#or i wonder if it's just a self-preservation instinct

[sysig]

You’re gonna die if you keep that up (Patreon)

[cuteniarose]

Incorrect quotes generator shenanigans featuring the OCs @katkastrofa and I fucking SPEDRAN creating over the past two days, part 3, because I realised I had enough screenshotted to make another full post :)

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

most important detail ive learned from rereading is that hestio's specific skillset is singing sacred hymms and casting curses on enemies

BANGING POTS AND PANS, HESTIO CAN SING !!!!!!

[azullumi]

“there’s so many fishes in the sea but i never learned how to swim” ; aventurine

summary — a guide to pining presented by yours truly, aventurine.

pairing — aventurine (w/ gender-neutral reader)

tags — fluff, secret pining but like aventurine can be too obvious, not proofread, 0.8k ; headcanons

tagging — @toorurs (sorry boo i forgot to tag 😭)

note — i know i could have done better with this one, my brain wasn’t just working and im also on a trip. this is day 6 and 7 of writing for him until i get him !!

Aventurine yearns for connection yet he erects tall walls of self-preservation, fearing vulnerability, attachment, and betrayals (the shadow of his fear of losing someone dear to him all over again will haunt and follow his steps). He’s always distant, seemingly detached to the people around him like a leaf that never touches the ground as the wind carries it away; his only drive for relationships is due to mutual-benefit or a give-and-take situation. So what happens to him when he falls and yearns for someone?

Love is violence, he knows that but his eyes would stumble after your shadow and he wonders what it feels like to live in it. He’ll lie under your gaze and he’ll dream what it feels like to be seen, what it feels like to be loved by you. He will seek ways to be close to you but not close enough that you’ll know the rhythm of his heart spells out the letters of your name. In each moment of longing, it is all tinged with a taste of bitterness as this yearning, though desired, is a precarious precipice—everything will crumble and fall once he speaks about it.

So he settles with stolen looks with wishful thinking that you’ll cast a glance at his direction, he settles with the small things at first before he begins to become selfish—he’ll make up reasons just to see and talk to you, think of excuses just so he could linger a little longer in your presence. He’ll make up games and initiates bets where he knows he’ll always win but would let himself lose anyways; winning or losing didn’t matter to him in those moments with you.

“Go ahead, guess.”

You fell into a deep thought, staring at the two hands balled into fist that are in front of you. Your eyebrows were scrunched, trying to listen to the voice of your instinct but everything was silent inside your head.

“Take your time. After all, whoever loses has to follow what the winner wants.” Aventurine spoke and you could discern the hint of amusement in his tone as he watched you fall into some sort of predicament—all you had to do was to choose which one of his hands was the coin in. It was just one of the simple games you’ll play with him every time you see each other. Come to think of it, his visits to your department have been quite frequent despite having no particular business, official or not.

“Shh. I’m thinking.” You answer, lifting your index finger to your mouth in a hush gesture. It took you a few moments of silence and thoughtful humming before you pointed at his left hand, “That one.”

But he opens his left hand to show nothing on his palm, his right hand revealing the coin at the same time, and you are hit with a wave of disappointment. A chuckle slips past his lips and you just sighed—there was nothing you could do but to admit defeat. “Well then, what do you want me to do?”

Aventurine, without a single second of hesitation, answered. “Let me take you out to dinner.”

The thing is you could have laid yourself bare to him, you could tell him all of the sins that taint your skin, the words left unspoken in your mouth, the growing mold in your lungs. He’ll see the rot and will choose to stay, he’ll see the cobwebs and dusty bookshelves, and he’ll love you still, he’ll see the torn wallpapers and ruined floors and he’ll still adore you (he’ll find you where you are most ruined and he will love you there).

(His hand would gently tug and hold at the cuffs of your sleeves, letting the warmth and closeness of his touch linger in hopes that you’ll see him in the sun that holds you gently.)

Many people claim that they love you but do they adore you the same way as he does? Would they cross bridges for you when he’ll swim oceans just to see the way your eyes catch the light? Would they traverse the stars just to listen to the sound of your laughter? 

