement, the way they bloom when exposed to love? It makes all the early morning wake ups, makes every tear shed over a scraped knee or a sprained ankle, all the macaroni necklaces and family portraits, the food fights and arguments between campers, the competitions and music events worth it. 

Chrissy seems enraptured with the whole thing as you lead her down the pathway toward the fire pit in the center of camp. Her head turns everywhere you go, waving to little ones as they rush on by, introducing herself to parents, to the campers she’ll be working with for the next month. You watch her confidence spark to life, flourish, and expand with every minute that goes by beside you. Soon enough there’s that eager bounce to her step that catches your eye, the flick of her ponytail as she greets a new camper with a handshake and a cheery ‘hello,’ the way she starts repeating names of kids after they pass, if only so she can start to remember them all.

Trying. 

She’s trying, and it’s more than you could ask of her as a new addition to the roster and someone who hasn’t done this before. 

“Okay, so let’s start here,” you say, pointing to the fire pit in the center of the camp. On your far right is the ‘Welcome to Camp Firefly’ sign. Stopping in your footsteps, you wait until she’s at your side to proceed. “This is the heart of the camp. We host our campfires here. So that would mean anything from s’mores nights to scary story sessions or icebreaker games. We try to hold them for the kids once a week. Sometimes two, weather permitting. If you’re ever lost, look for the welcome sign.”

“Okay. If I’m ever lost, welcome sign.” She repeats the words slowly, head dipping. Her head whips right and left, peering out against her surroundings. “Got it. We have a lot of kids that come here, don’t we?” 

“We definitely get a good crowd. Mostly Hawkins and Christian Academy students,” you tell her, pulling out your whistle and blowing when you catch Lucas racing after Mike. “Boys! Slow the heck down. Wheeler, your shoelace is also untied! Are you trying to go to Nurse Mooney on day one?”

“Sorry!” They both cry out at the same time, heads bent low as they slow down long enough until they think they’re out of view, and then continue running as quickly as they came, both yours and Chrissy’s heads shaking in laughter. 

“So we passed our cabin, the lake. Over there is the mess hall. We’ll be meeting there at around six for the welcome dinner for the campers and counselors. It’s a good opportunity to meet some of the kids, catch up with friends, and all of that,” you tell her, pointing to the larger building. Pausing, you shift just a bit, where another wooden building looms, doors open to display a stray soccer ball and basketball here and there within. “Over there would be our gymnasium. Obviously we try to do most things outside, but on days it rains that’s our alternative. You’ll find a lot in storage for activities. Steve will show you around there. We also host dances there for the kids. We make a little pizza and ice cream party out of it. Snacks galore, all of that good stuff.” 

You lead her through the back of both buildings, coming up on a pathway that leads to a trail. “Down this trail right here are the girls and boys cabins. Kids are obviously kept separate, but you’ll find that the prank wars start almost immediately. I can always tell by all the shrieking,” you tell her, laughing to yourself at the fondness of the memories that flit through your mind, a kaleidoscope of color and splashes of joy. “Last year the kids got Eddie good. Shouted that Max had skinned her knee—he loves that kid, so he ran to see if she was okay—and he got a bucket of water tossed on him.”

“So we allow the prank wars?” 

“Yeah.” Your feet shift in the dirt. “They’re kids, they’re going to be rowdy, and we encourage it. Some of these kids have a rough go of it during the school year, and this is a sort of escape for them. It’s what I love most about Camp Firefly. Just watching them play, learn…explore. It’s really rewarding. I know it’s only four weeks, but you’ll miss these guys once they’re back on the buses and headed home with their families.”

“Makes you really appreciate the place. I, ah, know sometimes how hard people might have it at home and school, so this place probably means the world to them.” Chrissy stares up at the pathway. At the wooden cabins with their bright, colorful hammocks dancing in the wind on their porches. You wonder briefly what she’s thinking, but she only smiles softly to herself, saying, “Thanks again. For letting me work here.” 

 ——

 “Well look what the cat dragged in!” Dustin calls from beside Eddie, just as you and Chrissy finally wander into the mess hall. 

Eddie barely even has a chance to raise his hand in greeting when the curly haired brunette comes rushing forward into your awaiting arms. Another pair greets you next, long and gangly, with dark hair that definitely looks different than it did last summer. 

Will. 

“I was so excited when I saw you and El on the sign up list,” you tell him, rustling the hairs on his head. His head tips up, leaning into the weight of your hand atop. “So happy you’re all back from California. Did you get a new haircut? Maybe grow a few inches as well?” 

Will merely blushes, stepping back, shoulders brushing with Dustin’s. “Eddie said you’re manager this year,” Dustin starts, but Mike tosses a bread roll at his head and the boy is whirling on the heel and flipping his friend off. 

“Your crush is showing, dipshit,” Mike teases, voice bored and lofty. 

“Be nice,” El grumbles, waving your way. 

Chrissy shifts awkwardly at your side, taking in the numerous pairs of eyes also sitting at the table. From where you’re standing, looking over Dustin and Will’s heads, you can see Max, Lucas and his little sister Erica. All of which are bright eyed and happy to see you, practically bouncing with energy where they sit between Eddie and Steve. Some of the other counselors are at other tables, chatting with their kids and one another. Jason, Chance and Andy are rough housing in the distance with some of the older boys. And you can make out Jonathan and Argyle with Nancy and Robin at the table just beside the one Eddie and Steve sit at. 

Your heart swells over being reunited with everyone. Even if you’d seen them at school only a few weeks ago now. Tugging Chrissy to your side, you clear your throat, drawing the attention of the kids. “This is Chrissy. I’m sure some of you already knew that, but this is her first summer as a counselor.” 

Eyes all over turn to gauge the newest addition to Camp Firefly. Careful perusals, questioning stares, that all eventually melt into curiosity and hopefulness. Before long the kids are ready to bombard her with endless questions as soon as you two find spots to sit down on the mess hall benches. Asking her what it’s like on her first day at camp, if being a cheerleader is fun, what her favorite movies and colors are, what ice cream she likes, what she’d want to be if she woke up as an animal one day. Silly, simple icebreaker things. Small talk that has her loosening as time goes on, easing into a familiar banter that makes your muscles loosen, Eddie’s hand seeking your knee under the table.

“You’re doing well,” he reassures you, and you cover his palm with your own, because, as usual, he knows exactly what you need at the moment. And maybe you are—doing well, that is. It’s the first day of camp, everyone is happy, and things are running smoothly.

Releasing an exhale, you gesture for Chrissy to follow you toward the buffet line, full to the brim with various easily accessible meals. Chicken nuggets, pizza slices, macaroni and cheese, sandwiches, and the like. One thing you’ve always prided the camp in is the ability to go above and beyond making sure each camper’s needs are met—counselors, too. Together you load your plates, recounting the tour around camp, Chrissy regaling you with the names she’s already starting to learn. 

“The redhead is…Max, right?” she asks, and you nod, thinking of your favorite little redheaded youth. 

“That would be her. She’s a toughie, but she means well.” 

She’s also had a rough go as of late, though you don’t tell Chrissy that. Her step-brother, Billy, had been one of the many lost in the fire at Starcourt Mall. It had been a grave loss—all of those lives gone in an instant. It hadn’t mattered how terrible he’s been when alive, it still crushed her all the same. And with her having started high school this year, you can’t even begin to understand the hardships she’s been going through. As often as you could throughout the school year you’ve checked up on her, offered to spend time with her after class, to sit with her in the cafeteria during lunches, but she’s always pushed you aside. Brushed you off, away, out of sight. And you understand—you really do. Seeing her at camp, trying and open to the next four weeks, however, has your chest burning with hope. 

“Then there’s…Will and El. They’re step-siblings. Dustin, he’s Eddie and Steve’s friend. Erica and Lucas…siblings. And Mike.”

“You’re getting it.” You place your macaroni and cheese on your plate and toss on a bread roll, watching as Chrissy shovels a slice of pizza onto hers. “It’ll take some time. But it’s your first day. Trust me, you're doing great.”

 ——

 The welcome dinner passes as usual. Kids and counselors alike catch up and recall their memories from all the months spent apart. You prattle on with your kids and watch Eddie out of the corner of your eye as he talks with Dustin and Mike about whatever fantastical campaign he’s planning for their first DND session on the campgrounds. 

It splits your heart. Makes it swell three sizes. On your right, Chrissy and Erica are caught up in a duel. Whoever breaks first in a staring contest loses, prompted by none other than Lucas himself. Suggesting since it’s Chrissy’s first day, she’s in need of a little ‘initiation ceremony.’ 

You and Robin make light of Steve’s present dating life. Laughing when he expresses he’s not actually on the market because he’s interested in an older woman, but he won’t exactly tell you who. Although, when a certain Miss Mooney walks in, you can’t help but to notice the way his eyes catch her across the room. How he quite literally goes white as a sheet and gulps loud enough the two of you can hear him. 

And maybe your brow arches high on your forehead, and maybe he grumbles for you to mind your damn business, but Robin and you burst into giggles all the same, grinning bright for the boy with hearts quite literally dancing in his eyes for the newest nurse to work the medical cabin for the summer session. 

“Should I invite her over?” 

“Eddie, tell your girlfriend to stop—”

“My girlfriend does whatever she wants,” Eddie chuckles, leaning onto his elbows. “What are you doing now?” 

“Steve is hopelessly in love with Nurse Mooney,” you tease, wiggling your shoulders, grinning widely. 

“Who knows?” Robin bumps her shoulder against his. Steve lets out a sound that resembles a whimper and you can’t help but let out a little snort. Eddie elbows him roughly in the ribs, telling him to ‘look alive’ when Nurse Mooney walks by and settles down at a nearby table. “Maybe this will be the beginning of something beautiful?”

“Should I start singing?” you ask. 

“Summer Nights?” Robin winks, earning a loud groan. 

“On three. One, two—”

“You’re all the worst, okay?!” Steve grumbles, resting his head on the table. “I’m disowning all of you as my friends. I’m not even joking.” 

Summer is officially here. 

 ——

 The first few days of summer pass in the familiar Hawkins heat. Every morning you rise to the sound of your alarm clock and announce over the speakers it’s time for the kids to wake up. Immediately, you’re dressing and preparing yourself for the day. Bright white shirt, green lettering, green shorts. 

Chrissy rolls out of bed yawning and quiet, tiredness clinging to her form, slowly adjusting to the rigid schedule you try to maintain at Camp Firefly. Seven thirty rise, eight in the morning breakfast in the mess hall, and then groups are split into their respective activities for the day.

You merely observe on those initial days, taking in the energetic buzz that seems to linger over the air as counselor and camper alike get back into the groove of sleep away summer camp. Heat slicks your skin as you traipse through the forest floor, waving as you go. 

Steve and Chrissy teach archery one day, bows drawn back, kids lined up across a strip of targets set up far away in the distance. 

On another, you manage to pass the arts and crafts cabin, watching as Robin and Nancy cheer on campers for drawing their bright rainbows, caricatures of their families, replicas of their homes. 

One evening you stumble upon Jonathan and Argyle after a particularly eventful hike, wherein some of the kids came back with various herbs and mushrooms you weren’t exactly sure were safe and up to code. 

Another, you manage to find Eddie bent over, cheering on a little one as they strum carefully on an acoustic guitar, eliciting the proper chords he’d been trying to teach. 

At the lake, you wave and grin as campers paddle across the water in their brightly colored kayaks, cheering on their friends for making it across the way, high-fiving Jason and Andy when they happen to do something especially noteworthy. 

Your phone calls to your father are breezy. The children’s echoing laughter is a backdrop to your conversation. And he only praises you for the job well done, warming you from the inside out. 

I can do this, you think, hanging up the phone and glancing out the window to see a bunch of children running by with colorful pool floats, headed in the direction of the lake. I can actually do this.

Before long it’s the first Saturday of the summer in the mess hall. Which means the traditional food fight. The rules are simple enough. Every year, a kid is chosen from a hat, and they’re the instigator. The person who throws the first spoonful, handful, whatever they choose. But no one knows who that person is. Attack is imminent, and everyone around is a sitting duck, praying they make it out without a bowl full of mashed potato on their head (like last summer, when Erica had very excitedly tossed it right onto Steve Harrington’s perfectly coiffed hair). 

The room is quiet now. Camper and counselor alike seated at wooden tables, glancing about, trying to see who their betrayer will be. Friendship doesn’t matter on ‘Food Fight Day.’ It’s a tradition. Traditions, apparently, trump friendship. One could hear a pin drop, could cut the tension with a knife, trying to see if anyone drops their facade and gives a hint of what is to come. 

And for who. 

Across from you, there’s movement. A spoon rises from beneath the table, poised at the ready within Max’s hands. Your breath hitches as her eyes fall onto yours, spoon scooping up a helping of gravy. Stomach turning, you watch as kids snicker about the table. As Eddie nudges Steve with an elbow, pointing your way. 

“Max, please,” you start, holding up your hands in surrender, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh—” She releases her spoon and gravy splatters across your face. You blink once, trying to hold back your disgust and laughter. “But I do.”

After that, it’s a cacophony of joyous giggling in the hall as campters gather around the tables, hands inching closer to the endless rows of food across the tables, preparing themselves for war. Condiments, ranch, ketchups and mustards. Spaghetti noodles and pizza slices. Hamburgers and hotdog buns at the ready, drenched in whatever mystery sauce the children had soaked them in. 

There’s a moment, however brief, where the gravy drips down onto your cheek, glides down your skin, and dances along your upper lip. A moment where there’s a respite in the building of anticipation. Kids all glance around at one another, a silent conversation left to linger in the air. And then, with her spoon filled with macaroni and cheese at the ready, Erica Sinclair stands up on top of the table. 

And screams, “FOOD FIGHT!”

Battle cries echo around the mess hall, and the food fight commences. The air crackles and roars with excitement as fingers smash and push into their respective bowls, projectiles soaring through the air like torpedos and landing on their assigned targets. Casualties are in the midst, children in the way, those unsuspecting, ending up with splashes of red tomato sauce on their faces, crimson splatters like little flowers across their shirts. Lettuce flutters in the air, like confetti exploding into the atmosphere, falling down onto heads and shoulders and the floor. 

You’re running around the table with a handful of macaroni and cheese as Robin tosses a slice of cheese at the back of your head. A frisbee of yellow that lingers against your hair for a moment before falling to the ground. Dustin screams on your right, yelling he’s been hit as a spoonful of mayo hits him right in the eye, body falling to the ground into a dramatic heap. Max screams as Lucas pulls out a slingshot, shouting that he’s using an illegal weapon as he loads brussel sprouts onto the contraption and pulverizes Mike with the projectile.  

Dropping down onto your knees, you army crawl underneath the tables, avoiding oncoming ammunition and the shrieks of children as you make your way over to your target. Every year, without fail, it’s Steve “the Hair” Harrington. Doesn’t matter he wasn’t the chosen first target this year. It’s just as much of a tradition as the food fight in and of itself. And, out of the corner of your eye, you catch your comrade in food arms. Eddie crawls as well, hand covered in a ketchup, using his elbows to leverage himself across the floor. Nearly even gets hit with a potato bun from friendly fire (Argyle, who apologizes profusely when he realizes what he’s done). 

You meet with him in the center, ducking out of the way of a stray cube of cheese, shoulders bumping. “If I don’t make it,” you begin, but Eddie cuts you off. 

“You will make it, you will.” He’s shaking with laughter, covered from head to toe in a mess of various ingredients, but still as handsome as the first day you saw him at summer camp two seasons ago now. “Our target is about seven feet away. You take him from the left, and I’ll hit him from above. Do you hear me?” 

“I do.” You lean over and peck his cheek. “Also, I missed you.” 

“Eyes on the target,” he says, trying to maintain your foolish facade. His features crack, corners of his mouth twitching with his boisterous laughter. “But…I missed you too.” 

“Alright.” You nod, training your gaze ahead where Steve is currently defending himself from an onslaught of pickles. “I’m going in for the kill.” 

It happens in what feels like slow motion. It’s a perfect plan. A great one, really. One you and your friends have been plotting since before the summer season started. Get close enough, hit the target, and call it a game. But as you slide out from beneath your table and rush forward to an unsuspecting Steve Harrington, Chrissy Cunningham barrels through with a squeeze bottle of ketchup. You’re hit. Square in the chest. In your shock and distraction, Eddie fails to notice his comrade is down. Slips out from beneath his hiding space with his handful of ketchup, just as El appears holding aloft two mustard bottles.

You’ve both been caught. 

Steve saunters forward, throwing his arms up to deflect incoming projectiles, glancing down at the two of you. Eddie throws his hands up in the air in surrender, swallowing at the red streaks across your chest. Obliterated—you’ve been obliterated by the presently grinning Chrissy, her hair full of stray macaroni salad pieces, chest streaked with other unmentionable condiments and food items, a little piece of lettuce stuck in her shoelaces. 

“Well, well, well. You two really thought you were getting away with a repeat of last year. Surprising, coming from two of my best friends. But a little birdie told me what was to come, so I had time to collect some reinforcements.” He gestures to Chrissy and El, still standing before you determinedly. “Any last words?” 

You’ve prepared for this moment. Prepared for the chance you might be intercepted before you could take down the intended target. 

Eddie glances at you. You look back, head dipping. Eddie trains his eyes ahead, tipping his chin upward. “Look up, big boy.” 

Steve pauses, brows furrowing high on his forehead. “Look up?” He does, and out rushes none other than Robin and Nancy themselves, with a bucket of cold tomato sauce in hand. In his distraction, he doesn't see them coming. In his distraction, he fails to prepare himself for the two of them appearing from behind, pouring the contents over his head, drenching him from the fullness of his hair all the way down to his toes. 

Kids are shrieking in their delight all around you, but as Steve wipes eyes free of tomato sauce, you clasp your hand in Eddie’s. 

Because you know in that instant, you’ve won the war. 

 ——

 The key jangles in your pocket as the two of you stumble into the private showers. He’s everywhere. Fingers digging into your hips, lips against yours, pulling you close. Tugging you forward, craving nearness. Wanting to be close, and then even closer still. Always closer. 

As the children continue their food fight across the camp grounds, you slip into the shower facilities you know are typically vacant during the evening hours. Undisturbed, you close the door behind you, prying yourself away from Eddie’s wandering hands long enough to jimmy the sliding lock into place, grinning when the sound of metal signals peace and quiet once and for all. 

“You’re disgusting,” you chuckle, and he knows you don’t mean it. Not really. 

In a crowded room of thousands, you’d choose him every time. Even like this, with ketchup and mustard across his shirt. Mayo across his proud cheekbones. Macaroni in those dark curls you could spend the rest of your days toying with. He’s still everything you could ever hope for—and he looks at you like he thinks the same. Like even with your shirt covered in ketchup, streaks of red across your chest, the likely remnants of the cheese frisbee at the back of your head, and the rice clinging to that coagulated patch of mayo on the leg of your shorts, he would still think you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. 

Eyes that roam over your form even now. Dark in the growing moonlight. In here, where there’s nothing but quiet. The chaos of the campers long gone, leaving you alone in the sanctuary of togetherness. Tentative feet carry you closer, hands trailing the sides of Eddie’s right arm, running over the short sleeve that covers the wyvern tattoo you know rests high along his tricep, trailing lower still down to his wrist, his hand. With trembling fingers, you grip his palm in hand and raise it up, over your hips, over your sides, curling over your breast. Gasp into his opened mouth just millimeters from yours as his fingers knead the sensitive flesh, his husky voice whispering your name into the empty vestibule. 

In here, you are merely two people, still exploring the newness of your relationship. There are no responsibilities, no children calling your name, no one there to remind you of your job duties. Here you can lean in and press your mouth to his, swallow the groan that falls from his lips as your hips press flush against his, the growl that echoes as you glide your hand over the patch of hair above his waistband, trailing lower, and then lower still where you find him half-hard in his shorts already and curl your fingers around the fullness of him. 

“You’re kind of gross yourself,” he teases against your mouth, smirking into the skin of your lips as his palm slides down around your back and cups your rear, kneading the flesh until you yelp into him. “We smell like the mess hall.” 

The words are a bucket of ice water thrown onto you. A realization that, yes, you do smell absolutely putrid. A conglomerate of more things strewn about your bodies than you can count on one hand has now had time to sit and attract the summer humidity. Lingers in the air, even as your mouth moves slowly over his, drawing those lovely sounds from him you’ll never tire of. With a reluctant sigh, you part from his embrace, taking a step back to watch as he reaches down and tugs his shirt free from his form. There’s a new tattoo across his ribs. A coiling snake that curves up his side, black and white linework immediately drawing the eye to the forefront. Curiosity beckons you forward, fingers brushing along skin, along the lines, Eddie’s dark gaze following yours. 

“Got this while you were on tour?” you ask. 

“Figured it would be a surprise,” he says, smoothing a palm over the side of your face. “Do you like it?” 

“I do.” And it’s not a lie. Not as you brush along his ribcage, grinning to yourself as he tenses and twitches under your ministrations, teeth pressing into his bottom lip to keep quiet. 

Exhaling, you take a step back and tug your shirt off, rubbing at your bicep as his chocolate brown eyes run along your silhouette. Sensing your hesitance, he whispers, “You’re beautiful, you know that, right?”

“Never hurts when you remind me.” 

“You are.” 

It continues like that. He tugs his shorts off and kicks them into the far corner. You remove yours and place them on a towel rack. His socks become a pile on the floor with yours. His boxers are thrown haphazardly, and your underwear follow the same, becoming a heap alongside your bra. The water itself is luxuriously warm. The spray coasts along your skin, warming you from head to toe. With a hum, you turn around to face away from Eddie, letting the steady stream run along your face, washing you clean. A broad pair of arms circle low around your hips, his chin tucking over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. And you linger like that, with the steady flow of water washing away the remnants of your food fight, his body warm against yours, and the rest of the world fading into the background. For a moment, time slows. There’s nothing but you and Eddie, your private oasis, and the love shared between the two of you, full to the brim, threatening to burst at the seams. 

The two of you take turns cleaning one another. He glides a bar of soap gently over your skin, and you do the same for him. Shampoo is built into a lather and rubbed into scalp, mouths meet in the middle to kiss away the sting when suds manage their way in sensitive eyes, and hearts hammer faster as the bar is tossed out of the shower curtain and mouths become fervent, needy, persistent. 

Outside, campers and counselors alike are shrieking and giggling, but inside there’s only this moment. 

This man. 

“What are you—” It’s a question broken off into a huff of breath. A gasp as your knees hit the shower floor, eyes round as they seek his face. “You don’t have t—”

“I want to.” 

And soon, your oasis becomes your own symphony. A melody only the two of you know. Kisses along his thighs. The tender presses of your mouth over the sensitive flesh of his abdomen. Nips laid into skin, utterances of his praises. Pleas of ‘like that’ and ���good girl’ as you finally take him into your mouth. Grunts and groans. Whimpers and moans. Fingers that cradle the back of your hand, but never push. It builds, grows, bursts behind his eyes. Hits a peak, reaches a crescendo, and those final lingering notes where he lifts you back to your feet, himself boneless and tired, eyes hazy as he leans down and captures his mouth with yours. 

And you return with equal fervor, happy to please, hopeless when it comes to the man. 

But there’s a knock at the door, and you know the food fight will have been finished by now. Accept the fact you can't stay hidden away from society forever. There’s a final brush of your lips over his, and the acceptance of responsibilities, but those memories of stolen moments remain all the same. Even as you dress in tandem. Even as you slip your shorts back on, your socks, your shoes. As he shakes his wet hair out, letting the curls fall as they will, his mouth roving over your shoulders, eliciting a peal of laughter from you. Even as you scrunch your nose when he blows a raspberry into your neck, if only so you'll smile at him. 

You bite your lip and ignore Robin’s curious gaze as the two of you slip out one after the other. As Steve tuts mockingly, appraising both your forms with weary eyes. Even as you slip back into your cabin after one final lingering kiss on the front steps, Eddie’s hands cradling your face, and your arms around his shoulders. And especially as Chrissy greets you in the doorway, her own blonde hair freshly washed, an oversized hoodie falling freely over her form. You dress quickly in the bathroom, tossing your dirty clothes into a hamper and pulling on a comfortable pair of shorts and a ratty old tee shirt that has one too many holes in it. Your feet slide into a pair of slippers and you walk back into the main room. You don’t question where she’s been, nor do you tease for the bruise you spot on her collarbone. And she doesn't prod or pry over the one that must have slipped away, left to linger on your neck. 

Instead you curl onto your sides, away from one another. She kicks her socks off at the foot of her bed, and you throw your slippers into a heap on the floor. You reach over and tug on the pull cord of the lamp. The room descends into darkness. There’s only the sounds of your breathing, the hammer of your heart, and the memories of kisses in dark shower stalls, Eddie’s mouth on yours, yours on his, and hands on bodies. 

You call Chrissy’s name hesitantly into the darkness of the room. Wanting to ask her about the day. Wondering if she enjoyed it, if she was enjoying her time thus far. But you’re only met with the sound of her quiet breathing. Gentle inhalations and exhalations of your reluctant roommate. 

Tomorrow—you’ll ask her tomorrow. 

 ——

 It’s not intentional—the way it all starts that second summer you share with Eddie. 

Eddie’s loud and boisterous. Rowdy. Charismatic, frenetic, energetic. He’s different, unique, atypical. Stands outside of societal norms and has no qualms about it. Lives in the spotlight, if only to keep those nearest to him safe. 

He’s also a worker at your father’s camp. Has been for two years now as a favor to his Uncle Wayne. For years, his uncle and your father work at the same power plant when your father isn’t directing the summer program at Camp Firefly. 

Eddie and you aren’t friends. Haven’t been. He’s the kind of person you pass in the hall. Maybe you wave, maybe you give him a smile, a curt nod. But you’re most certainly not friends. And over the summer you’re often on opposite sides of the camp. Eddie usually goes to the music and arts cabin, while you remain on the lake as a lifeguard or helping around wherever else help may be needed. 

It’s that second summer something changes. Eddie’s…well, he’s always been attractive. Dark hair, dark eyes, those tattoos lining his arms. He smiles more your way, interjects in your conversations with your friends, opens up more. You start to hang out. Alone. Away from the prying eyes of your friends, talking about everything and nothing. Learning, growing, enjoying merely sharing space with one another. 

And it’s one day, while you’re both assigned cleaning duty after your father had caught the two of you smoking on camp grounds that it really starts. The two of you sit in the gymnasium, mops and brushes in hand, sweeping and disinfecting the surfaces. It reeks of sweat and dirty tube socks, like teenagers and food thrown away and forgotten in the garbage, and yet nothing prevents the way your heart thumps a little swiftly, how you’re aware of every inch of your body around him, the way he regards you as you work. 

“Thanks,” he says out of the blue, wringing out the mop, draping it in the wheeling cart. 

Your brow arches and he drops down beside you, extending a hand to you. Passing over your brush, he scrubs at a particularly dirty patch you’ve been working at for the better part of ten minutes. 

“For, uh, taking the blame.” 

As your father had marched over to where you and Eddie had sat smoking in the woods earlier, you snatched the joint from Eddie’s fingers and stamped it out quickly. Kept it tucked away, though there had been no avoiding he’d seen it. It was inevitable. His face had grown severe, brows narrowed, wondering when his ‘little girl’ had taken up the habit. And you’d shrugged, pretended it meant nothing, unaffected. As a result, both of you were banished for the afternoon to cleaning duties, making sure the place was scrubbed from top to bottom. 

A punishment that felt a little like fate, if you were honest with yourself. 

“It’s no problem—”

“I just—you didn’t have to do that,” he says, tossing the brush into the bucket on his left. Drops down onto his knees, staining the green of his shorts darker in the sudsy puddle below. “I need this job, believe it or not, and my uncle would have killed me if I fucked things up with your dad.”

“Eddie, it’s fine. I…I wanted to,” you remind him. “I like spending time with you.” 

He glances down at the floor, hair spilling about his shoulders. For a moment, your lips part, afraid you might have said too much—might have made him uncomfortable. But his ringed fingers reach across and twine loosely around yours, testing the weight of them within his fingers, gauging your reaction. Dark, chocolate brown eyes rise to yours, your palm shifting his hand to face upward within your own. Gentle touches glide over the curve of his hand, the lines and creases there, the calluses from guitar strings. 

“This okay?” you ask, finally lacing your fingers with his to linger in the gap between the two of you. 

He nods, shifting closer. Closer and closer until your knees brush. “Yeah—yeah, it’s perfect.” 