(He’ll see the dirt in your hands and will help you wash it off when others would simply walk away.)

He’ll think of you as he laid in his bed, satin sheets all wrinkled and messy as his pillows scattered around his form, and he wondered how nice it would be to have your things among his. to have the smell of your perfume mixed with his, to have you in his arms before he sleeps (he has dreams of his dreams and you’re always in it).

All this yearning, longing, and adoration will turn into a sword that will make him bleed the more he holds on to it and you’ll stay in his thoughts as the blood will run dry on his being. He simply hopes he crosses your mind once in a while so that he won’t feel pathetic for thinking of you all the time.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[penguininahottub]

This is, by no means, original thought. However, after the release of Beatles ‘64, I just want someone to make a Beatles film that is for us. Forget the mainstream and do what Cynthia said had never happened - people getting the emotion right instead of just the facts. The Beatles story isn’t a success story, it isn’t a rags to riches story, it isn’t an even a story about genius, it’s a story that has the power to change the world and one that will be told for ever. We are living in an era where we get to witness a myth being made and so in tribute to the oral tradition, we need to be the myth-makers. Someone needs to tell the story. I hope it will be Paul. I fear it won’t. Perhaps he can’t or shouldn’t, perhaps he won’t be believed. He definitely won’t be if everyone, including him, keeps recycling the same tropes. We know there’s no new stuff to be created, but there is a new light to be shed on what we know is there. This is beginning to sound a bit like the discovery of the Book of Mormon. No one needs another religion, but we do need is for someone to actually attempt to approach this seismic cultural event with an honest and open perspective.

Yoko allowed John to believe he was the genius. John’s canonisation (his manufactured image does him no favours) means that we can forget that Paul was the revered one in the 60s. He was the chosen one - in every way. John clocked it at their very first meeting.

“I half thought to myself, He’s as good as me, I’d been kingpin up to then. Now, I thought, if I take him on, what will happen?”- John

He took a risk, he made his choice and then never again believed in his own ultimate superiority. The story he’d told himself growing up, was that nobody was capable of spotting his genius because they were all below him. Surely a trauma response to being abandoned by his parents. Never could stand to be ignored, forever desperate to be seen and yet incapable of taking off the armour of cruelty. Look at me! Paul was the same, not armour but a wall of charm. Underneath John was soft and Paul is that almost impenetrable wall. They let each other in, and each betrayed the other. Those instincts of self-preservation that John spoke about.

Anyway, he took the chance on Paul, because he wanted to be somebody and Paul and him together made that a real possibility. Also, Paul was fucking hot and clever and talented. He was also a non-conforming weirdo who made everything look effortless and wouldn’t join John’s gang and wouldn’t let him lead. I wonder if this was Paul knowing, from the first moment of seeing John as was then confirmed by subsequent sightings and (I suspect) recces, strategically carried out to observe John (oh that bus worship carries some significance beyond an appreciation for public transport), that he knew how to handle John. Handle and manage John, in order to make him his very own.

(Is it him? Does it matter, because Paul has told us he “noticed” John many times, even before the chocolate bar.)

But, all the Paul adulation, especially John’s own uncontrollable, unconditional veneration, got to be too much. He couldn’t keep his jealousy in check. No quantity of material objects, women, money, food, fame soothed the ache for long enough. He thought Yoko, and because I am sure this is what Yoko promised him, was the only person who would always be in awe of him. She wasn’t, and the really tragic part is that Paul was from the jump, he still is and his faith never waivered.

If only they’d been able to maintain the connection and never lose the ability to read each other’s minds.

They burned too brightly. They loved too hard.

[meanbossart]

I realize this is a weirdly specific question, but what was DU Drow’s experience like first waking up on the Nautiloid/on the beach?

Like, was he wearing Bhaalist stuff when he woke up then? If he was, did he ditch it right away or did he just leave it on until he found gear in better shape or maybe just didn’t want to associate with that symbolism/organization anymore? Like what was the thought process for him there, assuming that were the case??? If he was wearing something else, what might it have been?

I ask because I finally started my first Dark Urge playthrough yesterday (YIPPEE) and am plagued with thoughts about my guy, wondering if maybe he had some Bhaalist gear on when he first fell out of the Nautiloid that slowly was switched out for other things as the story progressed. Then I was like “oh hey what about Drow??? What was going through his head when he woke up that morning on the beach??????” Especially bc I can’t imagine he had much time to look at what he was wearing on the Nautiloid while it was still flying around.

ANYWAYS. Apologies for the ramble, my brain is plagued with thoughts now that I’m finally doing a Durge run so I might come at you with more random ass questions in the future >:)))

First of all AYYYY have fun with your first durge run!!! I'm always open to more questions if they happen to pop up throughout the experience.

Now to your question: An Interesting one! Though my answer might be disappointing LOL

In my personal lore, DU drow woke up from the tank with nothing but some scrappy underwear on - hell, It would probably make more sense if he was fully nude, even, but that would make many of the companion introductions a little too awkward - so, tattered underwear it is.

Considering what Kressa had been doing to him, I imagine that she would have either removed or destroyed his clothes at some point during the experimentation. DU drow was stuck with her for at least a few weeks - so, even if she didn't promptly undress him, his outfit would have been far too slashed, cut, and caked with old blood to keep, and likely torn off so it would stop getting in the way.

Her husband (I think he's the one who ships you away, if memory serves me right) would have had little reason to send him off with dignity - BUT perhaps he slipped some briefs back onto the drow's body because he felt ashamed of the implications of his wife keeping a battered, nude man around.

So, DU drow slides out of his pod, caked with old blood with only some ill-fitting linens covering his groin. He picks up whatever sharp object he finds lying around for self defense and proceeds through the ship, barefoot, hair matted, having no idea who he is, what he looks like, or how he got here. He's completely overtaken by his self-preservation instincts and being confused is second to getting out of his situation alive. He goes along with Lae'zel because she seems to have at least some idea of what's going on, and he frees Shadowheart from her pod because she seems more trustworthy than Lae'zel.

He probably stripped the trousers off of one of the corpses lying around the beach after the actual crash (they would have been a little tight, but it's better than nothing) and god-willing was able to snatch some fresher underwear at the grove or something. The only indicatives he had of a past life were his scars, and I guess his unusual features. The thing is - whenever he first caught sight of his reflection, he very much liked what he saw looking back. Someone else might have been shocked by their appearance, but what DU drow felt would have been more akin to a kind of relief - I'm strong. I'm big. I'm intimidating. Good. As it should be.

And well... There's not much reason to give it thought past that. His looks feel right, he thinks he looks attractive, even his scars are somewhat comforting. Tadpole and odd company aside, it actually feels nice to be himself right now, so why ruin it with questions and concerns.

[kaynothanks]

ROMEO DIED

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader

Summary:  You wouldn’t call Billy Hargrove a friend—but misery sure does love company

Warnings: NO, Billy doesn't die, it's just a title! (18+ mdni), swearing (like a lot), smut, thigh riding, billy being a lil bat shit (personality trait?) crying, angst, smoking, sad shit, domestic violence!, it's dark I ain't gonna lie

Word-Count: 25.9k (I don't know how this keeps happening)

To the vast majority, the very essence of childhood was encapsulated in a singular, formative memory—a bright, indelible mark upon the canvas of their existence. These recollections, oft recounted with a gleam in the eye and warmth in the voice, were predominantly woven from the fabric of joyous days. Days spent in the cherished embrace of dearly loved ones, under the golden sun of endless summers or amidst the cozy dimness of a family room lit only by the flickering images of a movie night. Tales of vacations painted in the vivid hues of adventure, of afternoons spent marveling at the wonders housed within the silent watchfulness of zoo enclosures—these were the stories shared, the common thread binding the tapestry of shared human experience.

Yet, amidst this chorus of reminiscences, not once did a voice falter, not once did the flow of memories stutter into silence—as if each story, each recollection, was a pearl, smoothly rolling off the tongue without a moment's hesitation.