He shifts closer again, head dipping a little. You’ve kissed other people before. Small things, never serious. A game of truth or dare around the campfire only after a couple beers, after a date once or twice, but never like this. Never with a boy you’d liked for the better part of the summer. Never someone like Eddie, who made butterflies erupt in your belly, made you feel all those silly emotions in all the movies you’d seen where a guy meets a girl and they fall in love. 

This is different. Feels different. There’s a weight and importance to it. A desire to get it right. So you shift closer, soaking the bottom of your shorts, but you don’t find it in yourself to care. Not when his nose brushes your cheek, not when you can feel his breath on your bottom lip, can smell the stick of gum he’d been chewing on, can nearly taste the cinnamon you’ll find there if you do. 

“This okay?” he asks this time, bringing his right palm up to curl around your cheek, warming your skin. 

It’s brief. It’s so brief after you nod. The softest caress of his mouth along yours, a whisper of skin touching skin, before your father’s gruff voice breaks the silence with a harsh reminder from the upstairs storage room, “Doesn't sound like a lot of work is getting done in here!”

Bodies jolt apart, cheeks burning hot, hearts burning brighter. 

But it marks a newness. A beginning that builds and grows as you explore the start of ‘togetherness’ those last days of summer at Camp Firefly. It’s kissing behind the gym when no one is around and he can sneak you away, it’s Eddie helping you out and into bedroom windows after hours, spending time together tangled under the stars. 

Later, in those last weeks of summer camp, it’s exploring hands in the dark, over clothes and under. It’s quiet whispers of ‘are you sure’ and eyes that bore into your soul, his mouth inches from yours. It’s your words of consent, it’s his reciprocation. It’s giving yourselves to one another on that last day of packing up camp. Standing before one another in your now abandoned cabin you generally share with your father. Eddie’s hands rest on your hips, and yours toy with the curls brushing his shoulders. Your noses dip together, mouths mingling in the center, bodies crushing in close. His hips press into yours and you feel him hot there, unbearably so. 

And you grow eager, fingers curling in the leather of his jacket, pushing it free from his shoulders, nails raking along the skin that lingers beneath his ratty old tee shirt. You tug that free and he helps you out of your shirt. An awkward gaggle of limbs and tear stained, giggle kissed cheeks. It’s a silent perusal of eyes as you slip off layers of clothing. Your bra, his pants, your underwear, and his boxers. They become heaps in the corners of the room as you touch each other, letting fingers rove in places you’d only ventured alone within the privacy of your bedrooms. It’s sharing that newfound intimacy with another person, for the both of you. 

And yeah, Camp Firefly might have been where it all begins, but it only just starts the summer of 1985. 

 ——

 Every summer, staff rotates the weekends some of the counselors get a night off. It’s always one day where everyone can take a night to relax. That day just so happens to be the first Saturday at camp wherein you’re able to stretch your legs in front of you, donning an oversized Camp Firefly hoodie with your name stitched over your heart, sandaled feet warming by the fire. 

The orange glow crackles and dances before your eyes. Sparks jolting onto the wood below, embers dimming as quickly as they come. Warmth heats your cheeks, draws you closer to the comfortable slumber you can’t wait to take advantage of later. For now, you reach over onto your left and slide your fingers over Eddie’s. His head turns your way, dark eyes clashing with yours as those ringed fingers lace with your own, giving you a quick squeeze. 

Robin and Steve sit nearby on a pair of chairs. Heads bent low, voices quiet in the midst of a private conversation. On their left are Argyle, Jonathan and Nancy. Argyle works on rolling a couple joints as the trio chats, his head bobbing often, silky hair catching and gleaming in the moonlight. Jason and Chrissy recount tales about their kids—Jason with the ones on the lake, teaching them to kayak, showing them proper swimming form and the like; whereas Chrissy explains how her kids learned how to play soccer with Steve’s help. 

Somewhere in the distance you can hear Fred practically fretting himself half to death. Questioning how it is all of you can be spending time away, while the rest of the staff lingers behind. And Chance promptly tells him to ‘shut the fuck up,’ just as he takes a sip of his own beer. 

With a sigh, your head leans back against the fabric of your chair, the can of beer in your hand already lukewarm. You’ve barely sipped any—mind still faraway, recalling the day, making note of what worked and what didn’t that week, trying to keep up with inventory, already planning on your phone call with your father. 

Noticing your daze, Eddie’s thumb brushes along the inside of your wrist. Warm and welcoming. Soothing in a way that has your head rolling a bit, fingers wanting nothing more than to push into those dark curls and remain there, the rest of those around you falling away, leaving you alone with your favorite guy. 

“I’ll still never get over it,” Andy drawls, leaning back against his chair. Tina shifts on his lap, a beer bottle hanging loosely in her hand. You arch a brow in curiosity, and maybe a bit of warning. “The Freak and the Princess. Who would have thought?”

You tense beside Eddie, and he tips his head up to Andy. “Seriously man, get fucked.”

“Testy, testy.” At your glower, he continues, "I'm just joking with you and our Princess here.” 

The man in question rises from his chair, nearly sending Tina falling to the floor in his haste. His fist thumps down on the shoddy radio perched on a wooden stump. “Pass the Dutchie” spills out, the joyful tune breaking up the hoots of owls, the frogs bellowing in the lake, and the gentle night song of grasshoppers. His zip up jacket shifts as he moves, dark hair unkempt still from spending most of the day in the hot sun, jumping in and out of the lake. 

“I think we need to liven this party up,” he says, tipping his head back, guzzling down the rest of his beer. Tina giggles airily from her chair, hair twirling around her index finger. Andy shoots a sly grin her way, brows waggling. You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Anyway, I heard this really interesting story recently.” 

“Oh?” Chance asks, looping an arm around Fred’s shoulder, dragging him nearer to the fire and shoving him down into a chair. “Come on Benson. It’s not going to kill you to enjoy one night out—”

“Actually it’s imperative that—”

“Benson,” Jason warns. “It’s one of our only days off. Give it a rest.”

“Jason,” Chrissy sighs, nudging his shin with her shoe. “Be nice.”

“Anyone got a light handy?” Argyle calls from the other side of the fire, finally done rolling. “Enjoy, brochachos. Some good shit we got today.”

He’s referring to his and Eddie’s side business, the two having become fast friends since he moved to Hawkins only a few months ago now from California with Jonathan and the rest of the Byers family. Your father definitely doesn’t know about it, and you intend to keep it that way. 

Fred’s already been threatened if he knows what’s good for him, and if he wants a chance at a second summer as assistant manager, he’ll shut his trap and avert his eyes. The slow hesitance of him presently reaching for his beer tab and popping his can open reassures you that the breath you’re holding can release into open air, lungs expelling gratefully. 

The joints are passed around the fire, split with those wanting to participate. 

“Sweetheart?” Eddie asks, quietly so no one hears. You find you prefer it that way—the fondness of the nickname from his lips like a secret meant only for your ears.

Normally you’d say yes, having spent many nights at Lover’s Lake in the early weeks of your relationship smoking by the water, basking in the newness of your romance, talking about life and the twinkling constellations above. But at your hesitation and the soft shake of your head ‘no,’ Eddie lights his own, his thumb grazing the inside of your wrist once more. 

The group descends into a semblance of quiet, broken up by the exhales of smoke into the air, the scent swirling in your nostrils. Andy drops back down into his chair, done with his gallant twirl in a slow circle, garnering the attention of his mostly involuntary crowd. 

“Have any of you heard of…the realm that lives beneath Hawkins?” 

Your group lets out a round of frustrated sighs and groans, all of you having heard the tales told by the investigative programs, your bored neighbors. Hawkins, your gateway to hell town, harbinger of death and blah blah blah bullshit. For years, it’s been idle chatter, told by those looking for controversy. Conspiracies. 

But there are realities to every story. Newspaper articles conveying the events that happened, television programs documenting the tragedies that befall every town. Tragedies. Unfortunate circumstances that led to lives lost. And yet there are those who would dig up those graves for a sordid story. For their own entertainment. 

“Monsters that crawl on twos and fours—”

“With claws and rows and rows of teeth,” Steve finishes, rolling his eyes, sighing exasperatedly. “We’ve all heard the stories, Andy.” 

“Yeah, but what about the stories where they literally strip the flesh from a human body?” He whirls his face closer to you and Eddie and you jolt in your chair. “Rows of teeth that can skin a human. Made to be an apex predator.”

“Andy,” Nancy warns with the roll of her eyes. 

“Have you heard the story of Henry Creel, though? The guy who killed his family in 1959?” he asks. The group settles into an eerie silence, bodies shifting around the fire to attention. “Mom and sister, bodies unrecognizable. Mangled. Dad’s locked away. In Pennhurst.”

“Andy…” you cry, breath hitching at the brutality of it. 

There were stories, yes. You’d heard of the Creel family. No one ever ventured to their abandoned home in the woods. No one dared. You weren’t one to believe in those stories. They were stories, after all. Stories people have been telling for decades, meant for entertainment and to elicit terror. 

“It’s that abandoned house in these very woods,” he says, opening another beer. “They say he died too. That he’s some sort of spirit now that haunts the halls of that home. That he feeds off of grief and guilt and trauma, claiming souls for him to open the gate beneath Hawkins. For every person he kills, he gets closer to literally making Hawkins hell on earth. I'm convinced the tragedies we keep hearing about…I think they’re part of some sort of ritual of his. He’s been getting stronger all this time, just waiting for the perfect moment.” 

“Andy, that’s absurd,” Robin splutters, glancing amongst Nancy, Steve and Jonathan. Each wears a look of varying degrees of concern. Steve’s brows knit together, Jonathan shifting wearily to look at Nancy, Nancy staring off into the distance. There’s no time to dawdle on what those expressions mean as Robin opens her mouth again, prattling, “You can’t honestly believe that a dead guy is doing all of this.”

“Just give it a rest, will you, man,” Steve adds, another roll of his eyes that’s so obvious you wonder if everyone just shuts up for a moment you'll hear it. “There’s no…other dimension of monsters and no dead dude sacrificing the souls of Hawkins to open some gates.”

Andy shrugs. “You scared, Harrington.”

“Horrified,” he drawls, and you snort. At that, his lips twitch. “Now can we move on since I’m shaking like a leaf out here in my terror?” 

“Yeah, dude, pretty sure you talking about dead people is killing our high,” Argyle agrees, passing off his joint to Jonathan. 

The song shifts to “Hungry Like the Wolf” and the conversation changes as well. To lighter topics now, things that don’t make nervous jitters crawl up your spine, don’t make you want to sleep with one eye open at night. Argyle is fully transitioning into life here in Hawkins, and plans on staying for the foreseeable future. Steve and Robin are working harder than ever at Family Video, with Steve being promoted to manager since Keith was moved to another location. Nancy and Jonathan plan on signing a lease to an apartment some time later this year, and when everyone turns to you and Eddie all you can do is express that you’re both doing well. Eddie’s just gotten off of a small, local tour, you’re planning on business college in the fall to eventually help your father run the camp permanently. 

It’s not before long that the gentle hum of music, the smell of the crackling fire mixed with the weed, the tang of beer on your tongue, and the quiet conversation lures you into a warm embrace. Eyes fluttering, you cup the bottom of your jaw within your palm, elbow propped up on the fabric of your camping chair. You doze off for minutes, maybe hours, you’re uncertain, before you feel the gentle glide of Eddie’s finger along the line of your temple, the top of your cheek. A low hum spills from your lips, and you wake to find the guys pouring water on the remnants of the fire, while others pack away the snacks and alcohol. The camping chairs are loaded into their respective bags and slung over shoulders, and it’s time to head to bed, the first staff part of the summer a success. 

Forest floor crackling and rustling beneath your feet, you follow beside Chrissy while Steve, Eddie and Jonathan chat with Argyle up ahead. Nancy and Robin have locked arms with one another, bodies swaying likely from alcohol and weed still buzzing in their system and you trail to your left where Chrissy is watching them and glancing your way every so often. Her teeth worry her bottom lip, like she wants to say something, like she doesn’t know exactly what that even may be. 

“Tonight was fun,” Chrissy says, body nearly brushing yours. You reach across your chest to cup your biceps, hugging yourself. There’s a pause. A momentary hesitation that has your skin prickling with awareness. “Did you have fun?”

“I did,” you admit, allowing yourself the unfamiliar comfort of her heat against you. 

This seems to be suitable for your cabin mate, light eyes darting to yours in the moonlight, crinkling around the edges in glee. Not a friendship, not just yet, but something. An olive branch. 

“Look—I know we didn’t—”

“Watch out, it’s Henry Creel coming to steal your soul!” 

A pair of hands clutch at your shoulders, jostling you wildly in a pair of unwanted arms. The shriek that spills with you slices the air, heads turning immediately to the source. Heart hammering, you’re hardly aware of your surroundings as Steve and Eddie barrel forward, shoving Andy away from you and threatening him to never put his hands on you again. Andy hits the ground with a loud thud, Eddie’s chest rising and falling rapidly in his exertion as he stares down at him. The man on the forest floor cackles, chest shaking with the throes of his entertainment, palms already visibly torn up from where he swiftly tried to break his fall. Vaguely you recognize Fred’s worried voice, trying to ease up the tension—and failing—thin and wobbly, as though at any moment your father will burst into the clearing and banish you all to your cabins. 

Eddie whirls around to rush by your side, but Chrissy’s already tugging you into the cradle of her arms, reassuring him that she’s got you. “You guys go finish up, I’ll take her back to the cabin,” Chrissy explains, running a hand over the back of your head. Your body shakes, heart still pounding away from the suddenness of his antagonizing. “Andy, do you have to be such an asshole all the time? Grow up!” 

His reply is the wiggle of his fingers and a mocking, drawn out ‘boo’ that has Eddie nearly lunging forward again to shove him back into the ground, before Steve draws him back and reminds him he needs the job, that Andy isn’t worth it, that Eddie will meet up at your cabin later.  

 ——

 The two of you dress in silence. The wood of your shared cabin creaks from ages of wear and tear as you mill about, shifting around one another, gathering your things. You manage a pair of shorts and a long tee shirt, one of the Corroded Coffin ones Eddie had made, and settle down at the foot of your bed with a pillow pressed tight to your chest. 

Chrissy does more or less the same. Brushes her hair at the small wooden vanity in the corner, washes off the little makeup she’s worn that evening, and hurried into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Upon return you’ve found she’s slipped on a pair of silky pajama shorts and a ratty old tee with the Hawkins High logo on it from when you both were still in high school.

It’s funny to think a month ago you walked across that graduation stage. Had collected your diploma, cheered on Eddie for finally receiving his after hard work and dedication to see it come to fruition, and started the beginning of a new season in your life. Endless opportunity awaited the both of you—all of you here at the camp, really. Recent graduates, those trying to figure out their path, trying to determine what they want to do. 

It’s funny to think Chrissy and some of the others on the basketball team had always been strangers to you. Coworkers during the summer, but otherwise people you generally avoided. Ignored. Head down, eyes ahead—it always worked best that way. Your eyes travel down to the neck of your shirt where it falls down a bit around your shoulder, skin still prickling from where Andy had grabbed at you. 

Chrissy catches the movement, brows knitting together on her forehead. “I don’t know why you just sit back and let him act like that toward you. He’s an asshole.”

“He’s an employee,” you remind her, toying with the frayed edge of your shorts. A string dances beneath your fingertip; you wind it around the first indent in your skin, twirling, tugging. “I’m…my dad left me in charge, but I’m not used to this. Any of this. It’s easy for you.”

“What do you mean?” She scoots closer to the edge of her bed. 

“You’re Chrissy Cunningham. People listen to you. At school, they’d part like the Red Sea for you,” you tell her coolly, shrugging. “It’s different for people like me.”

People who walk the halls for years at school, flying under the radar. No one knows you, no one talks to you—not really, at least. You never minded it. Hadn't then, and still do not now. It might have made it easier having someone in your corner, someone to take you under their wing, push you to fly. And sure you had your friends, a small circle, but you preferred the safety in solitude. 

Then there were those like Chrissy, Jason and their friends. Those who shone in the light. Shiny, sparkly things. The kinds of people others were drawn to. Those who people naturally gravitate towards, if only for a chance under the sun. A moment in the spotlight. And you know they’re not perfect. Everyone has their own stories to tell, struggles ahead of them, trials they’ve faced. 

But in high school, in life thus far where you’re either in or you’re out based on what those around you can see and perceive on the superficial exterior alone, you’ve always been out. 

And that’s all you know. 

“Look—it doesn’t matter regardless,” Chrissy says, pinching lip between her teeth, releasing it in a frustrated huff. “Has he always been like that toward you?”

There’s always been an antagonistic relationship between the two of you. Started back in sophomore year when you’d caught him cheating off of your test in math class, and had told your teacher. After that, and a failing grade on his part, he’d been nothing but persistent in reminding you you’d been the reason he’d failed that class and needed to remain in summer school that year. 

The downside also being that you were both still campers at sleep away camp by that point, and would argue over every little competition Camp Firefly hosted. And when he’d applied to be a counselor once old enough, you’d nearly begged your dad to not hire him, but couldn’t bring yourself to explain why. 

Seemed so silly at the time. Still does. Being unable to bring yourself to just plant your feet around him and take no shit from him. 

You grimace. “Yeah.”

“I wish you would say something then. People like that keep doing that because they think it’s okay. They see that you’re not going to say anything and they take advantage of it,” she says, shifting up and off of her bed and onto yours. “I, uh…my mom is kind of like an ‘Andy’ in my life. And for a really long time I just let her…talk to me like that. But no one should berate you, make you question yourself, wonder if you’re good enough.”

Her hand rests lightly against your bare kneecap. Your eyes trail there, and hers meet yours hesitantly, but you cover the weight of her skin with your own palm and feel the corners of your lips upturn. 

“You know, you’re different than I thought you would be,” you murmur thoughtfully, eyes darting up to light ones. Her head tips to her side and you continue, “I thought you might be…scary.” 

Your eyes pinch shut in embarrassment and she bubbles with side shaking laughter. “You thought I was scary? I thought you would be the scary one.” 

“Me?” Your finger presses to your sternum. 

“You were always so involved in school, good grades, on the yearbook committee, a scholarship student for your business school. And now you’re my boss, which is pretty awesome at nineteen years old,” she tells you, shoulder bumping against yours. 

“Just for the summer,” you remind her. “My dad is still the director, just managing from home.”

“Even so. Looks like we both misjudged one another.”

She nods. “Looks like it.”

With a sigh, you shift down onto your back, not minding at all when Chrissy arranges herself comfortably at your side, her arm slung over her waist, eyes trained on the wooden ceiling. The gentle inhalations and exhalations from both of you intermingle in the humid summer air, the gentle hum of your fan blowing a backdrop alongside the chirp of crickets and bellows of bullfrogs straying from the lake. 

“Hey…” Chrissy breaks the silence, and your head turns on the pillow to look at her. “If we’re going to be cabin mates for the next month or so, I think it would be nice if we were, you know, friends.” 

“I’d like that,” you admit, and it comes easily. 

Easy like breathing, what with the way she grins at you like you’ve ignited new hope within her soul. Mouth opening to speak, you’re interrupted by the swift raps of knuckles on a door, and without even asking her to, Chrissy hops up off the bed and flounces over to the door, hair swishing as she goes. 

The door opens and you really shouldn’t be surprised to see Eddie. Eddie’s standing there in a Metallica tank top, the sides cut for a larger hole, revealing the smattering of ink across his form. Heart clenching, you rise to your feet as Chrissy opens the door further and urges him into the open space, arms circling his waist as he draws you flush against his chest. A hand rests on the nape of your neck, the other rubbing a slow circle between your shoulder blades. 

Chrissy whistles a tune unfamiliar as she makes her way back to her bed, kicking her feet up on a pillow. Feeling your cheeks warm, you step back, mindful of your company. Circling your palm in his own, you drag him onto the front step of your cabin, taking in the glow of the moonlight up above. Wings of fireflies bat around you, their glowing bulbs flickering around the lamp hanging on the porch, a moonlit song only they know. 

“I wanted to check up on you,” he says once the screen door is shut behind him, palm coming to rest on your cheek. “He’s an asshole. That whole Henry Creel bullshit.”

“I’m okay,” you promise, leaning up to press your lips to his. “Don’t wanna talk about him.” 

“Think Chrissy will let me stay tonight?” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours. His nose slides down the bridge of yours, prods at your cheek until your lips twitch into a smile. His teeth flash with his grin at that. “There she is.” 

“You're on duty,” you remind him, though the idea is tempting. 

Summer before being Eddie’s girlfriend was one thing, your first summer as his girlfriend is another. Separation feels daunting. The craving to be near is stronger now than ever before. 

“The little gremlins can survive one night with Steve.”

“Eddie…” He buries his face against your shoulder, swaying you left to right in his arms. “Thanks for coming. But I promise I’m fine. Plus, I think I actually made a new friend tonight.”

“You and Cunningham, hmm?” 

“She’s…she’s actually really nice.” 

“I’m glad.” His head shifts, lips pressing into your neck until you wriggle and writhe in his arms, earning a chuckle out of the man. “I’ll miss you. Maybe you’ll come visit me in my dreams.”

“You’re such a sap, Munson.” Nose wrinkling, you reach up to comb at the curls tickling your cheek. “Who knew?” 

“There are exceptions to every rule.” 

You grin, heart fluttering away in your chest as he takes a step back and makes his way down the stairs leading to your cabin. There are three words that bubble on your lips, three words you’ve never shared with anyone before. And it’s fitting they form for this man, this person. 

But it’s not time. Not yet. So instead you lean your elbows onto the railing and blow him a kiss, snorting as he dramatically smacks it against his chest and falls backward into a heap on the forest floor below. 

“Go, shoo,” you tease, giggling as he rolls over and pushes himself onto all fours, shaking out his hair. 

“You wound me, sweetheart.”

Three words. 

Not now. 

“Goodnight, Ed.”

He grins. Waves. 

Three beautiful words. 

But you have all the time in the world anyway; there’s no rush. 

“Goodnight.” 

 ——

 It’s an accident that causes you to end up in Nurse Mooney’s cabin. She’s one of the newest additions to the camp. A highly educated individual, with years of nursing experience under her belt, and exceptional with the children. It’s one thing you’ve heard over and over again from the kids after every scape, fall, and tumble. There’s also the increasingly curious fact that Steve Harrington himself seems to be enamored with the woman, having been found already on more than one occasion visiting the medical cabin. 

You find yourself there presently. A hike with Jonathan and Argyle turned sour when a tree branch whipped you in the face, slicing at the sensitive flesh of your cheek. The kids had screamed, jolting on the spot when you hissed and pressed a hand to your bleeding skin, fingers pulling back soaked in scarlet red. Will had nearly passed out and Max cursed. Dustin called for Argyle, nearly blowing your eardrum in the process. And Mike and Lucas shoved you along the path back to camp, leaving El behind to help make sure her step-brother would make it back okay. 

Which is how you find yourself now, slipping into the cabin and calling out her name, only to find Steve himself sitting atop an examination table, smiling softly at the woman who presses a bandaid with numerous breakfast foods in a cartoonish style on them to his bloodied knee cap. The two whirl your way, Steve’s cheeks burning hot as you approach, while Nurse Mooney tips her head up to the sky before noticing your bloodied cheek, urging you forward with the wave of her hand. 

“What happened to you?” Steve breathes out, rushing over to tip your chin up with an index finger. “It’s not—”

“No, no. I got in a fight with a tree and it won. No need to worry Eddie,” you tell him, curling your fingers around his wrist and shoving it away gently from your face. “Seriously. Don’t worry him over this. He’s busy with the kids.”

Nurse Mooney shuffles about in the distance, setting up what you assume to be the things she’ll need to patch you up. Your eyes flicker upward to Steve’s, mirth bubbling in your gut. “Why are you here?”

“Mind your business,” he warns, voice dropping into a gravelly grumble. 

“It’s just curious.”

“She’s a good nurse.”

“I’m sure,” you tease, grinning widely. “She’s also really pretty, intelligent, talented and—”

“Shhh. Will you stop it? Next time you and Eddie want me to cover so you can canoodle in the woods I’ll just so happen to be busy.”

You pout. “No fun, Harrington.”

“You two will be having no fun if you keep it up.” He glances over his shoulder, earning a smile from the woman. “I don’t want to mess this one up, okay?”

The seriousness in his tone gives you pause. Swallowing, you nod. Steve’s love life has been a bit of an…interesting tale as of late. He chalks it up to losing his dating “mojo,” but you know Steve. Steve with his heart full of love ready to be given, an immeasurable kindness, and a tenacity that always surprises you. He’s also a wonderful friend, ‘mother’ to the children, and sacrificial for those he loves. Anyone Steve Harrington loves will be a lucky partner. The thought alone sobers you, mouth setting into a firm line. 

“Just…protect your heart, okay?” You wiggle his arm with your hand. His lips curl upward into a dopey grin. “I care about you, you know? Seeing as you’re in a semi-questionably romantic relationship with my boyfriend.” 

“Shut up,” he laughs, but there’s no malice there. “You look a mess.”

“You’re an idiot.”

But he’s grinning. A wide smile that makes your heart clench as he runs a hand down the side of your arm and waves Nurse Mooney goodbye. As soon as the screen door shuts, you’re ordered to jump up onto the examination table, wincing as Nurse Mooney leans forward to assess the damage to your cheek. She winces as you do, mouth turning downward, a soft exhale of breath falling from her softly parted lips. 

“Going to need some steri strips.” At your grimace, she continues, “It’ll need to be cleaned first. Tree really got you good, did it?” 

You laugh, but it only brings a new wave of pain to the wound. “Ouch, please don’t make me laugh.”

She works in silence. Gathering the things she needs on a rolling table, getting to work on cleaning out your wound, apologizing every time a blinding flash of pain hits. Once the wound has been washed, she pulls over a rolling chair and starts to apply the strips, brows drawn into a furrow, attention fully dedicated to your cheek. 

“So your first time working at a summer camp, huh?” 

“Yeah.”

“Are you enjoying it?” 

Her mouth twitches upward. “It’s different than what I’m used to, but I’m enjoying myself, yeah.”

“What were you doing before this?” you wonder out loud, gasping as her gloved finger accidentally brushes the sensitive flesh around your wound. 

“Sorry.” She exhales, grabbing another strip and pressing it into place. “I worked in trauma for two years.”

“So this is a lot slower?”

“Definitely. Scraped knees are a relief compared to some of the things I’ve seen at the hospital,” she admits, leaning back onto the chair and stripping her gloves off. “A walk in the park compared to car accidents, stab wounds and all of that.”

Stomach dropping, you swallow. “Well, we’re happy to have you. Now you can put bandaids on paper cuts for days on end.” You let out an uneasy laugh. 

“You’ll keep those on for ten days. Just to be safe. Shouldn’t leave a scar.”

“Thank you.” You hop off of the table, making your way over to the cabin door. “The kids love you. Everyone does…actually.”

“Glad I can be of help. And…try to keep away from low hanging branches, will you?”

“Will do.” 

 ——

 About a week after the campfire debacle, you find yourself sitting in the craft cabin with Robin and Nancy and some of the girls, fashioning friendship bracelets with colorful threads. Your fingers work meticulously, winding together the colors, bottom lip pinched between your teeth. 

Your table is presently occupied by Max Mayfield, her own eyes trained on her bracelet in front of her, though she’s been silent for some time now. Exhaling, you finish off the line you’re working on and cup the bottom of your jaw in your palm, watching as the younger girl continues with her crafting, paying you no attention. 

Outside, you can hear the gentle breeze rustling the leaves. The cicadas that sing their morning song. The laughter of children faraway on the lake. Within, you can hear Nancy praising her kids for making the “most beautiful macaroni art” and Robin exclaiming she’s never seen a more beautiful “caterpillar egg carton.” But Max remains quiet and stoic, focused on her task at hand, not uttering a word. 

“Do you think Eddie will like this?” you ask, trying to stir up conversation. 

Nimble fingers raise the red, white and black presently half made friendship bracelet in the air. Some of his favorite colors are thrown into one. Max lifts her head, eyes running over it appraisingly. Cold—though not directed at you—empty blue. She continues to work on hers. Green, blue, and white. 

“Do you ever just…feel like…” She stops herself. Screws her face into a grimace and adds a few more lines to her bracelet as you ruminate in silence. 

“Like…?”

“It sounds crazy.”

“You know you can always talk to me. Right, Max?” 

She swallows. “Do you ever just have a feeling that something bad is going to happen? I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve been having these nightmares and I—” Another pause, her mouth setting into a firm line. 