You, however, found yourself adrift in this sea of shared nostalgia. When the spotlight of expectation turned to you, when it was your turn to pluck a gem from the treasury of your past, you found the vault seemingly empty. A heavy silence would envelop you, a thick, tangible thing, punctuated only by the expectant gazes of those around you. In those moments, a flurry of panic would dance behind your eyes, a frantic search through the archives of your memory for something—anything—that could pass as a semblance of the joyous tales so freely offered by others.

And so, you took refuge behind the facade of little white lies, crafting tales of your own. Tales that were never lived but painted with enough detail to pass as truth. You knew, instinctively, that these fabrications were necessary—not for your sake, but for theirs. To preserve the sanctity of their bubble-wrapped worlds, where the possibility of a childhood untainted by the same joys was unthinkable, a harsh discord in the symphony of their understanding.

Thus, you crafted a mask from the clay of necessity, molding an awkward smile upon your lips as you spun a tale from the threads of imagination—a story designed to dance gracefully upon the ears of your audience, a melody in the key of fiction they were all too eager to hear. Beneath this veneer of compliance, however, you waged a silent battle, pressing down the memory that surged forth with the clarity and insistence of an unwanted ghost. It was as if you were condemned to an eternal viewing of a particularly distasteful episode of a show, one that had been replayed in the theater of your mind more times than you cared to count.

In those moments, as the lie unfolded from your tongue like the petals of some strange flower, you were mercifully detached from the raw emotions that had once torn through the small, trembling body of your four-year-old self. You were no longer the child cocooned in the dubious sanctuary of a cabinet, its door cracked just enough to admit a sliver of the world outside—a gap so minimal it might have escaped notice altogether, were it not for the significance of the vantage point it offered.

From this slender aperture, you bore witness to a scene that would forever imprint itself upon the canvas of your memory: the harsh, unforgiving grip of your father's hand as it ensnared your mother's head, the violent arc as he brought it crashing down onto the unforgiving surface of the kitchen table. His voice, a thunderous roar that filled the room and set your very soul to trembling, was a soundtrack to the horror unfolding before your eyes, a cacophony that seemed to fuel your incessant shaking.

The final image that burned itself into your retinas, a haunting tableau, was of your mother's slow, agonizing crawl towards you. A rivulet of red, a stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, traced a path down her forehead, a silent testament to the brutality she had endured. And then, with an act of maternal instinct so profound it bordered on the prescient, she reached out to close the cabinet door, shrouding you in darkness. Somehow, she had known—known that even in this desperate moment, her first instinct was to protect you, to shield you from the ugliness of a reality no child should ever have to witness.

In the immediate aftermath, darkness enveloped you, a shroud of impenetrable black that seemed to swallow every shard of light, leaving you suspended in a void where time itself hesitated. It was a silence so profound, a darkness so complete, that for a fleeting series of seconds, you found space to draw breath—a brief respite in the eye of an ongoing storm.

Then, piercing the stillness, came a watery plea—a voice so drenched in despair it seemed to bleed through the air. This was swiftly followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a step, a harbinger of chaos yet to unfold. What ensued was a cacophony of crashes and screeches, each imbued with such terror that they seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of your bones. Abruptly, it ceased. The ominous drum of your father's steps receded, and the lament of your mother's cries fell silent.

Within the confines of that cabinet, your sanctuary of shadows, you remained hidden. There, amidst the dust and the dark, you had fostered a belief, a child's naive conviction, that no malevolence could ever breach your fortress of solitude.

Time, however, cared little for such beliefs. You had outgrown the cabinet, outgrown the illusion of invulnerability it had once provided. The specters of those bad things, those harbingers of hurt and harrow, had since learned to find you, to ensnare your mind with their inevitable grasp, to sink their cruel claws deep into your psyche, marking you with scars unseen but deeply felt.

This realization pressed upon you with a weight all its own as you stared into the fractured visage reflected in the broken wardrobe mirror. The spiderweb of cracks across the glass seemed to mock, to distort not just your reflection but the very essence of who you had become. With a heavy heart, you diverted your gaze, a tacit acknowledgment that the sight of your own battered being was a reality you were not ready to confront—not now, perhaps not ever. There was no need to etch this image any deeper into your memory, no need to prolong the inevitable reckoning with your reflection, with the visible manifestations of those all-too-invisible wounds.

In that moment of avoidance, of turning away from the broken mirror, you were confronted with a truth as shattering as the glass before you: the realization that some scars run too deep, their roots entwined with the very fibers of your being, a constant reminder of battles fought and yet to be faced.

With a precision born of necessity, you moved—a delicate ballet of careful contortions designed to avoid the sharp bite of pain that lurked, waiting to pounce with each ill-considered twitch. Bending with the grace of a willow swaying in a gentle breeze, you reached beneath the shadowed underbelly of your bed, fingers searching for the familiar, lightweight case of your first aid kit. The ease with which it came into your hands was a small comfort, quickly extinguished by the sinking realization that greeted you upon its opening.

Inside, the remnants of preparedness mocked you: an empty bottle of saline solution stared back, its purpose exhausted, alongside a few band-aids, torn and useless, victims of your past impatience. The other contents, like the tweezers, lay in wait for a need that did not currently exist. You allowed yourself a moment—a brief, piercing inventory of this inadequate arsenal—before pushing the disappointment aside and hoisting yourself back to a stand.

Clad in the remnants of a past encounter, a hooded jacket left behind by a fleeting connection, you approached the window. It was a silent affair, the window yielding to your touch with the stealth of a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within.

The act of escape was nothing short of a physical ordeal. Your limbs, heavy with ache, maneuvered through the small aperture of the trailer window—a testament to both desperation and determination. Once outside, crouched low to avoid unwanted attention, the cool embrace of the night air greeted you. It was a balm, this newfound freedom, a stark contrast to the stifling confines of your room, littered with the debris of broken dreams and shattered expectations. The open air offered a cleanse, a baptism of sorts, from the relentless cycle of cleanup and repair that had become your existence.

Gone were the days of painstakingly removing glass from picture frames before their inevitable destruction; a ritual born from the foresight of their transient nature. The weariness for such tasks clung to you, a cloak woven from threads of frustration and resignation. Yet, here, under the cover of night, with the world stretched wide and open before you, the weight of that cloak seemed, if only for a moment, a little lighter.

As you strode past the silent form of your car, a sigh of irritation escaped your lips, its sound a soft testament to the internal debate you'd just settled. The decision not to awaken the engine into roaring life was not only a tactic to maintain stealth but a silent concession to the fact that walking might just offer the solace and clarity your tangled thoughts so desperately needed. Moreover, it presented an opportunity to prolong your absence from the confines of what was supposed to be home—a place you were increasingly reluctant to return to, especially tonight. He had played his part, an unwelcome performance that assured you of a temporary reprieve from his intrusions, securing you a night free from disturbances, free from his discovery of the emptiness that now characterized your bedroom.

With a sense of resolve, you drew the black hood over your head, plunging your hands into the depths of your pockets as if to anchor yourself to this decision. You embarked on your nocturnal odyssey, leaving the trailer park's dimly lit confines behind. Your path unfolded on the deserted street, feet finding rhythm and balance on the white lines that dissected the asphalt—a tightrope walker in the quiet of the night. A melody, the residue of days spent with the same song on repeat in your car, hummed softly from your lips, a solitary soundtrack to your solitary march.

The gas station, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness, promised to be your oasis—a mere thirty-minute pilgrimage from the trailer park. It was a sanctuary that never closed its doors, a constant in the fluctuating chaos of your life. Behind the counter, the night shift was personified by a young man, his attention more on the beef-flavored Space Raiders he chewed with open abandon than on any potential customer.

With your head bowed, a gesture born of habit more than necessity, you navigated the familiar aisles towards the back. This little corner of the gas station, with its modest array of medical supplies, had become an unlikely ally in times of need. The sound of the entrance bell, a faint chime announcing the arrival or departure of a soul, barely registered as you focused on gathering the items that would serve as tonight's band-aids for both physical and metaphorical wounds.