Hesitantly, you reach across the table and slide your hand over her forearm. “You’re safe here. I can assure you that.”

“I know. I know,” she sighs, “it’s probably nothing.”

“Max, if it’s worrying you that much, do you want me to talk to your mom? Have her come pick you—”

“No. No, please don’t call my mom. Ever since Billy…and then Neil…”

You’ve heard the stories. The whispers around town by those who spewed rumor and vitriol for the game of it—for their own personal enjoyment. Had heard Neil Hargrove left her, abandoned her after his son had died, how they’d been left and moved into the trailer park. It’s how her and Eddie became so close. A brotherly figure to his “Red,” as he always affectionately calls her, even despite her grumbling that he annoys her. It’s all bark no bite, though. 

But you’ve also heard about her mom. About the hardships she’s been facing. About how Max has been struggling in school, with her relationships. It drives you up and out of your chair, shuffling to the other side of the wooden table to settle down on the bench beside her. 

“You know you can always come to me. For anything, right?” 

She nods, eyes downcast. 

“I won’t call your mom,” you promise her, hand resting against her shoulder. “But if you keep having these nightmares, or if they get worse, please tell one of us. Eddie, Steve, myself—anyone, okay?” 

“Okay,” she agrees. She waits a moment and lifts your bracelet between her fingers. “He’ll like it.”

“Think so?”

She wiggles her brows and shoulders, that fleeting grin of hers like sunshine piercing the clouds on a rainy day. “It’s coming from you, he’ll like it.”

You continue on in silence until the sun starts to set over Camp Firefly. You work on your bracelet for Eddie, and hers for Lucas (though she’ll never admit to that). It’s not until you hear the dinner bell from the mess hall that you extract yourselves from the tables, sliding away from the wooden benches with your colorful strands finally finished in hand. 

She walks ahead of you, footsteps eager, slipping into the open wooden doors and making her way over to her friends. Whereas you wander up behind the man you’ve been looking for, in quiet conversation with Dustin, and clap your hands over his eyes. Fingers curl around your wrists like bracelets, a low rumble of laughter shaking the shoulders pressing lightly against your hips. 

“Who is it?” you muse. 

“Gag me,” Mike groans, earning a harsh slap from El. 

“Hmm, I wonder. The options are so vast, you know?” 

Without another word, he’s climbing up and off the wooden bench, dragging you out of the mess hall with a quick nod in Steve’s direction. Once you’re outside, he rushes you around the back of the building and presses your back up against the wall, pinning you in place. 

“Oh, hey.” 

“Hey,” you murmur, mouth millimeters from his. 

He tastes like his usual cinnamon gum and a hint of smoke as he kisses you, lips soft and yielding beneath your own. It’s a gentle give and take, your fingers sliding beneath the fabric of his camp issued shirt, scratching along the hair disappearing beneath his green shorts. Breath fans along your lips, his body coming in closer, the fullness of high thigh between yours. 

“We can’t,” you whine, forehead dropping against his. 

“I know. I know.” 

Another kiss. Those lips drop lower, pressing to the hinge of your jaw. The curve beneath your ear, the side of your neck, until you’re giggling and squirming beneath him, clutching at the sides of his waist, panting for air. His palms glide along your hips, pausing at the strip of string hanging outside of the pocket. Curious, he snatches it free and lifts it in the air between the two of you. 

“You made this for me?” The corners of his mouth twitch gleefully. Dimple popping in his cheek. 

“No.” Your tennis shoe digs into the ground beneath you, forest floor crunching under your toes, head down, cheeks burning. 

“These are my favorite colors, though.” 

“Yeah well…uh…”

“Tie it on me,” he says abruptly, drawing your gaze to his left wrist he’s draped the bracelet over. 

“You really don’t have to wear it. It’s silly. I just spent the day in the craft cabin and I thought—” 

He smacks a kiss to your cheek, silencing you. “Please. Humor me.”

He draws you in closer with a hand circling your waist. You step into the cradle of his arms and grip the two ends of the bracelet, pulling them taut enough around his wrist where he’ll have some room, but it won’t slide off of him. Once satisfied, you fasten it and step back, admiring your work. Eddie wiggles his wrist in the air, admiring the red, white and black stitching. Eyes dart to yours. 

“I love it,” he says, swooping down to kiss you soundly. Until your lips tingle and your belly bursts to life with butterflies. “Come on. Before all the good food is gone.”

 ——

 He doesn’t know why…or really how…he ends up here. His feet crunch against gravel as he opens the door to his car, peering up at the building. 

Before him is a home. 

Set back against a driveway, stain glass windows caked in endless layers of dust. His heart pitter patters in his chest, unaware of what is to come. All he knows is there’s a sense of foreboding. A curiosity that he doesn’t wish to follow through with, and yet feels compelled all the same. 

The Creel house, where those murders heard only in newspapers happened. A family, here one moment in Hawkins and gone the next. Brutally murdered, bones broken, eyes ripped from skulls. 

Dead. 

Gone. 

Lives put to a halt. 

The voice in his mind calls his name again. Has been for some time now. Days, weeks, he’s not sure. But it’s a gentle caress in his mind all the same. A quiet whisper of ‘Andy’—a siren’s call that has him in its grasp. 

‘Andy’ as he brushes his fingers across dust dirtied shelves and bookcases in the home awash with moonlight, peering at various trinkets and once well-loved furnishings. The dust shifts and stirs around him. A halo of sparkling debris that flutters and flits around him as he peruses the interior of the home, taking in all it has to otter. Beautifully vaulted ceilings, sprawling staircases, lovely kitchen, dining room and sitting area. 

He tries to picture the home when they move in. Hopes settled on their shoulders, new keys tossed into their hands, ready to start anew as a family. Now, he stands in a barren wasteland. A place where everything comes to die. 

His feet carry him up the staircase, eyes roving the pictures on the walls, flashlight catching on the dust particles shifting as he moves. There’s a picture of what he assumes is the family hanging on the wall. A beautiful wife, doting father, a golden haired little girl, and a straight faced boy. Henry. His mind fills in the name, and now it settles on a face. Dark hair, severe blue eyes. 

He wonders how a boy, how a young boy like this, could ruin a whole family. How he could look at them, intent on killing, and follow through with it all. 

That compulsion to learn, the compulsion to simply be here, drives Andy further upward, pausing on a room. Inside he finds a wooden panel on the floor that doesn’t quite sit flush. It creaks and groans as he steps on it, edge popping upward. Curious, Andy sets his flashlight down onto the dusty floorboards and pushes up at the broken piece. Within lies a jar, covered like every other inch of this home in a thick layer of dirt and dust. Blowing out a breath, the dust swirls upward, revealing endless black widow spiders within. 

Fear chokes him. Causes him to stumble back, tossing the jar onto the bed above, clutching at his flashlight like it’s a lifeline. Shallow breaths puff in and out of his lungs. Gasps that rattle deep within. And then he sees it. The edge of a book, just above where the jar had been beneath the floorboards. A leather bound cover, smooth to the touch when he grows the nerve to pluck it out and brush along the edges, the binding. 

Etched into the corner is ‘Henry Creel.’ Crude in nature, no more than scratches in the front covering. His fingers brush along the letters, opening the first page to the doodles within. Images of spiders. Long limbs, cruel fangs, beady eyes. Smoky dark drawings, splashed with red streaks. On the next page are bunnies. Long ears, fluffy tails, wide eyes. But it’s the eyes that have his chest rising and falling faster. Eyes that should be bright and warm are crossed out with painted red x marks, slashes on a page, deep as blood. 

Gashes. 

Streaks of anger.

He swallows. Bile rises in his throat. 

He should leave the book. He knows he should. But he tucks it away in his backpack. Tucks it away to let it sit there for a rainy day as he clambers up to his feet, rushing back down the stairs from where he came, neatly stumbling on the bottom step in his haste. 

The front door beckons him forth. Glass panel gleaming in the moonlight, casting a glow along the far wall. Against the fall wall is a clock, a gorgeous grandfather clock that seems to call his name. 

Whispers to him. 

Sings to him. 

Urges him onward. 

He obeys the call, carried over by what feels like a tether, an invisible string. 

There’s a ringing in his ears. 

A probing at the base of his skull.

“Touch it…”

His fingers prickle in anticipation. Hover over the face, worn by years and broken now. 

Silenced by time. 

He hears a voice again. 

A phantom in his ear. A caress against his spine. 

A push. 

His toes brush the edge of the clock, fingers inching closer. 

Tugs the sleeve of his hoodie up around his hand and wipes the back of it across the face of the clock. Exposes the numbers and arms within. 

“What the…” His voice echoes in the home, drowned out by the beat of his heart, when the arms start to move. 

Slow, swirling circles. 

Arms that twirl around and around. Around and around and they don’t stop. 

He hears it then. 

The slow tick-tock. 

Tick-tock. 

Tick-tock. 

A clanging chime, a reverberating gong. 

Loud. 

It’s so damn loud. 

He staggers backwards, the floor shaking beneath him. 

Rattling, tearing, ripping. 

Red illuminates a crack that inches before the clock, the earth pulling at the seams. 

Opening. 

“What th—”

It’s a cry. Cut off and broken as a vine whips up and curls around his ankle. 

Tugs him. 

Drags him. 

He falls onto his stomach. Screams and claws at the ground. At the rug that betrays him, body sliding closer and closer to the rip. 

He screams for someone who never hears. Screams until the walls rattle, hands clutching for purchase on anything, nails skidding on wood. 

Begs for mercy. For death. For a savior. For the reaper. 

He screams until his throat rubs raw, until he’s pleading. 

Anything. 

A sacrifice. 

A deal with God. 

Or the devil. 

“I’ll do anything!”

And then, out of the ground, out of the opening to hell itself, a single word in a voice that sounds nothing of this world. 

The vine around his ankle slackens. 

“Andy…”

 ——

 Two weeks into camp, and everything is running smoothly. You’ve had no major issues, only minor squabbles sorted in your office between campers, and your counselors have been on their best behavior. Sure, there’s the occasional slip up here and there, but that’s to be expected. 

It’s on that second week you find yourself helping put chairs out around a campfire, a projection screen stretched wide across the lawn. All around you kids buzz with anticipation, eagerly looking on to catch a glimpse of what you’ll be playing. For the children it’s “Never Ending Story,” and for the counselors off duty for the night (being you, Chrissy, Steve, Eddie, Jason and Andy) you’ve decided on your own movie night within the gymnasium once you finish setting up for the counselors who are working that evening as a compromise. 

By popular demand it’s “Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter,” and though you hate the idea of playing a movie such as that while quite literally at a sleep away camp, there’s no arguing the decision once it’s made. 

“It’ll be fun,” your coworkers remind you when they let you know what they’ve decided on; however, you find it anything but. 

“Relax, baby,” Eddie coos, fingers curling around the widest part of your hips, tugging you close. The chair he’s holding drops with a clatter onto the forest floor, dark eyes boring into your own. “It’s a movie. It’ll be okay, I promise. And if you get really scared…well, you can always hold my hand.”

“Gonna be my knight in shining armor, huh?” you ask jovially, taking a step closer to him. “Chase away Jason for me?”

“I would run so far away from Jason with you,” he says, and you snort. “I’m not fucking with him. Are you kidding? We’re camp counselors, which makes us Jason’s prey. Our best bet is mad dashing through the woods holding hands.”

“I feel like that’s what you’re not meant to do in these movies. Look at Halloween.” 

At your pout, he continues, “The kids are going to have so much fun. It’s a night off for us. You’ve been working so hard and you deserve to relax a little bit. Want me to go grab you a bowl of M&Ms later? I’ll even take out the ones you don’t like.”

“You mean eat the ones I don’t like,” you tease, fingers sliding down his forearm, along his Wayne tattoo, newly added on the inside of his left bicep, and toy with the threads of the bracelet you made him tied around his left wrist.  

“It’s what any good boyfriend would do. Or at least I think. Haven’t really had much experience with it.”

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, looping the thread of his bracelet around your index finger. “You kept it.”

“‘Course I did. A pretty girl made it for me. Gonna keep that forever.” His arms loop lower around your waist, edging along the lowest part of your spine, verging on slightly inappropriate with the kids coming down at any moment, but you don’t shove him away this time. 

Your breath mingles for a moment, lips inches apart, before Steve’s breaking you apart, uttering you’re on a time crunch and shouldn’t be canoodling. You don’t argue. In fact, the remainder of the setup moves swiftly. Bodies weave in and out of one another, prepping chairs and tables for snacks, as well as sticks for the campfire s’mores. As a tradition, movie nights are also party nights. Nights where the kids can have all the sugary treats they wish, and will never have to tell a soul about it. 

It’s not long before rows of chairs are set and readily available for campers and the multiple tables are full of various snacks, treats and offerings. Groups of children trickle out from their respective cabins all dressed in their comfiest clothes, some donning slippers, others with blankets tucked within their arms. Each gathers their movie snacks before choosing a seat. You, on the other hand, stand faraway in the back, watching as the kids treat each other with candor and kindness, offering open spaces to their fellow campers, eager anticipation for the movie buzzing in their sugar enhanced systems. 

“It’s a shame,” Andy says from behind you. Jolting on the spot, you whirl around, hand over your heart because you hadn’t seen him there. 

It’s a shame. 

Your mind hitches at his words, at the peculiarity of them given the tone of the evening, head shifting enough to eye him precariously through your lashes. “What is?”

He pauses. Stares off into space for a moment. Eyes on nothing in particular as Eddie works on setting up the projector with Steve, handing out hugs like they’re candies when little ones run up to thump against their thighs. A chuckle spills from him, head shaking. 

There’s a choke of breath at your side. The frantic brush of his fingers along a bicep, sweat slicking his brow. “I, ah, I’m not feeling well. Do you think I can just head to my cabin?”

You stiffen, head nodding. “Yeah, sure. Do you need to get checked out by Nurse Mooney?” 

“N-no,” he says, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I—I’ll be fine.”

Without another word, he’s rushing off toward the cabins, rubbing at the back of his neck with his head down. 

“What was that about?” Chrissy asks, appearing at your side in a pair of her camp shorts and a hoodie. She’s put french braids in her hair today, eyes bright in the moonlight. Even dressed down like this, she’s impossibly charming. 

“Has Andy been acting odd lately?” Your words are quiet. Slow. 

“Like odder than usual?” She laughs, but the look on your face has her pause. Lips turning downward, she probes, “What’s wrong?”

“He just seemed on edge all of a sudden. I mean he’s an asshole, but he’s always confident. This felt…different. He seemed nervous. Uncertain or worried about something.”

“I mean…maybe he has been? Yesterday Jason said while they were on lifeguard duty Andy just sort of stared off into space. Like he was there…but not.”

“That’s how he’d just been with me.” 

Frozen in space and time, looking out into nothingness, and then snapping into reality. What had he been looking at? 

“He’s probably just in his head about something. Or trying to sneak off with Tina again,” she says, scrunching her nose and looping her arm through yours. She hugs it tight to her body and you melt a little into her embrace. She gives a little wiggle, pulling you from your silent reverie. “Wanna go watch the movie now? Looks like the guys just finished setting up, so we can start heading to the gym. I’ll probably watch it through my fingers, though. I hate slashers.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, still watching the space between the tree line where Andy had walked through. Can still picture the sweat on his brow, the furrow of them, the downturn of his lips that you’ve always been convinced are permanently set into a sneer. “Sure. Me too.”

 ——

 “So everything is going well?” 

“Amazingly, really,” you reassure him, glancing out of the office, capturing Chrissy’s gaze as she and Steve teach the kids proper form on archery. There’s a line of them, arms stretched back, arrows poised at the ready, waiting for Steve’s whistle to blare out. “Kids are great. Counselors are fine. No one has been seriously injured. Nothing has been destroyed—well, minus the one basketball that popped. But other than that, nothing to report here.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you laugh airily, twining the phone cord around your fingertip. “I promise, dad. You just focus on getting better. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he says gruffly, shifting where he must be laying on the couch, maybe the bed. “Femur is healing just fine, doc says.”

“I’m glad.” Your exhale is one of relief, shoulders slouching comfortably. 

“How’s my boy?” 

His boy. 

Eddie. 

You’d been worried when you first started dating. Especially after the weed mishap during one of those first few times you and Eddie had spent time together. But he’d always loved the guy, especially knowing Wayne for so long, and accepted him into the fold right away. It had been oddly seamless, and ever since he'd taken up calling Eddie ‘his boy.’ Your heart always burns with it, even now, knowing Eddie’s in the music cabin, likely strumming away on a guitar or teaching someone how to play an instrument. Knowing that Eddie’s loved by Wayne, but also by your own family. Fiercely, in a way that sometimes scares you, even. 

“He’s good,” you say softly, back pressing against the wall. “He’s really good.”

“I’m glad, honey. Never seen you light up like you do with that boy. He better be treating you right.”

“Always.” 

And it’s not a lie. Eddie’s been perfect in the past year. Ever respectful, kind, caring and affectionate. No squabbles, not even a minor tiff. Sometimes you question if that’s normal—if two people can get along so well there’s no reason for them to argue. Friends have commented it’s coming, to just wait. But you’ve yet to see it. You’ve seen him get angry, sure, but never directed at you. 

There’s a pause and a swallow on the other end, the smacking of lips after taking a gulp of whatever drink he’s likely got next to him. “Good. Good. I really miss you, hon. Just hope you know.”

“I miss you, too, dad.” There’s a crack at the end of your words, a choke around a muffled sob. Your nose wrinkles, eyes burning with unshed tears. “This was always our thing.”

“I’m not checking out just yet, baby girl. Just a surgery, and just this summer, you hear me?” At your watery laugh, he continues, “You’ll be home before you know it. Bet you grew another inch taller while you’ve been gone.”

“Dad,” you bemoan, rolling your eyes, dragging your forearm across moist lashes. “Two more weeks, and then you’ll see me every day for the rest of the summer. Bet you’ll even get sick of me.”

There’s an incredulous splutter at that. A guffaw that follows, your lips twitching upward. “Never, baby girl. Always and forever, right?” 

Always and forever. 

It’s what you have said ever since you were a little girl and mom had left. Ever since he sat you down on that couch in your old living room, spoke to you softly and gently—like one would speak to a baby doe—and explained all the reasons why it wasn’t your fault. All the reasons it would never be your fault. Ever since it had just been the two of you and dad had to learn how to be both roles in your life without any sort of warning. Ever since he tried his hardest, worked extra hours, and still managed to attend every school or extracurricular function you partook in, while also driving you around to friend’s houses, making sure you were fed and always had everything you’d ever need. Ever since you decided for the rest of your life, it was the two of you against the world. 

You’d never been left wanting for anything. 

Never gone without anything. 

Your best friend. Confidant. The first love of your life. 

Eddie might be the second; in fact, he is the second. 

But before that, it’s always been you and dad. 

Always and forever. 

Something no outside source, no distance, no circumstance could ever take away. You’d do anything for him. Make mountains move, try and part the sea, uproot heaven and hell. So you grin. And you press a hand to your heart, smiling to yourself. A secret thing, meant for him and you. Stolen away from the world. Precious. 

“Always and forever,” you promise. 

 ——

 Music blares from a shoddy speaker in the dimly lit cabin, illuminated by the sun rising through the trees, leaves swaying and shifting in the gentle breeze outside the softly parted window. The same crappy, hand-me-down, camp issued one that Andy needs to thump with the side of his fist every so often to keep the music playing. 

Most of the campers and counselors have already made their way to the mess hall for breakfast. He’s stayed behind, finishing up a morning run and not quite hungry at all. He hasn’t been in a couple days—figures it’s the giant dinner he had the night before. The cafeteria staff had made their signature baked macaroni and cheese. 

No one stops at just one bowl of that. 

He’s warm. Unbearably so. And it feels harsher than the weather outside. This tangible heat that crawls beneath his skin, skitters along like thousands of tiny spiders on his flesh—in his flesh. Fingers reach up to scratch at nothing; gouge scratches into tanned skin, darkened from hours spent sitting on the dock, watching children in the lake day in and day out. 

Ice water does the trick. If only for a moment. He gulps down his first cup and pours another, leaving the refrigerator and freezer door open, despite the fact he can hear the camp princess shouting at him from across the way if she knew what he was doing now with her father’s precious electric bill. 

Someone needs to show her a damn lesson, he thinks. 

“We can…”

The voice startles him. He whirls on the balls of his feet, neck straining toward the open closet, wondering where the voice came from. He calls out into nothingness and is greeted with silence. Long, lingering, languishing silence. 

The glass thuds into the bottom of the kitchenette sink. Shatters against the strainer at the bottom. Andy reaches forward to grasp the shards, wincing as blood pools along the inside of his thumb and index finger, gliding down the inside of his wrist. Trembling, he makes his way to the bathroom, catching the sight of himself in the mirror. 

Dark circles sink into his under eyes. Purple lines that tell a tale of a man who hasn’t slept in days. He cringes at the sight, nearly throws his fist into the glass to eradicate the image of his own self, and flips the knob on the sink. His blood spills down the drain, a fresh bandage put into place as he sits down on the toilet seat. 

Hot. 

He’s still so damn hot. Scalding. Burning. Reeling from it. Eyes dart to the bathroom shower, to the tub there. A thought surfaces, swift and unprovoked. Unprompted, and yet it feels right. The water runs, knob pushed as far as it can go into the cold setting. As it fills the tub, he walks back into the kitchenette and pulls the few ice trays from the freezer. They fall one by one into the tub, dipping below the surface momentarily, and then bobbing at the top. Tiny little blessings that chill his skin upon reaching in to touch—ease the brewing ache in his bones. 

In silence, he strips out of his clothes. Catches on the streaks of black along the inside of his elbows, the curves of his skin. Like ink or spider webs injected into his veins, staining them. He touches them in the mirror, chest rising and falling rapidly, tracing the lines. He can feel them pulse beneath, blood pumping through the darkness; part of him wonders if it’ll only spread this—if it’ll only progress whatever is spilling throughout his system. 

Nurse Mooney will know, he rationalizes, kicking his green shorts off into the corner of the bathroom. He bobs his head for a moment in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth and humming along to the song, trying to distract. 

To deflect. 

To pretend. 

The brush clatters into the cup holder, plastic skittering across the counter in his over exertion. He tosses his baseball hat onto the toilet seat, cards his fingers through his hair, strands falling in disarray about his head. Sinks down into the ice bath, expecting the familiar burn to settle in like the many times his coaches would have him do after a particularly grueling basketball game. Only this time it’s different; this time it feels like an inferno hitting water, creating steam. An instantaneous relief washes over him, eyes shutting against the yellowy lights flickering in the ceiling above. 

“Andy…”

Ice. Cold dread slides down his spine, curls around him, steals his breath. Arms press along the sides of the tub, fingers clutching the edges, knuckles straining white. He calls for Chance to no avail. Only silence greets him—silence and the taunting of the radio in the next room. 

“I will have you, yes I will have you. I will find a way, and I will have you...”

“Hello?” He cries, clutching the shower curtain, sliding it closed. As if that’ll do anything. As if it’ll protect him. His head drops against bent knees, hands on his ears. “Anyone?”

“Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly...”

“This isn’t fucking funny anymore!” 

His voice cracks. Strains. Swallows around the edges of the sob crawling up his throat. He rocks. Back and forth, back and forth, fingers digging into his ears. The chatter of his teeth is harsh enough he feels like it knocks his brain around within his skull. Eighteen. He’s fucking eighteen and he whimpers, a broken thing, a plea for his mom. The utterance of her name through his shuddering lips. Thin and tight, echoing in the four walls of the bathroom, falling on deaf ears.

It’s a prank. 

Some dumb prank one of the kids or the other counselors are playing on him. 

It has to be. 

Has to be. 

“I will collect you and capture you...”

“I’m going to kick the living shit out of you!” Andy screams. 

The radio grows silent. 

His heart pounds in his chest. 

Sweat prickles on his forehead, drips down the side of his face. 

Every inch of his body, the dark swirls on the inside of his elbows, his wrists…they seem to pulse. To elongate beneath his skin, little tendrils that ebb and flow, reaching for something. 

Reaching, reaching, reaching. 

And then. 

Like spiders crawling across his skin, a chill spreads along the back of his neck. The eerie, grating voice of that thing he heard only once before in the Creel house whispers, “Andy…”

——

——

If you made it all the way here, please let me know if you enjoyed. Thank you so, so much. Love, Luna 💌

[dollypopup]

I know what happened, the writers didn't know what to do with a male lead that wasn't Simon and Anthony. Simon had to deal with the trauma, neglect and anger towards his father. Anthony also had major trauma dealing with his father's death and mother's depression.

Colin? They didn't get into his deal. Not really. They were like "Oh, it's Colin. He has no deep dark issues we can explore."

And they left it there, not realizing that a 20 something guy who has no wait time and really wants to do stuff can and will cause all sorts of chaos and no, I'm not talking about the brothel.

It's Colin Bridgerton. The boy breaks things. Let him.

Truthfully? I think it's a lot of things.

I agree that the writers had no idea what to do with Colin, but he *does* have issues to explore. He does have depth. And it's more than just chaos and breaking things.

Colin's story could have spoken to so many people. How many of us have our lives figured out by the time we're 23? He's a middle child in a family of overachievers, in a family where roles have been snatched up already. Anthony is the leader, Benedict is the artistic one, Daphne is sparkling perfect, Eloise is outspoken, Fran is musically gifted, Hy and Greg are just children, but Greg's got determination and Hyacinth has so much sass and fun spirit.

What does Colin have?

How much better it would have been if there was even ONE writer in that room who loved him and understood him. Colin who is lonely. Colin who is young and unsure of himself. Colin who has been rejected. Pretty boy Colin that no one wants to listen to, who no one takes serious. Colin who stumbles through everything, just trying to be helpful. Useful, kind hearted Colin, who does his best and it never pans out for him. Colin who knows how to apologize, the ONLY ONE who knows how to properly apologize, because he has had to have so much practice in it before. Colin who has had his heart broken. Colin who has been lied to. Colin who has to build his trust up again, only to have it broken anew by Penelope when he realizes he's in love with her and she's been Lady Whistledown this whole time? That he can't *stop* loving her, even if his trust is in pieces? That he tries to understand?

How many of us are out here in the same boat? Earnest, good intentions, trying not to hurt anyone- pushed to the side? Unsure of our futures, doing our best?

They could have leaned into his neurodivergence- Colin who needs extra time to respond, who writes down and rehearses what he should say, who practices to fit in, who masks in society. Colin who can be himself around people he trusts and only them- even still feeling like they don't completely understand him.

Colin who hardly anyone wrote to. Colin who loves so deeply, and just wants someone to love him back in the same efforts.

Colin *does* have trauma. Colin has pain he can't voice. Colin cries alone in his bed. Colin tells everyone he's fine. Colin stops talking about his travels and his interests- no one cares. Colin brings ease to his mother, who went catatonic after his father passed when he was 12, and he smiles at her and brings her a beautiful gift and does his best to ease her. Colin compartmentalizes. Colin deals with his concerns alone. Colin is afraid to open up completely.

There is so, so much depth and beauty and relatability and humanity in Colin's story, in his narrative. There is so much to explore. Colin who smiles and laughs and looks to ease people, knowing that he likely had to take on such a role after his father passed. Colin who would rather be an outcast than the center of attention, bonding with Fran. Colin who respects Eloise's passions, bringing her feminist text and listening to her, who didn't tell anyone about how she went to the printers, who didn't disapprove, who supported her. Colin who just wants his brother Anthony's approval, too, and never gets it, no matter what he does. Colin who relates so much to Benedict, the both of them with an artists heart, but doesn't tell him, doesn't break open to confess what weighs heavy on his heart. Colin who watches over Hy and Greg in every scene they're in together, but is never overbearing as a protector. Colin who is tender and sensitive like his mum. Colin who holds the mirror to Penelope in reflection- well intentioned but fumbling, kind but ignored, but also in distortion- lost where she is sure, hypervisible for his exterior and neglected for his interior to her invisible exterior, though everyone listens in to her thoughts.

Colin who loves Penelope, so so deeply, who believes she would never forsake him, only to realize that yes, she would. Yes, she has. And Colin who, instead of cradling this heartbreak, puts himself aside to apologize, only to be lied to once again. Colin who *loves* in every definition of the world, so selflessly, and even when it blows up in his face, decides it was worth it because at least he *tried*.

Colin who tries. Tries and tries and tries, puts forth so much effort, rarely reciprocated.

How many of us can relate to that? How poignant would that have been to see? A man growing up, sloughing off the expectations of his society because at the core of him, he's a lover, a romantic, a dreamer, and he's been raised and influenced by the women in his life so he respects them and listens, who is coming into his own and struggling with his masculinity in a patriarchal society, who doesn't know what he's doing, who feels embarrassed and other.

I love Chaos Colin. Colin who goes in with his heart in his hands, no matter how many times it's been broken. Earnest, open, eager Colin.

But he's even more than that. There's so much to him.

I think the writers didn't know what to do with him, or they were afraid to fully lean into his story. They were influenced too much by a cruel fanbase who hated on him consistently for absolutely terrible reasons, for one mistake, one line, and his character suffered as a result. His actor suffered as a result. And honestly, I do genuinely think there was ableism involved. They even said they rewrote some extra Colin scenes in (like the willow and marketplace) because Jess saw Luke Newton perform Shape of Things and realized just how wide his range was. Why not write to the fullest? If you can't support and believe in your actor, why cast him? Especially when Luke Newton acted the HELL out of Colin. He did more building of Colin's character than anyone else

If the writers weren't ready to dig into him, I just wish they left him be, you know? If you can't love the character you're writing, if you can't find it in you to do him justice, why bother at all?

[diningchairs]

dewmac thesis? please? for the sake of the people of course

OH BOY, YIPEE!!

i am going to be so annoying, so for all the dewmac enjoyers (hi taylor and katie) and dewmac-curious people, let me explain

some people may ask WHY i ship them and the answer is simple: i am a freak enjoyer, delusional and these are my barbie dolls.

first, i’m gonna go over the lore…which is very limited but when had that EVER stopped me from shipping??

October 30, 2021 - nate goes after dewey after dewey lays a dirty hit on bo byram. they’re both bad at fighting, so it’s funny. love the quote, “down he goes, duhaime on top of him”. (x)

now all the way too

March 7th, 2024 - Brandon Duhaime gets traded to the Colorado Avalanche

March 12th, 2024 - Attack Dog. During a game against the Calgary Flames, Dewey goes after a player who was bothering Nate. NOW THIS IS WHAT I LIKE TO SEE!! That is exactly what you’re supposed to do, Dewey, good boy. Connor McGahey had this say about it in an episode of Peak Access:

“There was a Calgary player who was wacking at Mackinnon and immediately, Duhaime recognized the situation and went to the Flames player and tried to track him down and made sure that he was leaving Nathan Mackinnon alone and then went back on the bench and gave Nathan Mackinnon a little tap on the knee and said, ‘I got you, I got your back’ and that’s the time of player Duhaime is, he’s got you back” (x, 5:53 is the bit about Dewey)

SO FUN, RIGHT?!?!?!!!!

March 30th, 2024 - I have no videos for this but just know that I saw them laughing on the bench together and everything felt right. Now as a Nate supporter first, human being second, I felt very protective over Nate and certain people claiming that he was going to “ruin” Dewey. So when I saw them laughing and having a good time, I was just happy because believe it or not, Nate isn’t some evil person devoid of fun, happiness, and sugar.

April 8th, 2024 - DEWEY’S FIRST GOAL AS AN AV! And guess what… he points to Nate RIGHT after (x)

Okay so now onto my thesis.

Obviously a big reason for shipping them is seeing two freaks and thinking, “ooo, they should fuck nasty” but there’s a little more to the narrative here.

Dewey was traded away from HIS TEAM, from his team that meant to much to him. He even said in the Peak Access episode I mentioned earlier that he was excited to play for Colorado but sad to leave Minnesota. He was also RIPPED AWAY from his best friend, Connor Dewar, who was then ripped away from Minnesota. Not to mention, Dewey was brought here because we needed a physical player for our playoffs roster.

So. Dewey’s now in Colorado, all alone. (Yes, we’ve all seen the arrival and airport photos where he looks miserable, which i’m not denying he wasn’t but also: That’s Just His Face)

And just a few games after being traded, he becomes an attack dog for Nate. And GOD, it was just hot and kind of unexpected?

Dewey takes all of his anger/frustration/sadness from the trade and puts that into defending his new team—especially Nate—by getting physical and going after other players.

In my mind, they’re friends with benefits. And they absolutely know that they are NOT each other’s first choice. But they still fuck nasty. And Dewey was never intimated by Nate at all. He was so pissed from the trade that he just doesn’t GIVE A FUCK. And then he plays with the Avs and is like, “ohhhh okay, I will lay down my life for Nate I guess. Also I want to fuck him to fuck me.” And so he’s using Nate as someplace to put his emotions again.

And Nate is all for it. Another fun thing is that, *slaps Nate*, you can fit so many terrible love situations into this bad boy! Is he fucking Dewey because his love for Sid is unrequited? Is Cale ignoring his texts? Was he reminded of his thing with Tyson Barrie? Or Burky?

More on their relationship dynamic:

So yeah. In conclusion, dewmac nation NEEDS TO RISE because they are so mean and nasty to each other yet they need each other to balance out their emotions from stupid trades and playoffs and other hockey related problems.

I hope you enjoyed! It’s kind of hard for me to explain ship dynamics sometimes because I will just keep rambling. And ships are always evolving in my head as I get more comfortable with writing them.

Okay, now i’m gonna go write something about these freaks

[sempsimps]

Gregory Violet x reader

okay so after episode 5 i made this draft and I've only just finished it now leave me be anyway i have no idea why i thought that making reader a bluwer sibling but the narrative fits to good? i don't know. I've written so much that i cease to see who asked anymore, but oh well

sweet fluffy kisses turned

admirers to lovers?

fast burn boi (its a one shot what do you want?)

slight mention of you being an unwanted sibling because you haven't done anything yet. lol imagine

Context

It's the cricket opening ceremony, you are the twin of Lawrence Bluewer, along with your 7 sisters who needed to go to the cricket matches to see Lawrence play it, was his last year after all. but you didn't really like parties that much, too many people, but someone caught your eye the first year you came here. unknowingly, Gregory had found his gaze drifting over to the sister Bluewer never mentioned. It's always the 3 older and 4 younger, never the twin, always a stain on the family. but Gregory always noticed the empty space on his sketch "something's missing," never pointing it out. although curiosity almost getting the better of him, and you seen that over the years he became a prefect and he was just so pretty from afar. Just the right type of quiet but skilled and fitting into the role of prefect, and he wasn't even there?

Standing next to the blue athlete door, resisting the urge to yawn. Listening to the lower headmaster of the school although it was unusual for him to do the speaking it was still the same boring lines and then the thudding came 'green house I suspect oh look at that I'm right' they received the most applause and respect becuse they always won 'mh with that knowledge it will be red next' the second i thought it the rose petals fell all around and some of my sisters audibly swooned at it 'ugh gross, their practically throwing themselves at Redmond' I rolled my eyes at this, but I seen the lights dim, and focused on the purple door the candles let off a purple flame it was beautiful but short lived the doors opened and... 'Nothing?' No one came out. A scream from further in the room rang out. 'ah somewhere in the crowd then at least that was new' a soft smile on my features as I scanned the crowd, to look for him, only catching a glimpse of a golden tassel, before my shoulders are grabbed and I'm forced to look at my brothers team, walking though the reception for blue was always so awkward barely a few people even clapped. 'wow what a crowed anyway' i looked around for the purple, noticing the cloaks were all the same so i kept scanning each one looking for the slight difference amongst them, i looked to my chaotic relatives the older two playing match maker with Adela (only cannon name i can find) the taller little girl with glasses and an equally awkward blue house boy rolling my eyes away i started to walk towards the purple house eating area attempting to walk away i was stopped by a hand on my shoulder i freeze completely slowly turning my head to see it was Redmond 'oh my god no no no please don't' forcing a smile

"hello?"

"Good evening, my lady. Would you care for a dance tonight? i know it's only the announcement, but -"

"No! i mean uhh no thank you"

i blurted out, giving a small cough and turning to let the hand fall from my shoulder. 'oh my fucking god no, no, no, not now, not ever' thankfully a younger sister called out to the prefect to ask for a dance. sighing and looking up, seeing another flash of gold and purple with white hair moving at the purple door as i try to move away again, but my older sister stood in my way.

"Why would you ever turn down Redmond? he has plenty of status for you to be of -"

"No, I'm good"

she looked shocked, and another broke in. i felt anxious now, feeling some eyes on me.

"You have to like someone here. There's plenty of handsome boys around"

I'm sweating bullets now, awkwardly shimming to the side, trying to escape. standing on my tip toes, getting a flash of his deep purple eyes, and looking at me between the crowd before turning away. my eyes widen and i try to walk over yet again, not even getting a foot forward before i felt another person invading my space, this time i glared daggers at the poor soul who was also know as Lawrence, his face was a thin line and half serious eyes.

"Could everyone just leave her alone"

"awww Lawrie"

they faded out as i was overwhelmed already, this place sucked and i only wanted to build up the courage to talk to-

"It's violet, right?"

"...huh?!"

i was more shocked in horror now looking at my brother, the calm tone setting in, and my face flushed he just sighed, fixing his glasses with one finger looking away before speaking.

"i hoped it wasn't but, alright come on"

"Huh? w-wait, how did you?"

my words fell flat he started to walk back through the door the athletes used, and i quickly glanced around before following him through. i was confused. No way, it had been obvious, right? All the girls would have picked up on something they're like sniffer dogs with this stuff. once i caught up with Lawrence, i looked at the spacious corridor that was perfect to make the entrances that they always did. I'm surprised curiosity never came through me to explore behind here. All the way the walls looked was beautiful, like most of this gothic school. once i was done admiring the architecture, i saw my brother moving along. we had passed the red door, then we reached the purple one. 'Wait. is he seriously taking me to Violet? oh god, he is, isn't he? i thought he didn't care about me, and why now is it because it's his last year?' My mind was spinning, and my face felt warm. Lawrence simply moved towards a door it looked like a store room, and he knocked before speaking.

"Hello Violet, I've brought company"

nothing was heard from the other side, but the blue haired boy opened the door. i tried looking in it was basically pitch black except for a small purple flame, which illuminated the space, not to mention the little light coming in from the hall me and my brother blocking the majority of it.

"Oh, it's you, thanks you Bluewer"

i was confused, but i didn't have much time to think, as i was lightly pushed forward, and my brother made a slight go-ahead gesture. i made a "really" face to him, to which he nodded, pursing my lips but proceeded into the void.

"I'll get you after the celebration dies down"

"wait Lawrence what's going on?"

he just smiled, giving a small good luck and left, closing the door so that the only purple flame from the prop lit up the room. my gaze was dawn to it, and maybe to avoid the intense stare i was getting, my eyes looked over the intricate design of the wand? it was amazingly crafted and the wolf skull was awesome every year purple house was the most interesting to see but its not like they won the game but i still found myself cheering for them i first seen violet in the stands and he talked to Lawrence they were the drudges at the time speaking of that boy i looked to the side of me he looked awkwardly sat his knees up to his chest arms crossed in the crook of it his eyes boring into mine and at this i immediately looked away the dark lighting did nothing to hide how pretty he looked those eyes which were illuminating and that lipstick made him seem so kissable 'oh god I'm in the same room as him alone. wait, alone, this is just like that game. Sis mentioned it. Ugh, what was it called again?' lost in thought i failed to notice that Gregory had moved, and his hand had come in contact with my cheek, his palm was soft, like he hadn't done much physical work, but the calloses on his fingertips proved his did a lot of art. 'Wait, he's...' My face exploded with heat, as my brain and his eyes came into contact with mine. The purple was intense and extremely captivating.

"uuhh h-hi so, is this where you disappear to after the entrances... It's quite nice not many people go here either, so it's a lot quieter. So, how come Lawrence knows where this is? Did you tell him, or do all the prefects do this? Sorry, i realise I'm talking too much. I'll just shut up now okay great"

i covered my mouth with both my hands backing up slightly, his hand falling from my face.

"How come Bluwer never mentions you?"

"Oh well, I'm uhhh kind of not that welcomed by everyone since i haven't shown much potential or ..... benifit"

i was embarrassed by this. i didn't really want to talk about it, obviously, but what he said next was unexpected.

"You're beautiful, peculiar. like salamander eyes"

i looked at him, blushing and confused. 'Is that going to be a compliment, too?' Either way, i had no other thoughts other than to kiss him

"Can i uhh...."

my words fell flat, and i just leaned forward. my lips kissing his i felt lightheaded, butterflies in my stomach. i felt some of his lipstick smear onto my lips. i pulled away the softness of them still lingered on mine. he faintly tasted like a mix of the fruit juice they had set out, defiantly apple and a hint of orange, maybe cranberry as well. Gregory had a light red blush dancing across his face.

"I'm sorry i didn't ask if i c-could uhh do that"

"It's alright, i didn't ask you to stop"

Gregory looked away it was now my turn to place my palm on his cheek, and i pulled him towards me, and his body wilfully followed.'Oh god, is this really happening?' we awkwardly kept our hands on each others faces, our teeth accidently clashed, and he pulled away. a bigger and deeper blush spreading from his cheeks down his neck, which was only barely visible in this outfit and the dimly lit room he broke my silent adoration, my mouth unknowingly was open.

"You're... uhh, you're really pretty"

"i uh t-thank you. i think you're pretty too"

we both blushed, and i looked away. but his gentle touch slowly turned my head back, letting us have another kiss. This one was slower more organized than the others. It let us fully enjoy the moment of peace and half confession. his tongue lightly passed through my lips, and i returned the gesture, he let out a small noise of surprise, this didn't feel real. I was so lost in the moment that we both failed to notice the door opened. and a clearing of a throat made both me and the lover boy break apart and look towards the sound. There stood my brother and Redmond, who giggled a little. I'm guessing Greenhill was somewhere off to the side

"Come on, sister, the others are leaving now"

Lawrence was obviously annoyed but held a smile. while Redmond thought to tease the poor emo boy some more.

"My , i wouldn't have guessed this from a Bluwer sibling. How romantic. How are you feeling Violet? rather flushed, it would seem"

"Be quite Redmond"

Gregory was blushing his mouth noticeable, had some sliver on them, and he wiped his chin.'When did that happen?' but we both equally looked a mess. i could feel the remnants of his lips on mine, not to mention the likely stained black lipstick. soon i stood up, and everyone moved out of the doorway. Violet followed after me, and i felt him link pinkies with me 'god that's adorable'.

"Lawrence, could i -"

"Yes, here"

it was a bit of paper that had our address specifically for letters. I passed it to Gregory, which he placed into an inside pocket. afterwards, we said our goodbyes and Lawrence led me to the other girls. When i left, i heard Redmond tease by saying violet should have had a parting kiss with such a beautiful maiden.

okay so this took me sooo long to write like i started it after episode 5 and here i am weeks later but i feel like did really good on this so whatever i will make a smut scene that i was going to add but i thought to keep it separate but on ao3 it will be one fic

[dangerously-human]

Twice in The Hollow Boy, Lockwood leaps for Lucy and it's not enough. The first time is jumping between her and a ghost on the Wintergarden staircase and he still can't save her, Holly has to. And of course, that's still when I think he had his oh moment, realizing he's in love with Lucy and has been for a while, so there's an emotional leap too and he's too scared (etc) to tell her in the aftermath, and they end up more distant than ever. The second is when he jumps into the Aickmere's pit for her, and that time he is able to save her on a literal level - and how delicious that he's saving her from the hollow version of himself, which is exactly what got between them the first time - but on the emotional side of things, he tries telling her how he feels, as best as he can manage for now, and it's not enough, he still loses her, just days later.

And to add to the anguish, @womaninwinter's response to this was, "Not being enough as a theme for Lockwood in THB - how did you make it worse???" Which, like, there's a lot to unpack there, actually, in terms of Lucy and Lockwood's parallel journeys in that regard. A lot of repetition in this book of Lockwood trying, and somehow always getting it wrong. Which is something we saw Lucy struggle with so much in the earlier books, and she's just beginning to develop some confidence in her decisions now, only to be met with resistance that she interprets as Lockwood not believing in her. So actually, maybe parallel isn't the right word - their development in the "not being enough" realm intersects here, painfully, because they're dealing with the same problem but at different angles and keep catching on each other's edges.

Which brings us to the Black Winter, and Lockwood's scheming to reconnect with Lucy and maybe, just maybe, convince her to come back. There's a huge hole between them now that he's afraid he can't really stretch far enough across to reach her - and maybe it is shaped a little like Aickmere's, what he tried to confess to her (about his past and the future he's only just beginning to hope for and his heart his heart his heart) and she still ran - and what if he takes another leap and she still doesn't take the hand he's offering? What if she never takes his hand again?

(Not like I need any reasons to be more devastated about The Hollow Boy and Lockwood's spiral during the Black Winter, but hey, I just finished the first very messy draft of the sleepless/Catholic Lockwood/hands fic - the one inspired by Won't Give Up by Colony House, please join me sometime in sobbing about how well that fits for both Lucy and Lockwood - and in the meantime, had to inflict this thought on everyone in a more meta form. You will be seeing it again in a more narrative format later, but that's not ready yet and I'm having too many feelings about it not to at least say something about it now.)

[bp-zb1fics]

hi! can i have a platonic request for yujin with a male reader?

yujin joins a new school and is quiet and shy but male reader is the upbeat and excited (kinda like junhyeon) class president who wants to befriend him but yujin makes him work hard for his friendship? (idk this is one of those random late night thoughts😅)

tysm!

Shy, shy, shy!

New student han yujin & class president male reader

genre: highschool au on crack, friendship, comedy

tw/tags: color-coded notes, yujin is a shy bean, a lil insecurity at the start, ft kum junhyeon, kim gyuvin & park gunwook for comedic purposes, age of trio is messed with a little to fit the narrative

wc: 1684

summary: you just want to be friends with the new student but it doesn’t seem like he wants to be friends with you.

a/n my first request~ thank you so much anon! I’m not sure if this is what you had in mind and i feel like it’s a little messy but i hope you like it! I tried to write it to be consistent with the korean highschool experience and ended up throwing the dog mafia trio in there for extra laughs — if you enjoyed this, I’ve got a ricky fic set in the same au and part two on the way~

Check my pinned for more fics~

“This is Han Yujin-ssi. He’s just transferred here and will be in your class for the rest of the year. Please take good care of him.”

You smile at the other boy while the teacher introduces you as the class president, returning his bow enthusiastically. His posture seems quite tense as he fidgets with the hem of his uniform jacket. Once the teacher leaves, you practically launch yourself into loosening him up.

“So this is your desk, I’m afraid we’ll be stuck together for the rest of the school year so I hope you won’t get bored of me!”

“Ah…”

“Definitely just ask when you need anything, especially if you need help catching up with any of the lessons, I’ll be happy to lend you my notes. These are my best classes,”

You gesture wildly to your notebooks. Yujin feels a little overwhelmed staring at the many brightly coloured post-it markers peeking between pages, all labelled in your handwriting. Everything on your desk seemed to function in some state of meticulously organised chaos.

“But if you need tutoring for anything else, I’ll be happy to ask one of my sunbaes.”

“Oh, thank you.”

You continue talking and Yujin just stands there. It’s a lot. You’re a lot. Not necessarily in a bad way, it’s just that you look so sure of yourself in a way that Yujin still doesn’t know how to. He can feel his other classmates staring at both of you. He watches you turn towards their direction and they avert their eyes, going back to chatting among themselves. His cheeks begin to flush with embarrassment and he furiously tamps it down.

“Do you have any questions? Anything I can help with, Yujin-ssi?”

How can you look so genuinely earnest? It must be such a hassle for you to look after him when you’re already in charge of the whole class.

“Ah no, it’s alright, thank you.”

Still, your bright demeanour doesn’t dampen, cheerfully calling the class to attention as the teacher walks in.

__________________________________________

“Ah seriously hyung, I’m pretty sure he finds me annoying.”

“You are annoying though, you’re annoying me right now.”

“Ah hyuuuuung.”

You’re about to sulk when rather large hands plant themselves on either side of your face and begin squishing your cheeks.

“Aigoo, aigoo, no need to pout, hyung is just teasing you.”

You met Kim Gyuvin after meeting Park Gunwook at a student officer meeting. Along with Kum Junhyeon, the trio of seniors were practically inseparable. And like it or not, they’ve unofficially adopted you. 

Unofficial because your own mother had laughed when Kum Junhyeon showed up to your house with actual, legal adoption papers and then proceeded to pull up a whole powerpoint presentation to convince her to sign. While you expected Gyuvin to go along with this madness, you weren’t prepared to witness the horror of watching your student officer sunbaenim sporting a full wig and speaking in a high-pitched tone that would forever be burned into your brain. You couldn’t even look Gunwook in the eye at the next meeting.

Chaotic energy aside, your three hyungs were actually helpful whenever you did have a problem. Gyuvin pats your cheeks indulgently.

“He’s probably just shy. As long as you don’t scare the shit out of him like this one did when I first transferred over here, you’ll be best bros in no time.”

“Yaaa” Gunwook protests, “I wasn’t scary.”

“You looked like you could bench press my entire body weight and you stared at me for an unsettling amount of time when seongsaengnim introduced us on my first day.”

Gyuvin retorted, now squeezing your shoulders like they were stress balls.

“That’s because I couldn’t believe that someone the same age as me could look so damn attractive. It’s unfair.”

You braced yourself for the incoming dramatics.

“Ah bro”

“Bro”

“I didn’t know you found me that hot, bro.”

“You really were something, bro.”

Gyuvin lets go of your shoulders.

“Wait excuse me, were??”

“Gyuvin-ah, you and Junhyeon literally have the same personality, I love you both, really, but it’s-”

“It’s what, huh? What is it? Say it.”

You’re about to pull up some emergency aegyo to keep Gyuvin from fighting Gunwook. Luckily, Junhyeon has impeccable timing, almost non-existent volume control and a flair for theatrics.

“YOU’RE SPENDING TIME WITH THE BABY WITHOUT ME??? EXCUSE ME, DOES OUR AGREEMENT OF JOINT CUSTODY MEAN NOTHING TO YOU??? HOW DARE-”

Yep, time to do a reverse “Junhyeonie is 5” before someone loses their custody rights.

__________________________________________

“Oh Yujin-ssi, how are you? Is any of the material confusing? We can go over it at evening study if you like”

The other boy turns to you so fast that you’re afraid his neck might snap.

“Ah, I’m- everything is alright.”

It’s becoming a pattern. You try your very best to get Yujin to feel comfortable and Yujin tensing up and giving rather brief responses.

You invite him to sit with you at lunch and he declines, disappearing from the hall.

You offer him a snack during evening study and he says he’s still full from lunch.

You ask if he wants you to get him a drink from the vending machine and he waves you off.

And he’s not even being rude about it, every response is extremely polite, frustratingly so. And you feel lost because it’s so clear that he feels the need to walk on eggshells around practically everything and you don’t know why.

Despite being class president, you don’t have much in terms of close friends. You’re friendly with most of your peers but becoming an officer means that you don’t have much free time and thus, the friends that you once had would end up hanging out without you. You knew, like Gunwook, that the title could make you come off as intimidating. And you genuinely wished that you could have what your hyungs did, an inseparable bond with all the chaos.

__________________________________________

It’s three weeks in when Yujin doesn’t show up for class. The day after, you find out from the teacher that he’s been sick over the weekend and his parents are keeping him home for a few extra days to recover. By the third day that the chair beside you remains empty, you use your class president privileges to find out his address and decide to pull a Junhyeon, armed with the week’s class notes instead of adoption papers and unfortunately no powerpoint. Or a wig.

You knock on the door and wait. A few minutes tick by and no one answers. After double checking that you’re at the correct address, you knock again. As time drags out, you start to fiddle with your uniform jacket, wondering if this was a good idea. The door opens and you’re face to face with a woman who can only be Yujin’s mother.

You pull down your mask and bow, introducing yourself and holding out the notes that are meant for Yujin. Her face brightens.

“You must be his class president, you’re the only person at school that he talks about. Come in, I’ll have his brother check if he’s napping or not. He’ll be glad to see you after staying home for so long.”

You try to decline, not wanting to put Yujin on the spot but she insists, ushering you in.

“I’ve just been so worried for him after he had to transfer. He always gets so quiet with new people and I’m so glad when I heard about you, really. Thank you for looking out for him.”

She says as you toe off your shoes, trying your best to smile and nod while you’re internally reeling from all the information she’s unloaded.

“Ah, Yujinie, your friend is here. He’s been nice enough to drop off the notes you’ve missed.”

Yujin pauses when he sees you sitting on the couch. He’s a little pale but otherwise looks fine for someone who’s been sick for almost a week. His mother thanks you again before bustling into the other room. Yujin takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch.

“I brought the homework.”

“...”

“And all the notes for the lessons this week.”

“...”

“I’ve colour-coded them by class so you know which ones which.”

“...”

The silence drags itself out long enough for you to consider making an excuse and seeing yourself out. But before you can, Yujin finally speaks.

“Why are you still being so nice to me?”

“Uh- um- sorry, excuse me?”

For once, he isn’t the one giving a brief response but you’ve been caught off guard. 

“I know you need to do the whole class president thing but seriously, you don’t need to go out of your way to offer me snacks or buy drinks or even come all the way here to drop all of this off. Seriously, don’t you think it’s a hassle? Why do you have to be this nice?”

This is literally the most you’ve heard Yujin say since meeting him. It’s groundbreaking. Incredible. Miraculous. Damn, you think your brain broke a little.

“I guess…I’m just being nice?...You know, for the sake of being nice?”

More like a lot.

“I mean you seem like a cool person. Like you aren’t bothered by how I have to like use a different coloured pen for everything or when my sticky note markers end up on your desk or like…yeah.”

You internally cringe at the word vomit that you let loose. Really, you didn’t rehearse your class president candidate speech a million times to sink to this level of ramble.

Yujin laughs. Like actually, genuinely, laughs.

“You’re actually kinda strange, you know. But yeah…”

He grins at you.

“You seem like a cool person too.”

__________________________________________

“HELLOOO MY BABY- OHMYGOD!!!”

Yujin looks positively terrified as Junhyeon flaps his arms wildly at him.

“THERE’S ANOTHER BABY!”

Gunwook looks vaguely amused, giving you a thumbs up before trying to keep Junhyeon from fully launching himself at both of you. Gyuvin takes one look at Yujin, turns around and walks out the door, mumbling something that sounded like “adoption papers.”

It’s going to be an interesting year.

[alarrytale]

Turning to you because you always brings interesting points when there´s a queer convo. Maybe I´m not even the only one who´s writing this. So, there´s a photos from G*mma´s book under the chapter Knowing me, knowing you? and unfortunately it may be taken from the larger context as author of the photo didn´t take the photo of whole page. So she writes: "I understand that many people feel strongly that queer parts in TV and film should go to queer actors. But to harass someone on social media like that, especially someone who is only 18 years old - and who described to UK V*gue the sudden and extreme level of fame the show brought them as ´scary´ and ´overwhelming´ - seemed cruel and sad, not to say very much against the spirit and message of the show. When someone uses a label for themselves it can be empowering, but nobody ´owes´ us a label. They should be offered, not demanded."

It´s obvious that she´s talking about K*t C*nnor and his experience of forced coming out but no doubt she also has his brother in her mind when writing this (especially the last sentence). I mean it fits the narrative when H used to keep telling in the interviews that his label is p-word and he won´t share it as he doesn´t owe it to anyone. What is your opinion to what G wrote? I guess your opinion on H´s label and his narrative how he came out to his family and friends and doesn´t owe it to anyone is just an elegant way to avoid this discussion? As he just can´t come out because of his image and the fact he´s S*ny´s golden goose who needs to stay straight as he´s been the only male singer-heartthrob in years and he needs to keep going like that because there´s noone who will replace his position.

Hi, anon!

Here is a longer quote:

Oh, boy. Where to start. Can i start by saying how tired i am of G*mma always taking the high moral ground and chastisising a group of people she doesn’t fully understand? I've lost count of how many times she's done this. She hasn't got the faintest clue what she's talking about, because she hasn't got the full picture.

Second of all, she's straight and privileged. What she shares with her mother and brother is the complete inability to understand their own privilege and view things from a minority and unprivileged position. Has she even tried to see things from other's point of view? Has she considered that she doesn’t need to have an opinon, as a straight person, on the topic of queer representation and queer normalisation and progression? Has she considered that a neuanced view, and understanding why queer people (she says "people", but who the fuck cares what straight people feel about queer actors in queer roles....) want and need queer actors in queer roles? Has she?