Items gathered in the crook of your arm, you made your way to the counter, a silent procession of one. The goods—a testament to the night's necessities—were unceremoniously deposited onto the surface, a prelude to the exchange of currency for what passed as care in the small hours of a world that never quite slept.

As the cashier busied himself with the register, a mechanical dance of fingers on keys, you cleared your throat to pierce the silence that had settled between you. "Can I get a pack of Marlboros, too?" The words hung in the air, simple yet laden with an unspoken tension.

He paused, his movements halting as his gaze lifted to scrutinize you. There was a moment, brief yet charged, where his frown deepened, a silent commentary on the obscured view of your face. Nevertheless, his hand moved with practiced ease, reaching behind without hesitation and grasping the familiar green box.

Your response was almost instinctive, an eye roll born of the assumptions wrapped around that particular choice. "Red." The word was clipped, tinged with a mix of amusement and annoyance at the stereotype you were unwillingly cast into. As you handed over the money, pulled from the snug refuge of your jeans' back pocket, his suspicion seemed to spike, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

Money exchanged and items clumsily gathered, you were ready to retreat into the night from whence you came. Yet, a thought anchored you in place, a sudden reminder of a need unaddressed. "Could I have the key for the bathroom?" The question, simple in its asking, seemed to hang precariously in the space between you.

"It’s out," came his reply, short, almost reflexive, a barrier thrown up with the ease of someone who had uttered those words too many times.

Yet, you stood your ground, nodding towards the key that dangled tauntingly over his shoulder, within reach yet seemingly miles away. "It’s right behind you." Your words, firm, carried a weight of certainty, a challenge laid bare.

His response was a study in stillness, a monument to inertia, as if the very act of acknowledging the key's existence was beneath him.

"I need it." The finality in your voice, a blend of resolve and a barely contained plea, echoed in the cramped space of the gas station, a testament to the myriad small battles fought in the dead of night, under the fluorescent glow of a whole other world.

"Toilet's broken," he declared, an excuse worn thin by time and repetition.

Indeed, that very toilet had clung to its broken state for a spell nearing two years—a testament to neglect. "I don’t need to use the toilet. I just need to use the room—” you attempted to clarify, seeking a foothold in a rapidly closing door of opportunity.

"Boss said to not let anyone in," came his rebuttal, a line likely recited from a script of convenience rather than concern.

"Dude—" The word hung in the air, a precursor to the battle you felt brewing within. You inhaled deeply, a silent prayer for patience, your teeth clenching in an invisible grip. "Never mind. Have a terrific night," the words coated in a veneer of nicety that you mustered with all your might, your smile, though sarcastic, was an attempt to bridge the chasm of your frustration, hoping its curve was visible beneath the shadow of your hood. "Dickhead," the insult slipped from your lips in a whisper, a secret shared only with the night as you stepped through the door into the embrace of the outside world.

Tired and tinged with annoyance, your gaze swept the vicinity, seeking a haven for the simplest of human needs—to get cleaned up. Then, like a beacon in the night, your eyes settled on a car stationed at the farthest gas pump. It stood solitary, a silent sentinel in the fluorescent glow. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, a spy's caution, to ensure the car's owner wasn't lurking nearby. The coast appeared clear, save for the presence of the obstinate cashier, now dubbed the idiot in your evening's narrative.

By the dim glow of the gas station's overhead lights, you found a temporary sanctuary beside the car, a silent accomplice to your solitary ritual. With deliberate motions, you placed your newly acquired treasures upon the cold, unforgiving ground and crouched, your body tensing as you prepared to confront the reflection you had been avoiding. The side-view mirror, initially angled to capture the expanse of the road behind, was now coaxed into a new purpose. With a hesitant push, you angled it to reveal your own visage, a canvas marred by the recent past.