Has she also thought about how celebrities are chosen by popularity by the public to represent the public? And if you can’t represent, you should step down and give the opportunity to someone who can? We don’t cast white people to play indigenous people, why should we cast someone who is presenting straight to play queer? If you need time to figure out your sexuality, that's fine. If you don’t want to come out, that's fine. If you want to pretend to be straight, that's fine. But don’t take the opportunity away from queer people to have queer representation and role models! Queer people deserve queer representation. It's not that mf hard...

Aaaaanyways, no, nobody ows anyone a label. But if you are unlabeled or don’t want to disclose your label and at the same time presents straight, that means you can’t publicly represent anybody (except others who are unlabeled). The narrative around H being unlabeled is to create mystery and ambiguity around H as a person. He's gay and he's been out to everyone but the public since he was 16 at least. So, while it's a way to avoid the topic, it's also a way to be a blank slate and to be everything to everybody.

I just also want to mention how she's avoiding the topic of queerbaiting here, because that also plays a part of the outrage that Kit (and H) face. Funny that...

[space-spring]

I reblogged that post the other day about never finishing video games and it made me stop and think hard about my life and the fact that. oh my god....... I really DO never finish video games........... So I have changed my ways by finishing up Chapter 4 and the ending of Chaos route for Tactics Ogre! Tons of endgame spoilers ahead but here are my bullet-pointed highlights:

My guy Azelstan the pirate! I love him. His whole arc with losing his daughter reminded me a little of Svarog and Hossabara from Triangle Strategy (albeit with substantially more nihilism!), and finding him at the port and then going through the story with the girl he takes under his wing made me die a little inside.

I do really appreciate the fact that even once he joins you he's still a little bit of a mess! I feel like a lot of the characters join Denam out of anger or honor or something else equally passionate, and meanwhile Azelstan's out here going "I've lost everything I love and this is just a decent way to try and make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else." He's simply a very sad old man and I love him a lot

This is not a highlight per se but it IS funny: I had to play the whole pirate cove dungeon where you recruit him like three or four times because I kept thinking I had the recruitment conditions fulfilled and then. did not in fact have the recruitment conditions fulfilled. I killed SO many ghosts. I got to the point where I just bought like 30 exorcism arcanas before going in so I could just have anyone regardless of cleric status blast the stilled undead whenever I needed to

AUGHKDHJSHDGHJJS. I am. SO unwell about the Sherri recruitment scene. I cannot express just how much I am unwell about the Sherri recruitment scene. All the Phoraena sisters really are so cool and good and I spontaneously combust whenever they come on screen but this scene is just AUUUUUGH........ It kills me thinking about how long Sherri's been hiding out because she doesn't think anyone will welcome her back and meanwhile her sisters just!!! love her so much!!!!!!!!!! and SHE loves THEM so much!!!!!! it just makes me go woaugh..........

I also just replayed some of the earlier chapters with Cerya and Cistina to test out the endgame rewind feature, and I take back my little chart I made of them a while back where they're arguing over clothes and things. All of the sisters are defined first and foremost by Being Willing To Sacrifice Everything For Each Other and I love them so much about it

And in addition to all the Phoraena sister dynamics, looking at this scene through the perspective of Denam ALSO having a sister who's keeping herself apart because she feels unloved is so. wowowowow

And on that note Denam and Catiua are rotating around in my head 24/7!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm really so in love with how far the writers went with their argument and fallout and also insane about the bad ending in this scenario because AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?!?!?!?!?! and also I'm just a sucker for guilt arcs and having to live with mistakes even when it'd be easier not to. Catiua's absolutely insane (affectionate) and I think it's so fun how she changes things around and really comes into her own after this.

Also I really really love that the two of them got to have such a narratively clear conversation about everything that went down!!!!! This is a complete tangent but I sometimes kind of go insane over the fact that in Triangle Strategy we really don't get to see a ton of Roland and Cordelia after they reunite and Whiteholm is retaken. They have. so many things to talk about, and Cordelia has more than a few valid reasons to feel resentment toward Roland for the way he handled retaking Whiteholm. The closest they come to really talking about how they feel is that scene where they're standing in the garden and Roland's trying to explain why he killed Avlora and Cordelia just kinda quietly goes, "I know. I get it. I can't blame you." And while that scene is fun in its own "this bad boy can fit SO many emotionally traumatized Cordelia headcanons in it" sort of way, it's also so so so nice to see Denam and Catiua do the opposite and actually sit down and hash it out for a bit. They get to talk about why they're angry!!! They both get to explain themselves and then reassure each other that they're still loved!!!! They get to be genuinely close again and work as a team!!!!! and I love that for them :)

Also with comparisons to Cordelia, Catiua very distinctly doesn't get sidelined after Denam rescues her!!!! She's an active participant in the war and really takes charge over Denam, which is very neat imo, and I love getting to see her coronation and speech at the end

THIS ATTACK SPECIFICALLY. The whole final boss was so cool but I actually gasped and sat back when I saw this, it was just so so different than any of the other graphics in the game and it made me go nuts

AAAAOAUGH GHAGHG

The credits are really pretty :)

RHCKCHHGLGLRLRLAHHJG I am once again foaming at the mouth about the way the game blends game mechanics and story this is SUCH a fun explanation for how the whole world tarot system works and also I am absolutely gutted by the idea of Denam doing this canonically because he can't stand the regret of the choices he's had to make. I feel like Denam's guilt over the entire conflict isn't explicitly mentioned a ton (he actively makes a lot of comments to the effect of "I'm doing what my honor dictates and I have nothing to be ashamed of") and then every once in a while the game comes back and slaps you with stuff like this. Like hey. hey. yasumi matsuno. can we talk? I jst wantto talkk

Also all the endgame content is SO GOOD. I'm starting to move over to Reborn because I want to experience all the voice acting and stuff over on that version, but it's also so hard to leave my team and all the cool stuff I've unlocked. I need to read up on it more but I'm 90% sure you can recruit Lancelot and Warren if you do the Palace of the Dead stuff which I avoided in Chapter 4, so I'm tempted to go back and do that on there sometime. Or mayhaps I'll just play it through on Reborn once I get through Lawful and Neutral!

But yeah!!! Overall, such a fun route and a fun game and a fun ending :) I do feel like I want to come back to Chaos route once I've finished the other two, because I miss Vyce and the role-playing part of my RPG-obsessed brain really wants him to survive the canon-ish ending because I think there's a ton of things from the beginning of the route that I'll think differently on now that I've finished (like all of the stuff building up to Vyce going nuts and Catiua leaving).

[lover-of-mine]

Boy what a day and it’s still going!

Things are not sunshine and daisies on the other side of the fandom line in my little corner. A lot of anger geared toward Ryan for being “an attention seeker” today. Trying to focus on the personal attacks against Ryan again and turn everyone against him because of the issues from the past. It’s like their go to at this point. It never works but they keep trying. But they are absolutely fuming he’s getting so much attention and love from everyone right now. They have spent so many weeks trying to paint him as this horrible person both in and out of show and it’s like a personal vendetta as everyone proves them wrong.

Also furious over the Ryan and JLH photo. It was supposed to be Lou and her after all. They just knew it would be happening. Why wouldn’t she have a photo with her on screen brothers boyfriend but then she had one with Ryan instead. (I think this has the added insult because everyone knows Lou was at the set for filming so not being shown still is not a good sign)

They are as I’m sure you’re aware trying to be positive about saying the over shirt Oliver had on for his Buck fit, is apparently an Italian material made flight jacket. Or that’s what’s being spread around anyway. And Making big emphasis on the Italian portion because Lou’s Italian and that means it’s meant to be. I suppose when you don’t have much to go with you fixate on the strangest things lol.

Which brings us to that whole ABC video. I’m not sure how it is in the groups the others are in but the few I’m in it’s a lot of just pretend it didn’t happen. The loud ones made such a stink the other day over the comment being pinned and re throwing in our faces that kiss video ABC shared and how it all proves endgame that now ABC making this video with Oliver and not showing Lou has them wanting to bring as little attention to it as possible since again those few loud ones are making them all look stupid. Because the same logic would essentially apply here. Only the buddie side would have more weight behind it since there has been so much buddie promo already for season 8 with the show, the cast, the crew, even the journalists and absolutely nothing from Lou/Tommy besides a couple random likes on instagram (where he still isn’t responding to anyone)

TikTok side the creator who made that video issued a formal apology video today. She basically blamed it on being in an unmedicated hypomanic state but says it’s not an excuse. She’s lost a lot of followers due to her video. She was almost at 18k when she originally posted the Tommy video and now she’s at 16.8k. She does mention she will be taking a step back from the fandom for a while and doesn’t know if she’ll be back and if she if it’ll be awhile and just sticking to recap videos. I’m not going to personally say if I believe it’s genuine or not but it’s out there for people to see if they want and make their own decisions. I do know that some of the more vocal BT fans are trying to use her apology videos as a “omg look what the bobs are doing now. Attacking this creator for making a video” and just removing all context surrounding the issue of course.

I will end this update by saying the more stuff we’ve gotten today the quieter they have gotten. Which to me is kinda unnerving but also kinda tracks. It’s hard to keep trying to launch a delusion narrative when you keep essentially getting whacked in the face by all the official channels repeatedly in such a short time period. I also think it’s starting to really sink in for at least some of the people that they can be as mad as they want but it’s not going to change the reality of the situation.

Hope things are calm for you, and personally hoping for some LW or GG insight. I’m dying to know what some of the others experienced from this wild day.

~🅰️

Hi darling ❤️

This was a RIDE. It just keeps going, oh my god lol I don't even know what to say tbh. The insistence on hating on Ryan that keeps continuously backfiring is actually so entertaining, it's like the more they hate on him, the more powerful he gets lately. I will say I did laugh hysterically for about 5 minutes when I saw the picture of Ryan and Jen because I remember the way they were saying Lou was gonna show up in a selfie with her and it was too funny. And the way that they chose not to use a picture with him when all the pics were from the medal ceremony was a choice....... I did look into the jacket, it is an Italian flight jacket but it's a green jacket and green on Buck is never a good sign, so I'm not worried on that front lol. The fact that some of them are just ignoring the video when they were rubbing the kisscam on everyone's face is embarrassing. The tiktoker is just... I don't even know what to say there. But honestly, it must be hard to hold on to this delusion in the current state of affairs, getting mad is not going to change anything.

[furious-rogue-stuff]

Congratulations, you so deserve all the followers and many, many more!!! As you know I am a HUGE fan of Heat and recommend it to all my friends. Anyhoo my ask is ⚖️🤨✨

My wonderful and most prolific cheerleader! I’m SUPER sorry for the ridiculous wait on this, but I finally got around to your wild Marcus Pike/Sex Pollen?! prompt. I really hope I did this sweet boy justice and that all the banter and smut make up for keeping you waiting so long~!

Thanks, as always, to @just-here-for-the-moment for putting up with my ass and beta reading to make sure this wasn’t complete trash and smutty enough.

Disclaimer: Written in 2nd person narrative, you can safely assume our heroine and love/lust interest is a Spanish woman, written by a Latina. Here’s my philosophy on my writing, for further context.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 🔞

Word Count: 17,000

🚨Author chooses not to include detailed warnings, but the following: Mentions of Teresa Lisbon, marriage, con artist behavior, crime, past relationships, unrequited love, sex pollen, deception, undercover work, graphic depictions of unprotected sex, and slight hurt-comfort.

Haze

There was a time when you were simply a skilled vixen – an entrancing, expert wheeler of the power of suggestion who'd been skimming your way through affluent circles from city to city, but never enough to draw attention to yourself. At least unless you wanted to.

Then, it'd all changed with a chance fumble that was spotted by the least likely source.

He'd been the special agent that had ensnared you and brought you into the fold – propositioning you into using your talents to sharpen the skills of the task force he'd taken the lead position in D.C. for. His team admittedly needed the consultation of someone with the experience and sophistication of being entrenched in the art world, albeit from the wrong side of the law. And you fit the bill.

You hadn't had much choice, considering the prospect of prison for your femme fatale lifestyle to date, and the precarious situation you'd been caught in by said special agent. So, you'd agreed to a career as an indentured asset to the bureau, with the tenure of your time working within the task force at his total discretion.

It had been a contentious adjustment.

Part of you was incredulous that you'd been foiled by the likes of Marcus Pike, and part of him was perplexed that rather than be eager to happily oblige the task force – and him, as its leader, you instead were intent to buck all conventions. This included a vexing, seemingly incessant need to push his buttons – buttons he never even knew he had.

Overtime, though, you'd both found a status quo – a begrudging understanding of how you'd each need to operate and let the other maneuver in order for the arrangement to work.

"—Hope you're not having another late night, Savedra. Not with all the work we have to tackle on this case—"

"Ah, I wonder: Was there ever a time in your life that you weren't in your pajamas and nursing your warm milk before Nick at Nite comes on, Pike? That you went out and had fun without fretting over an early bedtime? Don't worry, I'll be in bright and early—"

"That's what you said the last time, though—"

"Extenuating circumstances beyond my control, Pikey boy—"

"A 'couture trunk show' is Manhattan is hardly a good enough excuse to blame as an 'extenuating circumstance'—"

"To someone who wears the same rumpled suits? Oh, I'm sure it isn't. Now c'mon, Pike's Delight, tell me: How hard did the cashier at Kohl's laugh at you when you bought three versions of the same tie on-sale?"

"They did not—! This tie was a gift, actually—"

The pinch between his brows, the twitch of his lips fighting not to pull into a scowl, and the gruff way he countered back were his unmistakable tells that you'd needled him just right.

"You literally wore one that looked exactly like it the other day, and there was the blue version you had on for the inter-agency ops meeting last week—"

"They're completely different colors, though—"

"But they have the same dull polka dot configuration and they're the same exact semi-satin fabric, which makes them different versions of the same tie—"

"Alright, Dandy Lion. Give it a rest, and go before I set a curfew for your comings and goings."

Your smirk had been charming as you turned to lope down the hall towards the elevators, tossing a casual wave over your shoulder.

"Have a nice night, Pike."

The snappy repartee between you two had become notorious within the task force, and many couldn't help be amused – and take bets – on which of the two of you would have the last word, and the best zinger. Pike tended to score the most in the former, while you easily dominated the latter.

Still, though, Marcus found ways to rein you in, and started to take secret satisfaction in exasperating you right back.

"—I do not appreciate you freezing my accounts, Pike—"

"First of all, it's a single account, although I am considering having all your accounts frozen. Even the ones you think we don't know about—"

"That seems punitive and uncalled for—"

"The account in question is a corporate account, Savedra. It is for work-related expenses, not for lavish shopping hauls at Nordstroms—"

"Um, excuse me, that was a work-related expense. You want me to impersonate a wealthy socialite traveling to London for a black-market art auction, remember? I can't seriously be expected to do so without having the latest Fall must-haves—"

"Oh, so three Mooglar dresses and three Loubootan heels are the Fall must-haves, eh?"

Your full lips flattened in that peeved way for a nanosecond – the tell that indicated he'd successfully annoyed you before you placed your hands on your hips and smoothly deadpanned, "It's Mugler and Louboutin, Pike. And yes, they are essential if you want anyone to believe my cover—"

"You can expense one outfit. The costs of the other two will be docked from your stipend for next month—"

"So, it wouldn't be a good time to mention that I also pre-ordered a limited-edition Chanel purse…?"

"…How much?"

"Oh, it's an absolute steal! And, it'll only go up in value—"

"How much, Dandy Lion?"

You knew he meant business whenever he refers to you by your codename.

"Just a little over six grand…"

"That's more than three times your monthly stipend—!"

"…So then you'll let me expense it to the corporate card?"

"...Close the door on your way out, Savedra."

The smug purse of your lips indicated you'd been teasing him, and you confirmed so by chiming over your shoulder as you strolled out, "No worries. I already have a Chanel bag that'll work for the trip."

"Good. I'll make sure to call the Shanell store and let them know to go ahead and cancel that order, then—"

Pausing at the door, you turn to shoot a berating glare at him where he's sat behind his desk, and scoff condescendingly, "Oh my god, you are purposely butchering the label—you know damn well it's Cha-nel, not Sha-nell!"

You see the sly little quirk to the corner of his mouth he coolly veils by dropping his chin low as he shrugs and drawls, "Dully noted, dandelion."

You pursed your lips and grunted a cavalier sound before strutting out, deciding then and there you needed to do some forensic accounting of your own.

According to his records – the ones you pulled up after hacking into the bureau's internal database, Marcus Pike had been an FBI agent from right out of college. Graduating with honors from a Criminal Justice major, he'd been recruited, gotten stellar marks in Quantico, and received several letters of recommendation. He had an impeccable record, and was frankly a poster boy for a government do-gooder.

A few more backdoor breaches and search engine deep dives later, and you were able to paint quite a full picture from the social media collage-like bits of information you were able to access from college buddies, family friends, and federal databases.

Circumventing the encryption of his email provider allowed you an administrator's view of his account, and you were mystified that this man archived so many communications, no matter how inane, dated, or of innocuous consequence they seemed.

At least until you found the consequential stuff.

There was the correspondence with his divorce attorney from over a decade prior, the utility bills for the home he'd once shared with his ex-wife, the frank and disarmingly candid emails between said ex and him – one of which had the doozy of a line: I love you, Marcus, but I don't think I'm in love with you. I'm not really sure I ever was.

You felt guilty reading his response. Not because you were invading his privacy, but because you could feel how sympathetic he was towards basically being told how having married him had been a mistake – that they'd been fools who rushed into it at a young age before they even knew what they wanted in life. His answer, which was brimming with a veiled, resigned sadness to it that tugged at a heartstring – I guess I just got ahead of myself and took you along with me. I'm sorry – was a window into Marcus you didn't expect to get, nor feel deserving of having.

And then seeing the emails between him and an Agent Teresa Lisbon? How they'd gone from platonic forwards of suggested restaurants to check out, to apartment photos sent back and forth between them? Jumping then abruptly to a galling 'Dear John'-style email from her where she apologizes to him and offers to go in person in order to handle the shipping of her belongings back to Dallas, and promising to properly discuss her decision to break things off with him and not take the job he got for her at the D.C. FBI Major Crimes unit after all?

You'd been astounded.

"Did he really ask her to marry him after a couple of months of dating?!" was your flabbergasted rhetorical question to your empty office during the afterhours snoopfest.

Using your powers of suggestion, you'd eventually gotten more of the details from the task force's tech expert who'd come from the Dallas office with Pike, having befriended the congenial guy who tended to get very chatty over caffeinated drink breaks.

"—Totally brutal. Like, one minute he was smitten and cajoling her into picking an apartment, then he was fist-pumping about her saying yes to his impromptu proposal, and boom – she dumps him for Jane. Talk about getting mind-fucked," he prattled on over coffee, none the wiser that you were internally cataloguing everything.

However, this wasn't the usual fact-finding on a mark that you were used to undertaking.

Pike hadn't struck you as a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, and you perplexingly felt complicit in capitalizing on manipulating your way further into the good graces of the bureau thanks to him vouching for you with the powers that be, knowing now how much of a true-blue good guy he was. Even when he was getting his heart torn out and stomped on.

You ignored the thought about the parallels between he and you in that regard.

"—You with us, Savedra?"

Focusing back onto the meeting you're currently in, you curtly nod to Pike and quip, "Yes, I was just thinking about who would be best suited for the undercover side of the operation, since no offense, none of your fellas really fit the bill."

"Oh?" Marcus crosses his arms and leans back into the wall next to the projector screen that's currently displaying the pattern of the art theft ring's hits. "Care to share why you think so?"

Glancing across at the male agents, before arching a brow when you look at Pike, you gesture to the screen and explain, "The museums aren't the pattern; it's what they took that reveals the pattern. The items taken were antiquities – meaning requiring large crates and secure shipping out of country. Antiquity theft is a perfect front for the real heist: Moving narcotics across borders. They get packed in with the stolen piece, and act as payment for the traffickers moving it."

As you explain, you pull out your tablet and take over the screen of the laptop attached to the projector to screenshare several examples of police busts showing drugs packed in with stolen sculptures.

"There is a very elite pool of players with the means and networks to pull this kind of heist off, and based on the size of these antiquities? I think we're dealing with The Jackal."

Everyone exchanges looks of varying degrees of confusion before Marcus furrows his brow and queries, "Who?"

You roll your eyes as you seamlessly pull up the digital dossier that you'd taken the liberty to compile for the meeting. "It's a wonder how this task force is meant to achieve a damn thing, with the lack of intel you guys have involving actual international art theft…" is your aloof musing as you pull up a database cataloguing the thefts of antiquities and ancient artifacts. "So, The Jackal, boys and girls, is the head of an intercontinental ring of thieves operating in the Mediterranean the last five years or so. No one knows his true identity, but many of the buyers who were captured and cooperated with authorities in Egypt and Greece have given details about how they network."

"Ok…and what leads you to believe that no one here is suited to go undercover on this?" Marcus questions, crossed arms tightening as he eyes you intently when you give him a mischievous look.

"So, there's no way to actually infiltrate this ring. Which makes this operation moot. However, if we impersonate the ring to one of the trafficking syndicates, we might be able to find the buyers and retrieve the artifacts. And right now? None of your fellas resemble the description on file for The Jackal—"

"Wait, you want an agent to go undercover as The Jackal?" Marcus cuts in before he braces his hands onto the conference table so he can lean against it after you nod dramatically. "Well then. Care to tell us your plan?"

You do, detailing the honeypot-trap-style plan and how you'd be the facilitator for The Jackal and the targeted traffickers.

"—However, like I said, we don't have anyone who currently fits the bill for The Jackal—"

"And what is the bill?" Marcus inquires before remarking, "You just said so yourself. No one knows what this guy looks like—"

"No, but most do know rumors of what he's supposedly done, and his physical description leaves a lot lacking, but paints a general picture: Tall, broad-shouldered, boxer-like physique, tan skin, dark hair, strong jaw, dark eyes, and a well-kept beard. His demeanor is intense, intimidating, reticent, but quickly prone to violence," you elaborate, pointedly glancing around at every agent at the conference table, silently noting to Pike how none of them fit the description.

"However, I think with some sprucing up and a change of grooming habits, we might have a decent candidate," you remark coolly before you tap on your tablet screen to pull up a current badge photo of an agent in the task force that you think could be transformed to go undercover.

Marcus glances over at his own I.D. photo and watches the gif animation you created that augments his appearance by adding a beard and lengthening his hair slightly.

Some of the other agents have to stifle snickers or check their smirks as you innocently smile at their boss, who is glaring sharply at you.

Needless to say, when it's just you and him in his office after the meeting, you are able to argue your case effectively.

Marcus spends extra time at the gym, and grows out his hair in preparation. He even agrees to allow for your styling of him when the time comes.

A month later, Marcus has grown a beard and let his hair shag out into a more rugged style. You've been covertly taking notice, appreciating how his boring dress shirts now cling to his shoulders and accentuate the muscle of his pectorals and arms. It would still be another month before the seeds you'd planted for the sting operation had taken root, and likely a couple of additional weeks after that to actually execute the operation, so you figured you'd use the time wisely while your guy Pike threw himself into work across the task force's other major cases.

Marcus had gotten to a point with you where he didn't see you just as a rambunctious asset anymore, and with your cooperation and aptitude for the work, he began to categorize you as an integral member of the task force.

After all, you'd ingratiated yourself with the other agents and techs, helped train everyone in how to spot forgeries from the real things, and had volunteered to be the lure on certain cases, as well as his expert when it came to navigating relations with the bigger international agencies. There had been many times now he'd been complimented on the ingenuity of employing you to the cause, and there'd at least been one offer to take you off his hands if he was inclined to part with your expertise and charm.

Marcus took the praise in stride, and summarily declined the offer.

You were smart, resourceful, and masterful when it came to the work. His team was better for it, and he recognized – privately – that he was lucky to have you helping the task force look so skilled in cracking cases.

And the fact you were the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen wasn't bad, either.

Still, he'd learned his lesson on courting while on the job, and you were definitely not someone he could earnestly consider as, well, anything more than an unconventional resource with a riskily long leash he was responsible for.

However, he debates about how sustainable this whole arrangement was, long-term. He'd gotten better at reading you, though, so he decides to bide his time for the right moment to discuss where your ambitions currently sit. After all, just because you were an 'indentured servant' didn't mean you weren't looking ahead to things – to a life after you'd done your time.

He wondered if you might want to become an in-field consultant, permanently. You'd partnered with the agents on his team on a whole variety of cases, and had earned their respect. Hell, they trusted you, and from what he could see, it seemed to be vice versa with you as well. And with every case you participated in, Marcus saw something new that slowly peeled the mystique and chipped away at the impression he had of you.

From witnessing how truly charming you could be while talking to foreign officials, to how genuinely kind and selfless you'd been when empathizing with victims of a museum heist, to the infectious warmth you exuded when the team was on downtime after a particularly grueling case. All these different facets had started to form a better picture of the woman you really were, and Marcus found himself looking forward to learning more.

When he returns from a short trip to Dallas for a deposition after a couple of days and heads up to the task force's floor to catch up on work late in the evening, he walks by your office and finds you pacing around with your tablet, in the middle of strategizing the big operation.

"That's a big artifact you've pulled from the archive," Marcus comments after he's watched you map things out.

You whirl around and snicker at seeing him lope in to survey what you've pinned to the transparent board in your office.

"Go big or go home, Shaggy," you can't help razz, grinning when he gives you a deriding look. "What? It's a good look for you, Pike—"

"Careful, Savedra. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment," he puckishly taunts and slips his hands into his gray slacks pockets when you squint humorously at him.

"Well, that's because it was," you remark simply, turning to retrieve your stylus from the desk and missing the way his features etched with surprise. "I think another couple of weeks of beard growth, and you'll be ready. Oh! And at some point, we have to go get you fitted for a couple of suits—"

Frowning, he crosses his arms and grumbles, "I have plenty of suits—"

"Correction: You have plenty of sad, drab, 'I clearly work for the FBI' suits. Nothing dashing and stylishly-tailored like what The Jackal has been rumored to wear," is your matter-of-fact counter as you sketch out a floorplan for the honeypot's meet room.

He grunts noncommittally and runs his fingers across his moustache as he looks over the map of the warehouse planned for the fake stolen art depot. "Well, it's a good thing I have a fashionista on the books who'll help spruce up my wardrobe, then, wildcat," he drawls in a raspy musing, and you can't help glance his way and admire the broad set of his shoulders under the gray blazer.

"So, how was Dallas?" you find yourself asking as you busy yourself saving the schematic that's on your tablet screen.

He turns halfway to look at you, as if surprised, before shrugging and recovering the aloof look on his features while he turns back to the board. "It was uneventful," is all he replies, but by the way he balances his weight onto one leg and crosses his arms tight, you can tell he's lying, but trying to be cool about it.

He's lying to himself—trying to convince himself it was uneventful.

You hum, and set your tablet and stylus aside on your sideboard before sitting on the edge of your appointed desk. "Well then, Pike's Delight! Please tell me you'll do something eventful? Have a wild weekend planned? Or are you going to spend it organizing your sock drawer—?"

He turns with a snort to snicker, "Give me a little credit. If you keep the sock drawer organized, you don't have to spend time getting it organized," and at your chuckle, he adds, "I'll spend it likely how I did last weekend—"

"Oh, let me guess: Farmer's market, then back to your place for dinner in front of the TV—"

"…I don't always go to the farmer's market to grocery shop, but yeah, dinner and a movie, sure—"

"Bet things were riotous at the produce stand—Oh! And I bet you watched something racy on Lifetime?" you can't help jibe irreverently as you cross your arms and lean into your perched seat more.

"Nope," Marcus smoothly refutes, before admitting, "It was TCM, and nothing racy."

You smile, truly amused. "Food shopping outside, cooking, and a Turner Classic Movie? Sounds like some action-packed shi—"

"Instead of ragging on it, you should try it out for yourself," Marcus finds himself blurting charismatically before he's registered the gravity of such a proposition. Your features betray mild intrigue, as if you're waiting for him to say something else to signal it's a joke. When he begins to muse, "Ah, I only mean—it's a cool spot with great vendors. I'm not much of a splurger on that kind of thing, but every once in a while, I go and get stuff to whip up a nice dinner—"

"Oh? Have you been holding out on me, Pikey boy? Are you a secret foodie?" you chime with a lilting tone, smile brilliant when he scoffs, as if caught. "You are! Well then, now I gotta see this 'nice dinner' and be the judge of your culinary compétence, cowboy. Although, I'm pretty sure I can whip up a way more delicious supper—"

"I'm gonna have to see that for myself, so it's settled, wildcat."

How you ended up making plans to meet up at the farmer's market on a lovely autumn afternoon to ingredient shop and have a cook-off at Pike's place is beyond you, but then again, he had a way of wearing your guard down into lightheartedness, and it wasn't the first time you'd had fun just bantering with him either. So, here you were, with your canvas tote at your shoulder over your nondescript leather carryall purse as you glance around for the agent in the promenade's foot traffic. Thinking about the puckish smirk he had on his full lips when he called you 'wildcat' – the nickname he seemed to prefer when he wanted to disarm you, while 'dandelion' is what he used when he was charmed by you.

"Well, you actually showed."

You turn to see Marcus in a pair of comfy-looking jeans, light-gray Henley shirt, and dark leather jacket with matching boots and belt.

He eyes you with an appraising glance before admitting, "I had to do a double-take to make sure it was you. I think I've only ever seen you in fancy tailored outfits the entire time you've been with us."

"I'm just channeling a cool and relaxed normie at a farmer's market," you tease as you smoothen down your comfy thin-cotton terracotta sweatshirt, feeling at ease in the formfitting black jeggings and cognac-colored boots.

"It suits you," he compliments before his brain has registered the inappropriateness of it.

You can't help smile before you hand him the shopping tote and deride, "That's quite the compliment, I suppose. Now make yourself useful and carry this so I can have my hands free to peruse, hot stuff."

Huffing in amusement, he takes the tote and falls in step with you as you both start strolling through the bustling outdoor farmer's market.

It's an afternoon filled with light conversation, quipping repartee, and lots of shopping thanks to you both agreeing to a friendly cookoff back at Pike's place. Once your shopping tote is full and he's carrying two paper bags filled with items, you both head down to the nearest metro station and ride the line to his stop.

The walk to his apartment is pleasant, even though you're arguing.

"—Why keep it a secret?"

"Because you'll have a smart remark and develop an instant bias—"

"We're cooking in the same space, Pike—"

"So? You just make your dishes without spying over at mine—"

"Ugh, fine. Oh, we haven't discussed what the winner will get—"

"Lifelong bragging rights?" Marcus proposes smugly as he keys open the entry door and holds it open for you.

"That's it?" you snicker while opening the foyer door and holding it open for him.

"What else is there?" he jokes as he leads the way to the elevator.

Once you're both in and he's pressed the button for his floor, you chime, "How about if you win, I'll quit ragging on you for a week, and if I win, you let me out of my servitude—?"

"That's hardly equal in value, dandelion," is his glib counter as the elevator doors slide open.

"Alright, M. Then what do you propose?" you lilt sardonically while he leads the way to his door and keys in.

Marcus grunts a humored sound, thanks to your James Bond codename reference growing on him the more you use it in convivial conversation.

"Winner gets to pick the movie?" he compromises as he opens his door and gestures for you to enter.

You do so, and take in his bachelor abode with so much veiled intrigue that it takes you a moment to think of a retort to his proposal. "Uh, fine. Sure," you finally singsong, as if resigned to it, but really you don't mind it.

After all, you're too busy admiring the art on his walls.

The apartment was cozy. He had a large L-shaped sectional couch and mid-century modern side tables mixed in with functional bookshelves and accent pieces that made the space warm, yet tastefully elevated compared to the general bachelor pad.

It's an open floorplan, so the kitchen is adjacent to the living room with the island separating the spaces, making it easy for Marcus to catch your appraising surveying after he's set the grocery bags down on the counter next to the stove.

"Alright. C'mon, let me have it," he charismatically jibes, gesturing for you to go ahead and voice your critiques of his place.

You chuckle and shake your head irreverently as you lope over to set down your full canvas tote onto the opposite side of the kitchen island from where he's standing.

"I'm impressed, actually," you tell him honestly, smirking when his brows arch up in surprise. "No, really. Being confronted with proof that you do have good taste is quite gratifying—"

"And there it is," he scoffs and blows a raspberry as he sheds his leather jacket and tosses it onto the nearest kitchen table chair's back before hiking up his Henley's sleeves and drawling, "Alright, Barefoot Contessa, let's get this show going. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

Placing your purse on the end table with the lamp and strolling around to go to his sink, you nod towards the record player stand with the organized shelf filled with vinyl albums you spotted next to the entertainment center and remark as you wash your hands, "Impressive collection. What's the last record you had playing?"

He's just finished setting out all his ingredients onto his designated end of the kitchen island when he quirks a taunting brow and drawls, "Nothing you'd be into, I'm sure—"

"Hah, try me. Put it on, and I bet I can guess what it is—"

"If you can't, then you have to tell me your favorite album, and if I don't have it, you have to pull it up on your phone and play it," he challenges with a charming smile as he goes to the record player.

"Deal," you chirp as you take stock of his kitchen before checking in the bottom cabinets for the pots and pans that you'll need.

You get a head start on setting up for your cooking thanks to him fiddling with the record player before you hear the speakers crisply come on as the distinctive intro to the song reverberates through.

At the melodic plucking of guitar strings, you smirk and shout over your shoulder, "'Roundabout' by Yes, off of their album 'Fragile'."

Marcus is impressed, poking his head around from where the wall beam blocks you in the kitchen. "Well, shit. It didn't even get to the chorus—"

"I told you, Pike. I know my stuff," you smugly rub in as you start to chop vegetables on the cutting board you found in the nearest drawer.

"Marcus."

You pause and look back over at him with a curiously arched brow when he lopes in and leans his shoulder against the beam after crossing his arms, casual and relaxed as he stares with warmth in his dark brown eyes at you.

"We're off the clock, so…you can call me Marcus," he elaborates.

"Well then, you do the same," you tell him softly before dipping your chin down to hide your delighted smile as you resume chopping.

He leaves the album to play, and you can see his broad frame near in your peripheral. His baritone is like velvet over steel when he says your name, then rasps, "—We're each doing three courses still?"

Your brain fixates on how Marcus said your first name for the first time. Not the shortened version some of the other agents and techs refer to you by while at happy hour, but your full first name, and he enunciates it the way it's meant to be, which sends an exhilarated, effervescent tickle up your spine.

Heat tingles into the seat of your core, for some odd reason. "Yes. Best of two out of three wins, and gets to pick the movie," is your smooth retort as you cube the rest of the tomato. "Now, quit cheating and go to your corner of the kitchen!"

He chuckles and hops to it, seeming unconcerned with the needing to do any prep for his dishes.

"So, you're into 70's rock?" he queries as he washes his hands in the sink.

"I like all music. But c'mon, that was a classic. Anyone would've guessed right—"

"You'd be surprised," he counters affably as he dries his hands on a dishtowel. "If it isn't from the last decade, most people can't name it—"

"By most people, do you mean 'most women I break out the record collection to' can't name it?" you joke, smirking over your shoulder at him when he turns to look at you coyly. You're tempted to ask, 'Did Agent Lisbon pass your music test?' but decide against it, and instead muse, "Well, lucky for you, I have great taste – in all things."

Marcus glances over at you, and smirks, remarking in a cool hum, "It would seem so."

The cook-off becomes more of a banter session while you both work on your dishes, maneuvering around each other and trying to keep your attention on your individual courses in order not to spoil the surprise of the grand reveals.

"—You were in a band?!"

"Yep. Back in the day—"

"Oh! Let me guess…you played rhythm guitar—"

"Nope! I played bass, and sang vocals. Well, backup vocals, mostly—"

"So you can totally play the bass riff in 'Roundabout', right?"

"Most definitely. Although, don't ask me to sing—"

"I wasn't. I was going to demand that you sing—"

"Quit trying to distract me. I'm doing delicate work here, wildcat—"

"You've literally not started anything on the stove—"

"My dishes are fairly quick, though, so I'm being chivalrous and giving you the advantage…for now," Marcus roguishly quips while seamlessly uncorking a bottle of wine, pouring a serving into a nice glass before handing it to you with easy charm.

You giggle despite yourself before sipping the wine.

Before long, you have enough of your meals in progress that you offer to change the record while Marcus starts marinating and whisking things in the kitchen.

"Oh, you do have my favorite album!" you exclaim convivially, causing Marcus to grin as he seasons his main entrée's protein. "Ok, I'm putting it on, and you better be able to guess—"

"Ah, I will, dandelion. Go on," he lobs humorously over his shoulder as he starts to cook.

The aromatic cornucopia of cooking fills the apartment with so many interwoven scents that it's difficult for either of you to decipher what the other's dishes are, and all his pots and pans have opaque lids, or are in the oven covered with tinfoil.

Marcus is contemplating taking a little peek at one of the simmering pans you have on the back burner when he hears the record start playing.

The instrumental piano bars sound prescient through the speakers, but Marcus knows instantly what album it is.

"That's 'Imagine' by John Lennon, off of the 'Imagine' album," he declares as he gets the griddle hot on the available burner, smiling broadly before asking, "This is really your favorite album?"

"Yes! I love John Lennon—"

"I'm more of a Paul McCartney guy."

And so begins the next round of banter between you.

Soon enough, though, you're both plating your dishes and hiding them on the opposite ends of the kitchen's countertops before Marcus sets the table and brings over the bottle of wine to top off both your glasses.

"—Alright, ladies first," Marcus declares as he sits on one end of the square table.

You are more than happy to go first, believing there's no way he can top any of your three dishes.

"Well, M. First, I present a bruschetta with both heirloom and cherry tomatoes," you place the dish before him, and Marcus marvels at how delicate yet rich all the ingredients look on the toasted crostini-style breads.

"Next, is a black bean and mushroom risotto," is your lilting announcement as you return and place the piping dish down, smiling as he leans forward to catch the curling aroma wafting up from the center of the risotto.

"And finally, herb roasted chicken breast with garlic confit mashed potatoes," is your confident declaration as you place the dish down.

"Wow," is all Marcus can muster as he eyes the gourmet-looking spread you were able to whip up. Begrudgingly impressed, he scrapes his palm along his bearded cheek as he marvels, "This…this is good—"

"You can't say so until you've tried it," you snicker as you sit across from him. "Well? Time to show yours, Mr. Confident."

Marcus's lips quirk at the moniker, and the dark gleam of cocky amusement warms his eyes before he stands from his seat.

"Ok, close your eyes. I'm gonna carry all three out at the same time."

You do as you're asked, smiling goofily at the mental image of him in a ruffled apron effortlessly flouncing around a kitchen with all the dishes balanced in his arms.

"Ta-da!"

You open your eyes, and stare dubiously at the three courses he's placed before you before shooting a snarky stare up at him.

"Oh my god. You literally went the Denny's route?!"

"Hah, Denny's got nothing on any of my dishes! Here is my special vanilla-cinnamon French toast with homemade sausage patties and pure maple syrup. Texas-toast grilled cheese with Monterrey jack and cheddar cheese – with a creamy tomato soup with freshly-picked basil sprinkled on top for dipping. And last, but not least, cheese burgers with lettuce, onion, and tomato, and hand-cut steak fries, with my own mix of salt, pepper and dry-rub buffalo seasoning sprinkled on 'em," Marcus grandly presents and gestures to every dish before giving you a boyish little smile.

Diplomatically, you stand to arrange all the dishes to be within reaching distance for you both before you pat the chair nearest you, indicating he should sit there rather than across from you.

"Ok, cowboy. Let's dig in while it's all still hot!"

You both try each other's dishes, and are blown away by how delicious they are. Then, you eat from your own courses, and trade compliments. Soon enough, the bottle of wine is dry and you're both full – unable to eat another bite. So you help Marcus pack what's left and store it away while continuing to rate which of you won out in the cookoff.

"—How about this: We call it a tie, and we'll surf through the channels until we find a movie we both want to watch?" Marcus proposes as he uncorks the new bottle of wine while you take your boots off and set them aside by the front door.

"No! C'mon, no participation trophy draw," you challenge with a goofy scoff before rounding his couch to meet him halfway to take the offered glass of wine.

"Ok, then you tell me, who medaled in each course?" he derides as he puts the bottle onto the kitchen island and joins you on the sofa with his own topped off glass.

"Hmm, let's see…I think scrumptious breakfast always trumps its challenger, so my bruschetta is out," you rationalize out loud and cross your legs as you lean back into the comfy cushion. At his proud grunt, you quickly caveat, "But! While I really liked your burger, I think my herb roasted chicken was slightly better."

"Alright, so then the tie-breaker is the second course round," he remarks, and at your hum in agreement, he honestly rumbles, "I really liked your risotto."

"And I really liked your grilled cheese and tomato soup. So I think we're stuck with one win each," is your faux huff, but the smirk pulling you lips is impish when he squints dubiously at you. "What? Do you disagree with my assessments?"

"I don't," he drawls, picking up the remote with his free hand before offering it to you. "Start surfin', wildcat."

You do, and end up surprising him by stopping on the TCM channel and looking over at him when the movie description lists Gold Diggers of 1933 as the film that was about to begin.

"This is a good one. Up for watching it—?"

"You like old movies?"

"Well, yes. There are few good ones. I think I've must've seen Casablanca in six different languages at this point," you retort with genuine delight and shrug when he balks at you.

"Really? Casablanca?" he asks, truly charmed when you smile sheepishly for the first time. "No, I'm not teasing. I just don't think I've ever met anyone other than my grandmother who liked that movie too—"

"Well, I moved around a lot, and no matter where you're at in the world, classic cinema will be playing on some channel or at a theater. Watching old movies overseas – when they dub over the English, or at least list the subtitles beneath? It's a great way to learn the language," is your thoughtful rationale as you shift to comfortably sit in a way that you're angled towards him. "They're filled with old-fashion charm, glitz and glamour – even when they're dark and tragic stories...but this one is a silly romp of a musical, if you're into that kind of thing."

He knew your history from the intel reports he'd been given after you'd been detained. Clearing his throat, he set his wine glass aside and got comfortable on his end of the sofa, making the split decision not to broach the topic further.

"I've only seen parts of this one, so I'm good with watching it," is Marcus's easygoing remark, glancing over at you with a smile as he assures, "Go on. Stretch out and take a load off. If you get chilly, help yourself to the throw blanket."

You don't have to be told twice.

Soon enough, you're both engrossed in the film. You sit with your legs tucked underneath you, the blanket over your lap, and your arm folded over the back cushion while Marcus lounges with his sock-clad feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table. Every so often, one of you points out something, or joke around during the short commercial breaks.

"—I find it real telling how you spent so much time raggin' on my low-key evening plans," he chuckles now after he's finished his latest glass of wine. When you feign incomprehension, he rolls his eyes and rumbles, "You're just as big of a relaxed homebody as me—"

You snort, conspiratorially leaning towards him, a bit uninhibited now that the wine is cruising through your bloodstream, and confide in a flirty murmur, "What can I say, Marcus. I just enjoy hassling you."

A flicker of thrill flares in his apex at your words and the beguiling smile you give him. The alcohol's started flushing his cheeks, but the blush that creeps up his neck is definitely not from all the imbibing.

"I kind of picked up on that…eventually," he finds himself replying, lopsided smirk infinitely endearing to you. He was just about to say something else, when the commercial break ended and the movie returned on screen.

Before long, that film ends, and you're both in such a mellow state that you end up watching the next movie that runs right after it.

You talk during the breaks for that film too, and are charmed to learn more about each other.

"—So your mom liked art?"

"Yeah. She loved watercolors. Every so often, she'd take me to the museum when they had a new exhibit. Growing up, she wanted to be a painter…"

He tells you about how he'd grown up of humble means. His father had died when he was still very young, so his grandparents – a retired police deputy and first-grade teacher – helped raise him while his widowed mother held down two jobs. It explained a lot about him – his timelessly endearing charm, the chivalrous way he comported himself, and his love for classic films.

"…My grandmother loved Gone with the Wind the most. My granddad would watch old Jimmy Stewart Westerns pretty exclusively, though," he finishes remarking with a faraway smile on his features.

You can't help smirk as you lilt, "A real Bandolero! fan, then?"

Marcus snickers after draining the last of his wine. "Yep. Although The Man from Laramie was his favorite."

You both enjoy the rest of the movie once it resumes, but at some point, all the food and wine catch up with you both, and the movie on the TV becomes the perfect ambient-inducer for slumber to occur.

You don't know how, but when you eventually wake early the next morning, you find that in your sleep, you'd stretched out length-wise on the couch – and had slept snuggled between Marcus and the back cushions, with your head resting on his shoulder and your arm around his waist, while his was folded around your back.

Besides the sobering shock of it, your senses are flooded with the appealing whiff of his faint cologne, and the intermingled scents of his soap and natural musk. His body against yours felt good, and the alluring urge to nuzzle into his neck has arousal tingling down into your core before you're able to come to your senses and jolt up.

Marcus wakes groggily at the shift of the cushions as you amble up and shimmy away from the spot next to him you'd just vacated. The TV is still on, playing Father of the Bride, and it isn't until you're tossing the throw away from your legs that he snaps fully into awareness.

"Mmph, shit—sorry. I didn't mean to doze off like that," is his gruff mutter, baritone rough from disuse as he yawns and stretches.

You're too busy trying to hide your mortification as you bolt up from the sofa and round it to grab your purse before heading for your boots. "Um, yeah. It's morning, so, I'm just gonna let myself out—"

He sits up and frowns as he scratches at his mussed hair, realizing indeed, it's before dawn.

"Hey, you don't have to rush out. I can give you a ride to your place – I'll make us coffee, and whip up some breakfast before we go," Marcus offers warmly, not realizing you've already got one boot pulled on and are fussing to get the other on.

"No, that's alright. I'll catch a cab," you're telling him as you stand, looping your purse over your shoulder, crossbody, before self-consciously brushing your hands over your hair and finally sparing a glance his way as you remark, "I don't wanna impose any more than I have already—"

Marcus springs up from the couch, internally swearing at the morning wood he's sporting, while already assuring, "C'mon, you're not imposing at all—"

Bemused, he's just turned after covertly adjusting himself in his jeans to see you already at the door.

"See you at work, Pike."

You're out the door before he's even able to articulate a response.

If you were both honest, there had been a not-so-subtle buildup occurring between you.

However, after cookoff-gate, things had swerved into a direction neither of you seemed equipped to maneuver.

Your guard was all the way back up with him. So much so, you weren't even verbally sparring with him at the office anymore.

Marcus handled it the only way he knew how: Focus exclusively on work, and leave no question that his intentions were recalibrated back onto what he assumed you expected. That you wanted nothing but a professional rapport, and to rebuff anything else.

Even after that theory was tested with the club incident soon after the distance between you began – a torrid event that had left him pining for something more, Marcus was left more confused than before when you instead became even more distant.

You were on the precipice of uncertainty for the first time since you'd been ensnared into the task force.

So much so, that you were planning on making the antiquities sting your last.

None of this was because you didn't feel anything for Marcus. Quite the contrary. Your attraction was magnetic, and you hadn't realized how much you'd longed to be safe with someone the way you did when you were with him. It was too dangerous to give into it. That's why you intended to keep your walls up and to suppress all your feelings on the matter in order to concentrate of your impending exit strategy.

But then, things are never that simple.

Marcus is livid when he gets off the elevator and storms at a stalking pace down the corridor several days before the undercover operation is targeted to begin. Everyone takes notice, but the uncharacteristic glower on his rugged features is so intimidating that no one dares check in with him.

He makes it to your office, abruptly enters, and slams the door after himself before stomping to where you're sat behind your desk.

"What the hell possessed you to go around my back and contract an informant without my authorization?!" he shouts forcefully as he looms over you while you stare up at him and frown.

"Nothing. He's been part of the plan since the beginning—"

"Part of the plan that you haven't disclosed to me. And had you told me about the fence you recruited from within the group we're trying to take down, I would've never allowed it!" is Marcus's furious harangue, hands going to his hips to prevent him from gesticulating angrily at you. "You went to the U.S. Attorney and secured an immunity deal with him without my consent—!"

"There was no feasible way to infiltrate this organization without someone on the inside willing to vouch for me, and who can also co-sign that you're The Jackal. He's one of the very few people in the world who has actually seen him and knows his demeanor. And, he's got the motivation to not screw us. He wants out of the life, and knows we're his only chance of making it out alive," you rationalize as you stand and round your desk to point at your transparent board. "See? He's given me key coordinates, and after this morning's intel session with him, I have even more crucial info—"

Marcus grabs your elbow to steer you around to face him and his unwavering scowl. "You are not an agent, Savedra. All you are is a resource – an asset to this team, with no standing to orchestrate these kinds of things behind my back—"

"Listen, Pike. I'm the last person you have to remind of how short my leash is here. I've never forgotten that, least of all that you're the one holding the other end of it. Your task force is a joke, mostly. If you're going to be meek about how you go after these syndicates, then you might as well close shop and go back to Dallas," you snap and shrug your arm out of his hold, staring at him fiercely as you add, "Now, be mad all you want, but if you pull the plug on things now, you're going to derail weeks of work, and set your team back months. I, for one, would like to make all the effort count."

Clenching his jaw, Marcus exhales through his nose and pins you in his dark glare as he grounds out, "Fine. But this is the last time you pull a stunt like this. Understood?"

You nod curtly before turning away to recalibrate your poise as you sigh out.

"Now that we got that out of the way, I set up a session with him so he can detail to you what you need to channel when you're undercover."

Said session does nothing to assuage Marcus, but at least he gets the needed context of what this middle-aged criminal knows, and is briefed on key intel no one has on The Jackal.

The initial meet a few days later with the traffickers goes according to plan.

You convince them of your expertise as a collector of privately-acquired relics, and they buy your explanation of needing the help of a network in order to transport the large, archaic limestone Greek statue of the sphinx you sought to move overseas to a wealthy buyer. The fence, Elio, steers the crew to The Jackal being the appropriate track, and as planned, arranges the fake meet between the traffickers, you, and The Jackal himself.

Marcus didn't need a lot of motivation to channel a reticent, stony man quick to intimidation. His intense demeanor was exactly what everyone in the room expected, thanks to The Jackal's reputation preceding him. However, Elio had divulged one thing that no one outside of this kind of black-market syndicate knew about the head of the Mediterranean art theft ring.

"—Before I give my blessing to this transaction, I'd like to get to know who I'm doing business with."

You'd turned to Marcus and expertly portrayed cautious intrigue. It really wasn't hard, with how dapper he looked in his dark black suit, sans a tie and with a matching open-collared dress shirt underneath the tailored blazer. His hair was swept back, curling in shaggy whisps at his nape and behind his ears. And while his beard wasn't as thick and full as Elio had mentioned The Jackal's being, you thought he looked roguishly handsome, nevertheless.

"And I would be obliged to do whatever necessary to make our business nothing but successful, Sciacallo," you tell him, using the Italian moniker The Jackal favors when doing business.

As planned, Marcus leads you out of the impromptu gathering at the hangout the traffickers use and escorts you to the private quarters upstairs. However, unlike you'd planned up until five minutes before you'd entered the hideout for the meet, you and Marcus weren't dropping your covers once the door to the room closes.

You can't. Not with Elio mentioning that they had installed hidden cameras throughout the hideout, and he couldn't guarantee that the security goons monitoring the feeds wouldn't leave any camera or audio device on in the private quarters.

Marcus had been fuming when you'd faked leaning in to flirt with The Jackal, and whispered about the cameras in the room upstairs. His eyes had hardened and his jaw clenched, but he feigned like he was annoyed by someone talking too loudly close to you both.

So, having not planned this part, you were anxious and exhilarated.

The door clicked shut behind you, and Marcus gave the room a cursory stare before turning to you and murmuring, "See? Much better. We can hear ourselves talk. Perhaps you'll repeat what you said downstairs?"

You feel butterflies in your stomach as you approach him sultrily and caress your hand over the lapel of his suit. "I said, I'm eager to partner with you, handsome," you purr, eyes inviting as you glance up at him through the fringe of your lashes.

"That's what I thought," Marcus husks before trailing his hand up your arm to graze along your shoulder before snaking across your collarbone and up to clasp the slender column of your neck and wrap his thick, dexterous fingers around your throat lightly. He can feel your pulse racing, so he backs you up slowly into the nearest wall before cradling your jaw with a possessive caress of his hand as he rumbles, "I like eager and beautiful women."

Your body reacts, arching into him as you tilt your head back and stare alluringly at him before he leans down and kisses you with voracious zeal.

You dimly wonder if it's truly improvised undercover work when you've wanted Marcus to kiss you like this for weeks – maybe even longer, if you were being honest with yourself.

Marcus is wound tight in his chest with worry, but the way you loop your arms around him and hum into his mouth when he deepens the kiss gives him some relief that maybe this isn't a complete clusterfuck. The thought that they could be watching you both, though, kept him on edge – focused on not getting carried away in how phenomenal having you like this was and instead hyperaware of staying on task.

Mercifully, before things got carried away, a clueless underling walked in on you both, which gave Marcus the perfect opportunity to showcase the infamous fury The Jackal was known for.

He was off of you and slamming the guy up against the doorframe in an instant, yoking him up and contumely cursing him out before the dude could stammer an apology and the girl he had brought up with him ran off to avoid any wrath herself.

Fracas smoothened over by the underling's leader, who profusely apologized to The Jackal, things went back on track as planned, and you were able to leave the hideout with a guarantee that your antiquity could be smuggled overseas and sold to your contact.

The final meeting for the sting operation, however, did not go as planned.

You'd made it all the way up to the handoff at the warehouse when the boss of the trafficking syndicate suddenly tried to change the terms of the deal, by trying to make you reveal the name of your buyer overseas. There you were, surrounded by underlings and enforcers who were packing the crate housing the artifact with the contraband supplied by The Jackal, when you had to smoothly refuse.

The burly man had approached you swiftly, making a veiled threat you'd already composed a rebuttal for when all hell broke loose. You don't even know how it happened, but one second the tactical team rushed in and the guy pulled out a knife while he was lunging to grab your elbow. In a blink, though, you're yanked away and the knife swung wide and slashed at one of the stacked bundles near the crate.

You'd given up on trying to regain your bearings with how your eyes and sinuses were burning, vision watering and stinging as you blindly let Marcus haul you out of the sting's warehouse – having barreled into danger to extract you. The unidentified powder was part of the narcotic contraband to be stored in the crate with the artifact, but the contents of the torn bundle went airborne and caked over you before he was able to whisk you out of the fray and to a safehouse.

Even in the hyper rushed aftermath, his ears were still ringing.

Marcus had yanked you away from being attacked or taken hostage, but not before the powder exploded out like a confetti-cannon over you while shots started ringing out in the warehouse.

The pink haze had the consistency of dry cement as it fluttered down, and even he wasn't spared the hit of it flitting against the side of his face in the chaos.

The fallout was technically his fault, but the main target of the sting had threatened you, so he'd rushed in with backup. The ensuing pandemonium of the raid and the frenzy of pink powder haze and bullets flying had made it a frenzied operation for him.

He'd acted first and thought second, which was not the norm for him. But the threat? It had propelled him to determinedly bust in to extract you, cover being blown be damned. As far as he was concerned, it was unimportant now and of little consequence to him.

Well, now, while he hissed and scrubbed the chemical residue from his face as he locked the door and engaged the security system, he did let his anger swirl up in him all over again.

He hears you coughing in the bathroom, and no matter how exasperating you've been, something fierce coils in his chest at the distressing sound of you dry heaving and gasping to catch your breath.

Tucking his service weapon into the holster underneath his leather jacket, Marcus finds his way down into the narrow hall where the bathroom is, squinting the entire way as he absently wipes at his heated features in attempt to get the strange powder removed.

He knocks on the door before grousing lowly, "Hey, you ok?"

You croak some sort of scoff before running the faucet again and trying to get the cakey residue out from your nostrils so you can breathe without wheezing. Once you've splashed water over your face, you mumble, "I think so."

The door cracks ajar before Marcus pokes his head in to survey you. "What?"

"I said, I think so," you snap, cupping your hands under the faucet and splashing water messily over your flushed features.

"Damn…here, come sit and let me have a look at you," you hear him grumble as his footsteps approach you from behind.

He cups your elbow and firmly tugs you away from the sink to steer you towards the bathtub's ledge, yanking a hand towel from a nearby rack as he sits you down so he can try helping you scrub the remnants of the bubblegum-pink powder off your face.

You sneeze, which causes an itchy sensation in the back of your throat that sends you into another coughing fit, so Marcus hurriedly gets the glass you'd left on the sink vanity and refills it with cool water before placing it in your hands and helping guide it to your lips.

"Small sips. Take it slow," he murmurs in a firm baritone, ignoring his own discomfort to tend to you.

"Mmph," you grunt before taking a breath and shaking your head. "What the hell—what is this stuff?!"

"I'm not sure—"

"What if it's some kind of toxin?!" you exclaim as you try to stare at him without having your eyes water from the menthol-like burn.

"It's not. Remember the narcotic contraband was loaned to us by DEA. There's no way they'd let something toxic be used for a sting—"

"Then why is this stuff making me feel like I just got hit with powdered speed?!" you gripe as you snatch the towel from his grip so you can scrub your face more.

Marcus feels feverish and antsy himself, so he goes to the sink and runs the tap to splash his own features with cool water. "Probably just an irritant from the pink dye—"

"Ugh, I'm covered in this crap," you grouse as you begin to scrub the damp cloth down your neck and decolletage, ignoring how your slinky black dress is hanging in a racy, askew manner at your bustline from the strap drooping off of your shoulder.

Marcus catches himself staring at your cleavage before he hoarsely clears his throat and turns away. "I'll go see if there's anything you can change into," he croaks as he rushes out of the bathroom, heading for the spartan bedroom at the end of the hall and into the armoire across from the bed.

It's then while he's muttering crossly to himself, that he realizes his phone is vibrating in his jacket's pocket. Swearing, he retrieves it and answers, "Pike."

"Jeez, man! I've been calling yah nonstop," the DEA partner, Agent Jarvis, who helped coordinate things with the narcotic contraband for the sting, is barking in his ear. "Where are you?!"

"At a safehouse—"

"I was told your asset got a face-full of one of the powder bricks when shit went south—"

"She did. I caught some too, in the melee of trying to extract her—"

"…Shit. Ok, so, we have a problem," Agent Jarvis warns, before seriously instructing, "Listen to me very carefully, Pike. You and your asset were exposed to Pheral. If you haven't already, you're going to start feeling some effects from it—"

"Whoa, what the hell are you talking about? Pheral? What even is that?"

"So, it's a designer drug out of Amsterdam that's becoming big in the affluent, socialite drug scenes at clubs all around the world. It's a synthetic chemical composite of human pheromones, but it's potent and has the same effects as doing ketamine and acid. However, it's a disinhibitor; it hits the system and can cause coronary distress—"

Marcus is listening in horror while the man instructs him to remove any tainted clothes and rinse the residue off as soon as possible, all as he feels the effects of the drug start to palpitate in his chest. His pulse had been racing and he'd chalked it up to the adrenaline of extracting you from the botched sting, but now he's realizing that it's an elevated sensation pounding in his veins and zinging south, making him feverishly aroused.

"—How do you stop it?! Is there an antidote?"

"Lab hasn't been able to come up with one yet. It's absorbed through mucus membranes, so it hits the bloodstream quick. Get as much fluids in her to clear it out as quick as possible, but mostly, just keep her from hurting herself, Pike. She's going to be jonesing for physical gratification like a hellcat in heat. It's supposed to be the ultimate aphrodisiac—a heightened state of euphoria, but only when done in dab-like doses. If she was doused bad…I don't know. Users get so desperate from the effects when they overdo it that they lose sense of their pain thresholds—"

"I gotta go."

Marcus ends the call quickly before discarding the phone and then pulls the holster with his gun from the back of his waistband to be plopped onto the dresser in order to sprint down the hall to check on you.

He hears you whimpering just before he burst through the bathroom door.

"M-Marcus."

You're in a state of amplified arousal that is bordering on hyperventilating distress. Sweat has broken out along your hairline, and your bare skin is dewy from the overheated racing of your pulse. The ache of desire has you squirming in discomfort, feeling hypersensitive and raw-nerved as you stare wildly up at him from where you're curled into the corner of the floor by the tub.

He rushes to your side to cradle you against him as he hurriedly turns the shower's faucet handle to start spraying cold water into the tub. He says your name firmly before explaining in a hoarse rasp, "—I gotta get this stuff off of you and you're gonna have to drink more water for me."

You sob and grip onto his shoulders, trembling as you whine, "What's happening?!"

"It's the drug," is all he says as he hastily sheds his leather jacket in order to ease his own overheated discomfort, grabbing the glass to fill it to the brim with water before chugging half of it and refilling it in order to kneel down and insistently press it to your lips so you can guzzle as much as you can. When you drink your fill and push the glass away, he blindly sets it down on the back of the commode's tank lid before he rasps, "Now, c'mon, dandelion. I gotta get you under the cold water—"

"Come in with me?" you plead as he lifts you to stand on shaky knees. "You got it all over you too, Marcus," is your watery whisper as you caress his face and swipe at the pink smudge on his cheekbone.

The contact to his skin makes Marcus shudder, and against his control, arousal throbs riotously into his apex and pulses in his loins.

Rock-hard now, he huffs raggedly as he insists, "I gotta take care of you first, so let me get this off of you."

You're feeling like liquid fire is thrumming under your skin and your pulse is at your center, blood pumping from the silken clutch in your pelvis rather than from the organ in your chest. The usual tingle of arousal is instead a rapacious, searing heat at your core – making you quiver and drip with desire while Marcus rushes to gently remove the slinky black cocktail dress off your torso.

Your blush feels like you've been sitting under the Saharan sun, and the brush of Marcus's touch over your ignited body has you shivering and biting back a whimper as he strips you to your black cotton and lace thong before lifting you into the tub and under the cold spray of the showerhead.

The yelp you let out when the water beats down on your bare skin has him scrambling to grab you as you writhe to be in his embrace. "N-No, the water will help—"

"It feels like needles!" you cry and cling to him, quivering as you grip on to him desperately and chatter, "You feel good," before nuzzling his neck and giving yourself over to the urge that's become an incandescent force inside your body.

Your bare breasts press against him, nipples studded and tingling for gratification while your pussy clenches at how good his skin tastes when you suckle a kiss into his neck.

Marcus can't keep a lid on his own baser urges any longer at your distress melting away the more you touch him.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he gravels out and kisses your burning cheek, and at your breathy mewl, he kisses your mouth. The water on your body soaks into his shirt and jeans as you clamber to wrap your legs and arms around him with intoxicated urgency.

When he breaks the kiss to catch his breath, he has to soothe you when you whine for him.

"Can't—I can't just…don't want to lose control—"

You kiss him possessively and slink down his front while simultaneously yanking on his clothes he now desperately tries to peel off of himself.

Feeling his feverish skin press against yours after he shoves his clothes down and rushes to sit on the edge of the tub to kick the remainder off while simultaneously yanking you down – settling you to straddle onto his lap, you moan at having the length of his cock nestle against your damp cloth-covered crotch. You can feel your folds drench with arousal, making you ache to be split by him to the hilt – to be filled by his throbbing erection.

"No antidote—can't lose control. D-Don't want to hurt you," is all he's managed to string together as he gropes you against him and grazes wet, open-mouth kisses along your neck and jaw. Your clit throbs when he grips your waist and starts edging you onto his cock.

"You won't! W-Won't hurt me," you groan and encircle your arms around his shoulders before whining, "Please, please, Marcus—"

He shakes his senses loose of the horny haze to press, "Listen to me, wildcat. We need to wash this shit off. It'll be quick—we'll do it quick, and once it's off I'll do whatever you need—"

"Need you. Want you," you exhale in a frenzied state, staring with blown-out pupils at him as you start to pleasure yourself by rubbing your aching pussy along his cock. The friction of your soaked panties along his velvety, pulsing erection has Marcus buzzing from the electric pleasure sparking across his nerve endings.

"You'll have me, dandelion. C'mon, be a g-good girl for me," he husks and stands, holding you in his arms as you cling to him and whimper.

Once sure you won't bolt, he gets in under the shower spray with you.

The water doesn't feel as horrid against your skin as it had the first time, so you snap out of the hedonistic daze once Marcus has stood under the frigid spray for a few minutes and clumsily scrubbed the pink residue from your shoulders and back for you.

You hurriedly unlatch yourself from him to stand on quaking legs in order to wash the pink powder remnants quickly off your skin and hair, then help Marcus get it off his beard and neck while he lets the water spray directly into his face in hopes to get the maddening sensation to cease.

Now that the water going down the drain is no longer tinged in pink, you and Marcus maneuver so the spray can run down his back while you sway on your feet and try to regain your wits. Instead, you both end up standing in the cold cascade, staring into each other's flushed features.

It feels like a fever dream – seeing his naked body like this, and your pussy clenches around nothing when you caress your palms down his abs and watch his ruddy, pulsing erection twitch at your sensual touch.

He murmurs your name when you lean forward to kiss along his heated skin after nuzzling your face into his pecs, chasing his delectable scent.

You're dialed into this primordial attraction, so you kneel at his feet from how your mouth waters to have his cock stuffed in it – to have the weight of it on your tongue before he fills your pussy with it the way you're convinced he needs to in order to stop this feeling from consuming you like a leaf flung onto a blazing fire.

Marcus shakily cups your jaw as he rasps your name again, and at the skittish unease of his tone, you stare up at him and snake your other hand between your thighs to touch yourself while you mewl for permission to do what you hunger for. The sight of you has him trembling, and his thumb grazes over the corner of your mouth, attempting to tow you back up to him, but then you lick it and make a needy sound that sends a jolt of insatiable arousal to his cock.

"T-This'll make you feel better?" Is his hoarse whisper, cold cascading water raining onto his back completely forgotten.

"Yes, hot stuff. I want you in my mouth—"

He groans, muscles flexing in anticipation. "Wanna give you what you need, baby—"

You gratefully hum and finally put him in your mouth, savoring his salty pre-cum and the velvety smooth thick of him you suck lustfully on.

His hand buries in the back of your wet hair, a raspy moan tumbling from his lips as he grapples to stay balanced with the other planting against the tiled wall.

You're enthralled by his reaction, sucking him off while gripping the base of his cock and pumping him in your fist every time you let his thick cock slip from the warm purse of your mouth so you can catch your breath. All while you rut against the palm heel of your other hand to try and ease the ache of arousal pulsing beseechingly for gratification.

It's when you grind too hard and whimper like it hurts that finally snaps Marcus to focus on you and not the exquisite pleasure that you're giving him.

Your senses sway as Marcus manhandles you off your knees and picks you up to be carried out of the cold shower.

Latching your arms and legs around him with a yelp, you wail, "M-Marcus, wha—?"

"No hurting yourself," he grumbles heatedly as he hurriedly stalks as best as he can, in the state he's in, to the bedroom with you. "M'gonna make you feel good so you don't hurt yourself by accident—"

You hiccup, "Hurt?! What's h-happening to us, Marcus?"

He makes it into the room and puts you on the bed. You're both still drenched from the shower, and he eyes you intensely as he peels your soaked panties off of you whilst trying to soberly explain, "The pink powder? It's a designer drug. The way you're feeling—that we're both f-feeling is because of it. You got dosed with way too much of it—"

You rear up onto your splayed hands and gape at him once he's tossed your drenched thong aside. "C-Can't they give us something to counteract it—?" you begin, but he shakes his head vigorously and sends water droplets to halo about before a shudder makes him wring his hands across his overly-heated features.

He's still rock-hard, and completely naked in front of you now, and the insatiable force in you is suddenly dismissing your panic to instead fixate on him.

"Marcus?"

"Hmmph?"

"Are we going to die?"

"N-No! Jeez—no, of course not," he begins to assure as he drops his hands from his face and rushes to convince you, but ends up avidly staring as you provocatively spread your legs to show him how needy you are for him, keeping your gaze fixed on his blown-out pupils. He watches you sit up and beckon for him to come to you while you shimmy backwards onto the bed.

"Ok then. Take your socks off and get over here, now."

Marcus looks down and realizes that indeed, he still has his socks on. They're sopping wet from the shower, and explain why he had such a difficult time getting traction over the tile and floorboards as he carried you from the bathroom to the bed.

Yanking them off with as much dignity as he can muster, with how worked up and ravenous he is, Marcus tosses them and clambers onto the bed after you. You admire the way his broad, muscularly toned physique looks under the bedroom's track lighting, thrill tangling excitedly in your core at how thick and hard his ramrod cock is as it bobs from his prowling towards you.

Once he's in reach, you loop your arms around his shoulders and pull him down for a rapacious kiss, wanting to have his weight on top of you finally.

His hands are warm and assertive as he pulls you into him while his tongue plunders your mouth, and yours encouragingly grope down to grab his ass when you mewl and roll your hips into his.

He breaks the kiss suddenly, as if compelled to keep his wits about him while he stammers, "W-We don't have to do this. I-I can just—"

You roll your positions so that he's on his back with you straddling him now.

"You said I could have you. I want you, Marcus," you husk silkily as you brace your palms over his broad chest and undulated your hips to grind yourself against his ramrod cock. He groans and grips your thighs, so you lean down to kiss him before you purr against his panting lips, "Now let me have you, handsome."

Marcus feels like you've hit the payload that is his stockpiled arousal he's been trying to keep buried deep in his gut, unleashing a feral desire he's never allowed himself to experience.

You gasp in surprise when he sits up and lifts you by your waist so he can nudge his cock between your soaked folds in order to notch the smooth tip at your dimpled entrance before plunging you onto him to the hilt.

The moan that falls from your lips comes out almost like an overawed wail at how amazing he feels inside you, making you arch into him and cling to his shoulders as he starts fucking up into you with bruising, ruinously precise thrusts that have him stroking nerve-melting pleasure to flare inside you.

"Oh my god!" you cry out when Marcus starts using one hand clutching the small of your back to slam you over and over onto his cock while the other squeezes one breast before pinching your nipple while he suckles the other into his mouth.

He barely registers the sting of your nails pinching into his upper back when you whimper his name after a particularly nippy suckle onto your pebbled flesh, and he doesn't realize how overcome you are with pleasure until you start begging in a frantic tone he's never heard you use.

"Marcus, I—I can't—oh Marcus! Please—"

His hand abandons your breast to instead grip the back your neck and anchor you to him as he nuzzles your cheek and soothingly coos, "Tell me, gorgeous girl."

You feel overwhelmed. The heat of it singed across your face. It has you sobbing against his jaw, "I want more – w-want you to use me. Please, Marcus. I need you—"

There's something primordial that you're both dialed into, and at your words, Marcus just knows what he needs to give you.

Pivoting up on the bed with you, he tosses you onto the mattress before manhandling you onto your hands and knees so he can possessively yank your hips to be positioned just right for him to spear his cock back into your molten pussy from behind.

"Fuck," Marcus grits between clenched jaw at how your walls clamp greedily onto his shaft while you let out a sound akin to a hearty cry of triumph. When he crowds you and starts to pound into you insatiably, he moans at how you rock back to meet his thrusts.

You feel like an animal in heat. Like all there is right now is his cock inside you and his body enveloping around you and his taste and his scent and his sweat and it all has your head spinning in the best way while you interlace your fingers in his and crane your neck out so his face can fit perfectly in the crook as he suckles on your dewy skin.

For Marcus, it's like something was turned on inside him – an undiscovered feeling of belonging and power and accomplishment was cresting free, and the more he reveled in you, the hotter and brighter it was burning in his chest.

It was so liberating that he let his feelings escape the hive-like place in his heart where he kept them trapped away.

"You make me feel things I've never felt before," is growled into your jaw, and you clench around his cock like a silken vise while you moan and arch into him.

"Marcus—"

"M'gonna protect you. Was scared—scared I'd lose you—"

You whimper, "Oh, Marcus—"

"Tell me what you want, wildcat," he gravels in a rough timbre that rakes exhilarated desire through you.

"Fuck me, Marcus. Want you to fuck me until this feeling stops—until I'm yours. M-Make me yours—"

All inhibitions are gone from him now.

Marcus fucks you with abandon, railing you with such ferocity that you're turned into an alight, moaning mess as bliss tears you asunder with a deliriously scorching orgasm that has you bowing down into the bed while Marcus pounds through your fluttering cunt flooding his apex with your climax.

His hands grip your hips as he pivots back onto his haunches and prolongs your ecstasy, eyes glazed with his lust for you and watching you continue to mindlessly rock back to meet his thrusts.

He's throbbing for release, but this heightened state of arousal caused by the drug has an insatiable, prolonging effect – extending his libido's hold-out like a refractory period.

When you dissolve into the bed face-first with an exhausted mewl, Marcus pulls out and marvels at how much slick coats his cock and drips down his apex.

The scent of sex permeates the once sanitized-smelling air that came from the filtered vent system. The room feels humid from how elevated your body temperatures are, blood pressure feeling like it's sky-high as your pulses race. He knows that's dangerous, and in the syrupy miasma of his sex-dazed mind, he remembers the instructions he was given.

You are a blitzed-out heap of tingling nerve endings. So much so, you barely absorb when Marcus rumbles, "Gonna get more water. Be right back, dandelion," as he rolls you onto your back and pets the damp hair sticking to your warm skin away from your face.

"Stay," you mumble and take his hand, kissing the inside of his palm.

He grunts a reassuring sound before kissing your forehead and promising, "I'll be right back."

You vacantly nod and roll on your side with a tired sigh.

Marcus strings together enough control of his fine motor skills to rush out of the bedroom and go for the closest source of water. He enters the bathroom and finds the shower spray still on – having not realized he'd completely forgotten to turn it off. After doing so now, he grabs the discarded glass and refills it in the sink. He guzzles several glass-fills down, feeling more clearheaded the more he rehydrates. His body is running hot, tremors of arousal like muscle spasms in his apex that leave a tingling throb in his loins and have him idly palming and stroking his erection – gauging the muted sensation compared to normal – as he chugs the last of the water before he tops the glass off to take back to you.

When he enters the bedroom, he finds you still on the bed, but you're now restlessly trying to get yourself off – hand between your thighs and panting harshly as you grind against it.

He goes to your side and places the glass down on the night table before wrangling you into his arms.

"No, you'll hurt yourself doing that," he protests while you whine and squirm in his embrace. "I'll take care of you, baby. Just settle down enough to drink some water—"

"I don't want water. I want you," you complain heatedly, slinging your arms around his neck to anchor him down into bed with you.

He picks you up to maneuver you both on the disheveled covers, attempting to appease you before pressing, "I know. I want you too, wildcat. But you need to get fluids—"

"Marcus, you need to keep fucking me until you give me those," is your raunchy counter, smiling when he gapes at you before you start kissing along his cheek and suckle on his earlobe. He groans and ruts up against you, so you purr, "Please, I need you inside me. All of you—"

"Alright, then sit on my cock, naughty girl," he husks bawdily and clasps his hand to the back of your nape to tow you back so he can stare intensely into your dazzling eyes as you squirm in excitement. "You can use me – ride me as hard as you want. But first, you have to drink the water for me."

You look sinfully delicious as you worry your bottom lip between your teeth and arch your brows to obediently nod while already reaching between your bodies to guide his erection to be aligned with your plunging undulation over his lap.

Marcus groans hoarsely and guides you to remain still – flush over where you're both now joined – before hurriedly reaching for the glass and offering it to you.

Compliantly, you drink, and realize how parched you are, so you end up chugging the water until you gasp in relief and uncaringly glide the glass back onto the night table before burying your hand into the back of his damp hair and pull him into a hungry kiss.

Your tongue flicks and twirls against his as you start to fuck yourself onto his cock, mewling heatedly from the effort while Marcus fondles his hands possessively over the globes of your ass before squeezing them when he bucks up into you.

After you reach bliss riding him, shouting his name and staring at him in euphoric satisfaction, Marcus rolls you onto your back so he can dominate you into the bed, spinning you up into delirium all over again as he snaps his hips into a devastating angle that has him colliding dead-center with your nested pleasure clustered deep inside your fluttering sheath.

Time is lost to you both as you couple like animals during mating season.

He can't count how many times he makes you come, nor keep track of all the positions he takes you in, and you're so far flung in the throes of insatiable need that you don't realize until he's just got you off after fucking you with your legs propped up against his shoulders, that he hasn't orgasmed once.

While he slows his barreling thrusts into you once you've melted breathlessly under him, Marcus kisses along the crook of your neck and relishes how you quiver from the aftershocks of your climax. He's just about to shift back and pull out when you clench your floor muscles suddenly around him.

"Oh fuck, mmph," he moans gruffly before maneuvering your legs off of his shoulders and hooking the backs of your knees at his forearms so he can rear back and haul you with him as he says your name warningly and growls, "—You keep doing that and I'm going to lose control."

Your pussy aches, every muscle is sore and protesting, but still the insatiable heat persists, so you stare sultrily at him under heavy lids and coo, "I want you to lose control, you dope. Want you to fuck me until you come, and then keep fucking me until we both can't move or think anymore—"

He swears gruffly, but you feel his cock throb inside you, clearly betraying how enticed he is.

"It's not like I've been holding back. The drug takes the edge off and changes our pleasure and pain thresholds; affects sensation. I don't think I could come even if I tried," Marcus admits lowly as he wrings his hand over his heated features, clearly embarrassed.

"Hey, M."

"Hmm?"

"You're gorgeous when you're all flustered and naked and hard," is your silky murmur, smile cheeky when he pauses swiping the sweat off his brow to stare at you heatedly. Your smile sobers meekly as you admit in a mumble, "And, you're so sexy. Even when you're being maddening and all I want to do is wring your neck and run away…"

Marcus feels that incandescent pressure in the back of his sternum – the one that makes him feel like his ribs ache but feel full at the same time.

Overawed, he sits back on his heels and pulls out of you with a hiss before leaning over you to kiss a worshipful path up from your navel to your jaw. After he presses a kiss to your cheek, he nuzzles your ear before murmuring, "Don't run away. Stay with me, dandelion."

You feel stripped raw and soothed over at the same time by his words, and before you can stop it, your heart wrings in your chest as you confess, "I want to. I've wanted to for a while, b-but I can't help feel this way—"

He props up to gaze wondrously at you. "Feel what way?"

"Ugh!" you groan and cover your eyes with your forearm, too jelly-jointed to do much else to keep your frazzled guard up. "You know, M—"

"No, I don't," he firmly huffs and stretches out onto his side next to you in order to pull your forearm away so you have to look at him.

"…It doesn't matter. This is a mistake – a fluke accident and the weirdo horny mating drug doesn't change that reality—"

"What reality?"

"This!" you shout and weakly gesture between you and him. "Whatever this has become is a mess. I am a fool to feel this way, knowing how reckless you think I've been already and how badly you want to be done with the hassle—"

"…You're serious," Marcus deadpans, derailing your ramble, and when you focus on him, he scoffs and shakes his head, as if astounded, before rumbling in a honeyed baritone, "You don't even know, do you?"

You frown, confused.

Marcus sidles close, dark brown eyes softening as he exhales sardonically before caressing your chin between forefinger and thumb so you can't turn your face as he looks at you purposefully.

"I feel the same way," he tells you, smirking softly before professing, "I love you."

You can feel his body heat and see the unwavering truth in his handsome face, and your flustered mind is processing that this is real while you're carnally supercharged already for him.

"That's the drug talking—"

"No, it's not—"

"Marcus—"

"If you don't feel that way, it's fine—"

"That…that's not it. I'm saying we can't trust what we're feeling right now. We're literally in heat—"

"I fell in love with you before getting hit in the face with pink dust, wildcat—"

"Attraction is not the same as love, Marcus—"

"Oh trust me, I've learned that the hard way plenty already," is his deriding huff as he tucks his chin and smiles self-deprecatingly.

You pout and cup his bearded cheek, caressing it lovingly before mumbling, "You're too good for me. Literally – I don't think I can take how sweet and considerate and…and wonderful you are—"

He says your name huffily before caressing his touch along your side reassuringly, crooning, "—Don't be like that. A sexy little smartass like you can't be contrary all the time."

"Oh yeah? You're seriously not dying to unload me, after everything?" you mutter as you brush your lips along his bearded jaw and card your fingers through his hair. "It isn't just the libido drug making you talk crazy?"

"All the drug is making me do is stay rock-hard and be bold about saying how I feel," he says honestly, and smirks when you hum interestedly before palming his thick erection. When you trace your touch along the underside of the shaft, he husks throatily, "You've clearly grown on me, dandelion. P-Pressed all my buttons, made sport out of challenging me daily, and I hated it all…until I started liking it."

You feel your heart summersault in excitement at that, so you nuzzle his cheek after you carve your hips around his to nestle his throbbing hard-on against your warm, wet pussy, lightly grinding on it as you whisper, "Liking is not the same as lov—"

"Tell me how you feel."

You pause and stare into his eyes. Pressed this close together, you can see how brown his irises are, and how free of judgment they are twinkling soulfully at you.

"I—I care…care more than I ever have, and I feel things that I haven't felt—that I haven't felt in a long time. I just…" you trail off, huffing at yourself before admitting, "The way I feel about you is something I don't know how to manage."

Marcus keeps your hips rocking against him, all the while you flustered to the truth.

"That kind of sounds like the same thing I'm telling you I feel about you, stubborn girl," is his amused rumble. You can't help snort and bashfully curl into him. He doesn't let you hide your face in his neck, though. "C'mon, look at me."

You do, shivering when he cups your jaw and pins you into place with his passionate stare.

"I love you."

"I love you too," you whisper, feeling like you've just jumped off a cliff with no idea what's beyond the precipice.

But the look Marcus gives you – the way his handsome features brighten with delighted surprise, it makes something twinge warm and hopeful in your chest. You kiss him before girlishly scoffing, then stammering, "W-What're we going to do?"

"Right now?" Marcus sits up and caresses his hand down your body to touch where your warmth is flush up against his twitching member. You mewl and melt a little when he teasingly grazes his lips over yours before purring, "Right now, we're gonna keep fucking like rabbits until this damn drug is out of our systems."

You giggle enticingly before timidly snickering, "I'm exhausted, cowboy. I don't think I can manage doing anything but this right now," as you undulate against him for emphasis.

Smirking, Marcus hums, affectionately squeezing your thigh as he croons, "I got an idea."

He assertively rolls you over onto your opposite side and spoons up behind you while possessively fondling your curves. You mewl at the feeling of his warm body up against you from behind while his cock starts rutting against your pulsing womanhood.

Marcus lets you acclimate and simply revel in the feeling of being in his covetous embrace while you rock back against him lustfully. When he starts pressing his throbbing arousal into your pussy from behind, you moan an ecstatic little sound before whimpering, "More, Marcus. Please."

With a deft thrust, he gives you more, and more, as he cups your pussy and grinds his fingertips over the hood of your clit while grazing his teeth down your neck to claim it with a rough kiss at the base.

You reach your arm backwards to sling around his neck so you can keep his mouth on you while you both set a ravenous rhythm, bucking backwards onto him while he fucks forward into you.

The hand that cradles the curve of your waist tightens when you cry his name and desperately loop both your arms backwards to hold onto him as you're lost to the euphoric ecstasy of reaching bliss like this.

Marcus aches when you sob a gratified cry, and he feels pride crackle in his chest when your hands grip the hair at the base of his nape so you have leverage to pivot in his grip in order to kiss him passionately.

His cock pulses inside you when you break the kiss to lick at his bottom lip before you susurrate, "I want you to fill me with your cum, Marcus."

Incredibly turned on by the prospect, Marcus bucks into you with a gruff groan before gravelling tensely, "Now that's the drug talking—"

"No, it isn't," you contradict and look at him with sultry heat blazing in your eyes as you purr, "What's a girl gotta do to get you off, Pikey boy."

You feel him strain enticingly against your fluttering walls at the pet name, which has you shivering in delight just as Marcus growls, "Keep telling me what you want. Please."

That has you divulging things. Some seductive things, like, 'Want you to be all mine, cowboy,' and some salacious, authoritative orders, like, 'Fuck me like you want me, Marcus. I want you. I'll let everyone know you're mine, but only if you make me yours.'

The more you tell him what you want, the more worked up into searing arousal Marcus gets as he buries his moans into the back of your neck whilst he fucks you faster and harder – hands clutching you to him as your pitch gets more alight from your own pleasure cresting incandescently through you.

He's feral with need by the time he's got you on your stomach with your ass up for him to plunder his cock deep into your fluttering cunt. You're blitzed out – lasciviously keyed into the wild throes of carnal elation of being ravished by him. Sweat and slick and the heat of your flesh pressed together is making both your senses flare with rapturous yearning – panting breaths wild as you both are finally at the precipice of savage release together.

At his thrusts picking up frenzied pace that has your warm flesh colliding rhythmically over your hearty sounds of pleasure, you press the button he didn't know he had in him.

"Please, m-make me yours, sweet boy—"

The exhilarating, searing pleasure that snaps loose from Marcus at your airy mewl has him barreling ferociously into you while moaning in guttural, incredulous bliss just as you cry out and orgasm with him.

He buries his cock deep and clings over you as he shudders through the bursts of his climax that fill your rippling sheath while you exhale a rapturous, sated sound and melt under him, toes curled and arms draped around his as they clutch you to him. You feel made whole as the warm bloom of his spend filling you diffuses through you, and Marcus feels like lightning struck him and the electric buzz still scintillates through his sinew.

Reduced to trembling, breathless heaps tangled against each other, you and Marcus lay on the sullied sheets for a while. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, and he can feel your pulse against the hand pressed between the bed and your womb. Neither of you can think beyond the content reassurance that the other is still there, warm and safe.

Feeling returned to yourself a disorienting amount of time later, you shift clumsily under him to squirm around and face him. Marcus heavily rolls off of you and grunts from the effort, but groggily rubs at his forehead to get the matted hair off his skin.

You tiredly rest your hand on his tacky chest, caressing it along his broad pectorals soothingly.

"…You ok?"

"…Yeah…can't move."

"Same…you feel ok?"

Marcus snorts exhaustedly before lulling his head to stare with hooded eyes at you. "M'feelin' like I fucked a marathon. You?"

You snicker girlishly. "I'm feeling like the marathon you fucked."

His laugh is raspy, features dewy and relaxed from sweat and all the over-exertion. Your hand reaches up to trace his bearded jaw, affectionately caressing along it until he hums and closes his eyes contently.

"Do you still feel in heat?"

"It's more of an aroused little tickle now versus the raging inferno of insatiable mania of before," you answer as you continue to caress his handsome features. "You?"

With a cleansing exhale, Marcus rumbles thickly, "About the same. I'm gonna need a few before I can go again, though—"

"Oh my god. I just said I'm not in nymphomaniac-mode anymore, you dope—"

You catch his sly smirk when he cracks an eye open to goadingly peer over at you. "You're cute when you're all worked up, gorgeous—"

With a scoff, you silkily mutter, "You're so lucky I'm too wrecked to slap you around, hot stuff—"

"C'mon, wildcat. Wouldn't you rather just have your way with me instead?"

You laugh, as if intrigued, before sidling up to him and giving him an alluring look, purring, "Is that what you want, sweet boy?"

Marcus feels arousal skitter down into his loins, zinging pulsing want into his cock before he can even try to not react to the titillating pet name that was much of his undoing.

"Yes. That's what I want, wildcat," he husks, too tired to be timid about it.

Appeased, you slink up against him and loop your arm around his midriff. "Good," you lilt around a yawn before murmuring, "That's what I want too, sweet boy. After we conk out for a bit."

His chuckle is like rich honey to your senses, and the warm tingle that tickles down into your womb when he nuzzles a kiss to the top of your mussed hair has you shivering with delight.

"Sounds like a plan, dandelion."

_____________________________

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Taglist:

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[eldritch-spouse]

i followed you a while ago, but only recently actually read some of your stuff and. wow.

i have some reading to do now- the lore, all the characters, there’s so much!! honestly, i think i’ve started looking up to you hahsxh

That's interesting! You know, I see a lot of people follow me, then dip like a day after (probably because they didn't bother to read the warnings on my content and shocked themselves), it's a bit funny. Never really heard of someone who followed without seeing stuff right away.

Thenk you! It's my pleasure to be writing these silly little things, and around mid December I'll probably have a lot more time to finish the stuff I want to. I'm really glad you're having tons of fun here! :7

Nonsense. I'm just a dork doing her best. :]

[Some more unrelated questions under the cut.]

Listen.

Get well soon is not enough, I need to hire a little clown man to show up to your hospital room.

Hang tight anon, he's gonna be soooo funny.

To be honest, I'm always putting my own spin in things and bending fiction as well as reality so that concepts in my narrative can exist more cohesively- This means that I'm breaking the standard mo of many monsters, and it's probably not a good idea to try to make your creations forcibly fit into the rules of my fictional universe. Be free, you know? Because stuff here can get confusing and make you a little unmotivated.

I'm also not going to correct people when they create something that doesn't really fit into a certain setting I've created, because that's just needlessly rude.

I'm kind of waiting for an opportunity to one day make a parasitic monster, mostly because it's something that is closely related to possession, which at this point I've realized is probably a fetish for me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ No point in rushing however, it'll happen when it happens.

Best of luck anon, I hope you make tons of characters and stories you love! 🤍

See ya whenever.

OH HELL NO 💀, NOT THE WEBTOON BAD BOY MANGA ADS HELP-

You reading my blog in class 🤝 me answering asks in class

[talenlee]

3e: The Love Potion

We’re all kind of on the page that ‘love potions’ in stories are probably bad, right?

Those things that you could buy in 3e as a cheap, disposable magical item?

It’s one of those tropes from history that people used pretty freely up until like, even until 2013. Gravity Falls featured an episode about a character using a love potion, and then realising it was a foolish plan and going to undo it, only to find that, y’know, maybe it was an okay idea after all. And that was Gravity Falls, a cartoon I like. Shock! Horror! And that’s a bad trope and all!

Love potions show up in stories all over the place, and that makes them an iconic trope and I feel like they go through a sort of life cycle. In their oldest appearances — as I remember and are filtered through the mind of a boy like me — the love potion is a solution to a problem. Then, as things get a little more protestant, a little more puritanical, love potions tend to be set up in the first part of the story, and then developed and dismissed in the second part. Love potions are a thing you think will solve your problems, then you find they don’t.

There are a lot of reasons they can fail. They can fail because you find out that the person you love-potioned, you don’t actually want them in love with you. They can fail because you find out that the potion doesn’t make them love you the way that you imagined. They can fail just because love potions aren’t real but now you have to consider what it meant that you tried. They can fail because they have to destroy the way the person you were interested in order to work, somehow. And of course sometimes they can fail because you mess up their application like spilling it on a bird or something.

Lots of different ways that ‘the love potion’ is a setup that gets subverted. In fact, so much so that, especially in reset-heavy pulp media like sitcoms and weekly dramas, love potions fit the mould really conveniently. The subversion means that the characters undo the love potion by the end, and that’s that. It’s a tidy little plot loop, and the form it’s poured into handles it just fine. Makes sense.

Why can ya buy ’em?

Look, 3rd edition was a hungry beast. It needed content, content, content and a lot of what it needed never made sense to me. I did not think I needed as many versions of ‘human, but ugly and weird’ as the game books provided me. I never needed the flying mount rules, or the keep rules. They were nice, ostensibly but they weren’t useful, because they weren’t focused on the game played by players and instead on a sort of systemitising the world. This is a reasonable thing for a system to do when it wants to do it, I’m not criticising them for the choice, but that the choice put the way D&D 3E was built at odds with the way I expected to play it.

You’d see this throughout supplements, in Dragon Magazines and soft cover splatbooks; sometimes there was a cool idea that the game could do and that cool idea ran headlong into the system’s design. A gladiatorial campaign? Cool idea, here are maps and opponents. Oh, the system isn’t designed to make one-on-one fights very interesting for the uninvolved parties and dying represents an immense debt? Hm, sounds like the real thing this system needs is loans and banking. Oh wait, but if you’re doing gladiatorial fighs, how do you get loot from enemies? You can’t loot the bodies, that belongs to their stable! There’s got to be a payment system!

And thus we return to the love potion. The love potion was in the Dungeon Master’s Guide (and SRD, even now!) because it’s an obvious trope, the item works in a simple, easily explained way, and it fills some inches in the book that needs so, so many inches filled. The item is built by a formula, it works to a rule and it kind of rests on a leyline of things D&D 3e doesn’t do very well.

First of all, the item gives a save. Well it has to right, because otherwise it’d be overpowered. But saving throws aren’t like, narratively coherent things. They’re there to defend you from attacks, but ostensibly, they’re there to represent how well your body resists things changing it (which was why you can resist healing spells and, in some cases, are called upon to do so, which is, yes, dumb). Don’t worry, though, the DC is really low: Only a DC 14. Which means an ordinary human with nothing heroic going on has about a 30% chance to ignore it and it lasts for 1d3 hours.

Thus we position the elixir of love perfectly badly. It’s a magic item that an adventurer can buy in bulk, that they never would care about, that represents life-deforming mind control, but not for very long and not very well. It promises what a love potion in a story is, but delivers instead a very crap charm spell, which is the closest thing it can approximate to love because the game system wants to try and systemitise love without dealing with how incredibly overpowered love is. There’s no category of ‘minor effect’ or ‘story beat’ for magical items, which need to be built to instead, operate the way adventurers expect adventurers to work.

The Elixir of Love doesn’t actually represent anything particularly heinous. Nothing out of type. It’s a love potion, but because it sucks it’s not that bad, and nobody would use it, except because it sucks, and that it sucks isn’t because of the story needs but because of the way the mechanics of the system handle items. It’s the same wonky stuff that permeates 3e. Systems aren’t immune to this. My favourite system isn’t immune to this kind of thing!

Still pretty funny way to waste a year’s wages for a normal person.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[winterswhite]

Some of my thoughts after rereading the A3! prologue:

Resisting every urge to point out interesting things I'm noticing in A3EN's localization of the prologue with 3.5 more years of Japanese knowledge, this is a reading club, not a translation club

Why is this the only instance of pink text in the game? I think it's really funny how they highlighted important lines in pink here and then proceeded to never do that again

Logistically I know it was only done here as a way of introducing the player to things and it has no real place anywhere else in the story, but it's still funny

Tsuzuru not catching on about the street act is so cute www

I love how you can tell from this very first interaction between Tasuku and Haruto, and then between Haruto and Tsuzuru, that Godza is a kinda messy environment behind the scenes

In retrospect, this was so fucked up of Izumi's mom (I didn't think anything of it back then, but with the knowledge I have now... whew)

hE RECOGNIZES HER

"KYAAAAAAAAA"

BACKHOE

I think it's so interesting that Sakoda was able to get a permit for the backhoe? It's something so small but I think it's fun how we see here that he has the skill needed to safely operate heavy machinery even though he's often seen as someone who isn't good at much of anything, so it really just comes down to his life circumstances more than his actual ability (I mean the kid's just being taught to read at a third grade level, and it's not his fault)

Pictured: The moment it was over for me

This whole scene is such a mess

The way Sakyo implies there have been other plays recently?? If this is Sakuya's first show, how did those work?

Oh Sakuya sounds so awkward it's hard to watch. Shoutout to Sakai for achieving that

Izumi's thoughts as she watches Sakuya perform hit different knowing about her own failures and experiences with theater

This line always, always gets me. Hard work alone doesn't amount to crap in this world. It never did for him. His mother worked so hard and yet they were poor, he worked hard and could never achieve his own goals... hard work never earned him anything. If it did, maybe he could've stood on this stage, too. Maybe Mankai wouldn't have reached this point. Maybe we wouldn't be here.

Honestly, everything here shows how much Sakyo loves Mankai and how hurt he is too

This conversation between Sakyo and Matsukawa is so much, they both care so much about the theater but Matsukawa is so desperately latching onto it while Sakyo has resigned himself to its fate, he's all but given up (just like he has on himself lol <- in pain)

Oh boy Yukio mention (the way he haunts the narrative is so much)

It's funny that Sakyo takes that jab at Matsukawa for wanting to lean on Yukio and count on him to single-handedly save Mankai, considering what he just said about hard work. If Yukio can't be relied on as the "savior" of Mankai (all the actors need to come back and everything needs to be the way it was before) and hard work alone won't do it either... he really has lost hope

Sakyo you fucking tsundere

You're the boss, boss!

Something something Izumi about to lose the last connection she has to her father even if it's not one she ever really had much of a part in before

Oh Izumi you're so bad at this

Sakyo is Not taking this (meanwhile, Matsukawa...) I do appreciate how he still gave her a chance though, however small it was

Honestly I feel bad for Matsukawa here, knowing how he's been trying so desperately just to keep the troupe afloat for eight years even though it clearly hasn't been going well

Obviously there was no way to fit this into the English localization, but I love how Sakuya introduces himself and then tells Izumi how to spell his name in kanji because of the many different ways it can be written (花の咲くの咲也です！)

I also really appreciate Izumi as a character and how real she feels right from the very beginning, from her interest in theater to her hammy acting to her quick thinking skills

Matsukawa you've been at this for years... (also I'm curious about Izumi's old troupe)

I didn't care much for Sakuya when I first read this story, but knowing all that I do about him now, this is all so endearing... he's so sweet in how he's comforting Izumi and checking in on her (and his whole thing about not wanting to lose the troupe hurts)

"Might as well fail like men!" thank you for the encouragement Matsukawa

I honestly think there's so much to be said about Masumi's character right from the beginning, like with him repeatedly asking how his acting was

Tsuzuru the biggest "struggling uni student" mood

Oh Masumi's line about just taking anyone hits so different in Japanese... Maybe I'm just not as good at picking up on certain types of slang and innuendo, but his wording is so much more... questionable in Japanese, that double meaning cannot be ignored.

Oh god I'm thinking about the A3 timeline again. I will once again try to push it back into the furthest depths of my mind because there clearly is no such thing as "time" in this universe and trying to figure it out has given me headaches before.

[emiliasilverova]

Day 2 of Fest... time to unleash one very big post 👀

You've seen the title on the link above, today I bring you an Alec playlist. But me being me, there's a tiny bit more to it than just being a selection of music I love (it absolutely is, though, don't get me wrong). This is a narrative playlist—in other words, each song represents a moment in Alec's life, in chronological order, and based on my interpretation of (and expansions on) the GoldenEye canon. Oh and... although I didn't put that much thought into this aspect of the playlist, it happens to be mostly British songs, some Russian ones and a few others. Pretty fitting, I would say.

See you below the cut for the full story behind each song :D

Pink Floyd, Another Brick in the Wall pt. 1

Our story starts with Alec being a little orphan in 1950s-60s Britain. Therefore, my choice went to a song about a very similar little orphan—Pink, the protagonist of The Wall. Although circumstances are different, the song tells the same story for both kids: they're lonely and deeply resenting of their father's (or parents') absence... which will be the root of all the ills in their lives.

David Bowie, Life on Mars?

There was a joke between @prismatic-bell and I once. Since Bowie and Alec are so similar in terms of appearance, Bowie must have been Alec's first crush (and therefore, bi awakening). Therefore, there has to be some Bowie in here—and this song in particular is perfect to describe Alec growing up, looking at the depressing Cold War world from his young eyes.

David Sylvian, Forbidden Colours

Speaking of bi awakenings, well this is it. At this stage of the story, young Alec has realised ‘[his] love wears forbidden colours’. And just like in the song, he'll ‘[try] to show unquestioning faith in everything’, from public school to the army. Another brick in his wall, as somebody else would sing.

John Barry, Theme from the Persuaders

The only instrumental in this playlist, but perhaps the name of the composer alone tipped you off on why I chose it. By now Alec is a Royal Marine, and he meets a certain Navy commander—a fellow named James Bond, you might have heard of him. So why the Persuaders and not a classic Bond theme? Easy, just watch the opening of said Persuaders. The parallel editing between the lives of Roger Moore's and Tony Curtis's characters... I dream we could have that for Brosnan!Bond and Alec.

Pet Shop Boys, This Must Be the Place I Waited Years to Leave

So Alec is an MI6 agent now (probably under James's influence). The point here is, he actually loves his job—being in the shadows, not having to be around handsome men in uniform all the time anymore... He's found his place, and he can look back on his younger years as a bad time that is finally over (or is it?) Fun fact by the way, this song could have been the Living Daylights' theme song. It didn't go too far into that process, but still I highly recommend this edit of TLD's credits with the song over it.

Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Relax

‘Not having to be around handsome men in uniform all the time anymore’... yeah. Well, there is still is one ridiculously handsome man Alec is around all the time—James. Cue more bi panic, growing jealousy, and, of course, sharing everything absolutely everything. Doesn't help that Relax, an extremely gay song (enough to be banned by the BBC when it came out...), is the hot thing on the radio back in those days...

Tears for Fears, Shout

Alec has just earned his 00 status, and he has many scores to settle with life... so he's going to shout, and life is going to hear him. Case in point, his bullets.

a-ha, The Living Daylights

A continuation of the previous song. This is Alec and James living the high life as 00 agents, full of broken gadgets, expensive food and clothing, private jokes and other code phrases. An excuse for me to shoehorn my favourite Bond song in the playlist? Absolutely. a-ha's synth version of it, too—as much as I love Barry's version (the one used in the movie), I have to say this one is vastly superior.

Public Image Ltd, The Order of Death

Oh no. Alec has been too curious and got his hands on his MI6 file. Now he knows everything. The Lienz Cossacks and their betrayal by the British; his parents' survivor guilt; the fact his name shouldn't be Trevelyan but his parents' Russian name (Trailin, in my headcanon); the fact MI6 knew his origins and still got him to work for them (if it didn't have a say in how he was brought up...) He wanted to know, now he's got his answer. Whether he likes it or not.

Secret Service, Flash in the Night

Alec is depressed. He doesn't really know yet what to make of everything he learned in his MI6 file. He looks at James but he knows he can't tell him anything. James is part of the system that betrayed his parents, then betrayed him in turn. James can't possibly understand how it feels like. Yet again, Alec is alone. The scar once healed forever dissolves in the rain, as the song has it.

Кино, Спокойная ночь (Kino, Spokoynaya noch'—Calm Night)

Not too long later, a still depressed Alec is wandering in Soviet streets during a mission. Moscow or Leningrad, who knows (one day I'll have to choose, because I really want to write a one shot based on this song). Ideas are coming to him, but they aren't really clear. The only sure thing in all this is that he's starting to feel a lot more Russian than British... hence the inclusion of the first (and not last) Soviet rock song in the playlist.

C.C. Catch, ‘Cause You Are Young

Probably the same night, Alec stumbles on an underground nightclub blaring Western songs. After all, it is the mid-1980s, and Gorbachyov's USSR slowly starts to allow such music within its borders (censorship is still there, though, as proved by the blurb on the Soviet edition of Frankie Goes to Hollywood's second album not mentioning a single thing about Relax. Western music, okay, but gay? How about nyet) Anyway, my point: Alec hears this obscure German pop song, and suddenly everything starts to fall into place in his mind. A wake-up call, if you will. What he needs now is to catch his freedom from MI6, whatever the cost.

Depeche Mode, Personal Jesus

Janus is born. Alec's Personal Jesus, the persona that will give him his freedom from—and revenge on—Britain. The inspiration behind this choice of song comes from Brigada, the most famous Russian TV show of all time. Basically, the story of a group of friends in the late 1980s who go on to become a powerful mafia group in the 1990s. In the first episode, the protagonist decides to commit his first crime over Personal Jesus... and commits said crime in an underground nightclub that blares ‘Cause You Are Young. Small world, I know.

Peter Gabriel, We Do What We're Told

Alec is preparing his plans to fake his death and truly become Janus, but in the meantime he has to pretend everything's fine. So he does what he's told... like in his childhood, like in the army. He absolutely hates it, but he knows his patience will pay off.

Propaganda, p:Machinery

One word: Arkhangelsk. The planning phase is over, the day has come for Alec to make his move and disappear from the face of the Earth. Except that, as we all know, not everything goes according to plan... Fun fact, I just learned that this song was greatly influenced by David Sylvian, of Forbidden Colours fame. The world doesn't get any bigger, does it?

Pink Floyd, Hey You

In a Soviet hospital, Alec recovers from his Arkhangelsk wounds... and falls deeper into depression. But with Janus on board, depression takes on a much more threatening face. Alec is despaired, but he also wants to kill. That should distract him from despair.

Nautilus Pompilius, Воздух (Vozdukh—Air)

As the USSR slowly dies, a new organisation comes to be—the Janus Syndicate. It's only the early days, and it probably doesn't really ressemble what we see of it in GoldenEye. But it comes at a time Soviets themselves are growing disenchanted from their world. as everything crumbles down, even law enforcement doesn't see any point in catching criminals anymore (as told by the lyrics). Exactly the kind of fertile ground the Syndicate needs to grow.

The Rolling Stones, Sympathy for the Devil

There's a newcomer in Alec's life—a certain Xenia Onatopp. Is she a cis or trans woman, I'll let you choose. What she definitely is, at least, is someone who wants absolute freedom, even if it means harming others (a cause Alec can relate to). That, and the kind of untamed energy that would greatly benefit from being given a direction. For instance... working for Janus? Unless it is dominating Janus in the bedroom... my Alec is bi for a reason, after all.

Depeche Mode, Never Let Me Down Again

Do you know Scarface, and more specifically the Push It to the Limit segment? Well picture that, but with Alec as Tony Montana, Xenia as Manny Ribera, the freshly renamed St Petersburg instead of sunny Miami... and Depeche Mode instead of Giorgio Moroder's music (with the caveat that Alec clearly didn't get married back in those days, because there's only one person he'd marry: James). These are the heydays of the Russian mafia, when some people who previously knew nothing of capitalism became dizziyingly rich overnight... and fought each other to death for more power. The days of the Gulf War, also—when the Janus Syndicate sold stolen Red Army weapons to Iraq. Pop quiz, do you know what the mafia bosses who survived those turbulent times are called today? Oligarchs. Kinda sheds a new light on Alec, I won't lie.

Tina Turner, GoldenEye

I had to include it. There's no two ways about it, this is the ultimate, canon Alec (Bondalec, even) song. Just look at the lyrics, and tell me this isn't Alec spitting all his jealousy on James. Xenia would be just as menacing, yes, but nowhere near as salty. So where are we in our story for me to include this song? Well, just at the beginning of GoldenEye proper: Xenia has met James in Monte Carlo, and tells Alec as they prepare to steal the Tiger (yes, Xenia's accomplice in that scene is Alec. Fight me). Cue a very sour laugh from Alec, who cannot believe fate has put James on his path again. Not that it really matters to him at this point though—all he's focused on is his upcoming revenge on Britain, and if James has to be a bystander, then so be it.

Midge Ure, The Man Who Sold the World

James wanted to be set up with Janus... well, he's got what he asked for. Janus, in person, at the statue park. Alec, alive and with a murderous intent. Again a song with a connection to Bowie, as you might have noticed... but unsurpringly I prefer the very 1980s, synth-heavy version by Midge Ure. Bowie, hmmmm... a hint towards renewed bi panic on Alec's part? You'll know soon enough.

Nautilus Pompilius, Нежный вампир (Nezhniy vampir—Tender Vampire)

A little interlude before we enter the endgame. The tender vampire here is Janus, of course—dragging Alec's better self into the abyss, being so jealous of James he starts circling around Natalya like a hungry shark. The absolute creep we see in the train scene, in short. For the record, I know this song from Brat, another very famous Russian movie about the 1990s mafia (I'll probably run a watchalong for it later during this Fest, so stay tuned 👀).

Propaganda, The Murder of Love

Train scene, act 2: the Mexican standoff. Alec and James face each other again, but James still doesn't really have the upper hand. So Alec (well, Janus) spits more poison at him, this time a lot more personal and hurtful. And yes, the bi panic is firmly there, as smug as Alec tries to look. He knows he can't kill James, but he also knows he can't let James talk to him. Alec can't be diverted from his revenge on life itself, because that would be acknowledging that all the time and effort he put into that goal was a waste. Therefore, he prefers to gloat at James... in other words, to be the victim who's become the judge, and to make James plead for mercy.

Pet Shop Boys, I’m Not Scared

Well, this particular one originally wasn't in the playlist. But the moment I first heard it, I knew I had to include it. This has to be James's answer to all of Alec's venom in GoldenEye and The Murder of Love. James has always loved Alec, and doesn't understand how Alec could have grown so scorned and spiteful. Are Janus and Alec really the same person? Will he have to kill Alec? If he does, will James ever be able to forgive himself? If only he and Alec could talk heart to heart... as @3nigm4art commented about this song, Alec would cry if he heard James singing it to him. Perhaps he could even be reasoned... So what I envision here is the beach scene, with James looking at the sea asking himself all those questions—and Alec, somewhere in his lair, being unable to take James out of his mind.

Leonard Cohen, First We Take Manhattan

We are now in the Janus control center in Cuba. Xenia is dead by now, but Alec probably hasn't really processed that yet. After all, he has other things on his mind: his scheme coming so close to completion... and James right in front of him, watching and commenting what he sees. Alec likes this, in a way—what better witness to him becoming a literal god than James? He's not jealous anymore at his point, because in his mind, he's won. He's done the impossible: destroying Britain, and beating James. But there's an issue here... being so drunk with his triumph, he forgot that James won't let himself be just a passive bystander. Which surely won't come back to bite him in the arse, will it?

Pet Shop Boys, It's a Sin

As everything explodes around him (literally), Alec loses it. James has stolen the triumph he deserved to get. Therefore, James will die. By Alec's hand. Ensues the fight on the antenna. Alec probably knows he won't survive it, but he doesn't care anymore. All his rage, all his jealousy, all his frustration are what fuels him at this point—with glimpses from his past flashing before his eyes, as the song suggests. He has wasted nine years of his life, and the rest of it in fact. His whole life has been nothing but sin, from his origins and attraction to James to becoming a spy then a mafia leader. So if there's no turning back... at least he'll go out with a bang. And hopefully take James with him.

Кино, Легенда (Kino, Legenda—Legend)

The story ends here. Alec falls to his death after James lets him go, and James has to live with the memory of Alec haunting him. But is it what really happens? If anything, this song is here to be an open ending. It is an elegy, yes, but it could be Alec singing it. Since death is worth living, but love is worth waiting, maybe he survived and has to piece himself back together at James's side. Or maybe it's James who fell. You decide, but at least there's one thing we can all be sure about. Credits might roll, but Alec's legend never ends.

(Thank you so much for reading, and listening ♥️ I put a lot more energy into this post than I thought I would 😅)

[realmadridfamily]

Honestly Madrid players haven't done well in these continental tournaments :(

France was underwhelming, same for Brazil. Germany gave a good game but they're out. At least Arda gave good games and even scored a fantastic goal. Modric is definitely no longer fit for 90 minutes. I feel bad for Valverde after the mess in Copa America.

Only Dani (and Nacho and Joselu sort of) can say they've done okay. Oh and Jude is also there carrying England.

You don't even know how much I miss Real Madrid. Let them go home now!

This is a very good tournament for Dani and it's not shocking that his teammates from the Spanish national team are talking about the Ballon d'Or for him or about being among the candidates … it's a pity that people don't realize what he does for this team and how much fear there was before the match against France because of his absence. Nacho is Nacho. He showed that he is not here by accident. And well… I will keep my fingers crossed for Spain on Sunday, especially for them. Because this is their last chance and they deserve it not only because of their current condition, but also because of their entire career. Anyway, Spain is the best team at Euro in my eyes and they played the best matches. I feel sorry for Fede because individually this tournament was good for him. How this guy develops from year to year and what an example he becomes for others is very impressive. Our future captain! Brazil … Rodrygo hasn't been himself for a few months, so it's not a surprise for me. I'm worried that maybe it's a mental problem. Vinicius tried to do something (which sometimes seemed selfish), but it's difficult when you have three rivals around you and no help from your teammates. He won a penalty or two for Brazil, but the referee, well… maybe I'd better keep quiet, but I want to point out that it could have looked different at the end. I will leave Endrick alone because he is still a young boy with no experience. He still has time. I talked about Militao a few days ago… the fact that he took part in the Copa America at all is admirable. He played quite well, but was unlucky in the penalty shootout. Well, life. England, like France, played below any expectations. Looking at their names, we expected much more. Of course, I didn't expect fireworks from Jude due to his health problems, but he helped his team a lot on the way to the final. Thanks to this, he is still in the fight for the Ballon d'Or or maybe he has taken the lead. Anyway, the match against the Netherlands was England's best match at the Euro. They deserved to play in the final. France… tell me what you want, but Mbappe's performance in this tournament is not just bad luck with his nose, but a summary of the entire difficult season. Physically he was not properly prepared and mentally he was tired. It was visible. Cama played well when he could be on the pitch and Tchou had good and bad moments, although I was worried about him because of the injury from which he had just recovered. Mendy didn't have a chance to perform properly. But France also had their chances to play in the final and then the narrative could have been different. Arda … what can I say? Our diamond. Croatia also had its problems, although Luka made the difference. But… he doesn't have as much strength as before. Toni had a difficult last match, let's face it. He got carried away by emotions, which is new for him, but he himself changed this team with his return. That's the truth.

Well, not everyone can win and someone had to be eliminated. This is football. You either win or you fail. Sometimes it's difficult to transfer your potential from the club team to the national team because you have to adapt to a different style of play, to a different profile of players around you. In the club you play from memory, automatically. And I'm not just talking about our players, because many others also "failed" because the expectations from them were high. Even Cristiano and Messi have been criticized for this over the years.