The act of lowering your hood felt akin to peeling away a layer of armor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. What greeted you in the reflective glass was a mosaic of bluing bruises and angry red slashes—a testament to a tale you wished remained untold. A grimace twisted your features at the sight, your heart sinking. The reflection bore evidence of a fierce struggle, a physical manifestation of pain that made the concept of beauty a distant, unattainable dream.

With a sigh, you sought solace in the ritualistic lighting of a cigarette, a small act of defiance against the night's events. The pack crinkled as you extracted one, placing it between your lips with a sense of purpose. Yet, as you patted down your pockets in search of a flame, a sinking realization dawned upon you—your lighter was missing, presumably lost amidst the chaos that now defined your living space. Disappointment seeped into your bones, mixing with the lingering adrenaline and fatigue that clung to your skin.

Undeterred, you turned your attention back to the task at hand. The cigarette, forgotten for the moment, dangled unlit as you began to tend to your wounds with the care of a seasoned medic. Each touch to your skin with a damp tissue was a whisper of comfort, a gentle caress amidst the harsh reality of your existence. The application of Neosporin was a balm not just for the physical scars, but a fleeting attempt to soothe the deeper, unseen injuries that lay beneath

As you were about to seal the wounds with plasters, a testament to your resilience and a badge of your suffering, the tranquility of the moment was shattered. A voice, unexpected and jarring, cut through the silence, startling you from your reverie. The sudden intrusion felt like an invasion, a breach of the fragile peace you had managed to carve out for yourself in the shadows of the night.

"Antiseptic works better."

Through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of the silhouette that dared intrude upon your moment of vulnerability. The cigarette perched precariously between your lips bobbed as you spoke, your voice tinged with the weariness of one too acquainted with pain. "You’re wrong," you countered through the cigarette hanging from your lips after grabbing a second plaster and ripping its package. "In fact," you continued, pressing the adhesive over another wound, "there’s a chance it may damage the skin." Your expertise on the subject was born from necessity, not choice—a testament to the scars you bore, both seen and unseen. As you finished tending to your injuries, gathering your things with a finality that marked the end of the unwanted interaction, you turned to face the source of the unsolicited commentary.

The dim light revealed his identity—the new guy, an unwelcome disturbance in your carefully maintained distance from the world. You shot him a look that spoke volumes, laden with the exhaustion of a soul yearning for nothing more than the sanctuary of a warm bed, before you attempted to leave his presence behind. His voice, however, laced with an unmistakable amusement, halted you once more. "Hey," he called out, a grin audible in his tone. "I know you."

The assertion sparked a flicker of irritation within you, a flare in the dimness of your resolve. "You don’t," you corrected sharply and turned halfway, vexed by your exhaustion and the want for a warm bed. "You might have seen me around, but you don’t know me."

"Christ," he swore, wearing a shit-eating grin that made you want to pull out his infuriatingly long eyelashes one by one. "What pissed in your—"

"Bye," you interjected, rolling your eyes as you turned your back on him, the roll of your eye a silent rebuke to his unfinished query.

"You need a lighter for that, sweetheart?"

Your feet anchored themselves on the spot, your shoulders slouching just the littlest bit; you really, really did need one. Aversion in your bones, you slowly turned back to him. Keeping your distance, you placed yourself across from where he was leaning against his car.

The smirk playing on his lips stretched into a full-blown grin, a silent prelude to the audacity that followed. In one fluid, almost theatrical motion, he reached out, plucking the cigarette from your lips and putting it between his with an ease that spoke of practiced finesse. The silver lighter appeared in his hands as if by magic, its flame dancing to life with a flick that carried the flair of showmanship. The lit cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke exhaling in a deliberate stream toward you, enveloping you in a cloud of provocation as he gauged your reaction, almost baiting an outburst.

Yet, instead of the explosion he anticipated, you simply reclaimed the cigarette from his grasp, a silent acceptance of his unsolicited gesture. "Thanks,” you uttered, the words hanging in the air as you resumed walking, leaving the moment behind.

His voice followed, a casual offer laced with an undefined undercurrent. "You want a ride?"

Your steps faltered, a frown creasing your forehead as his words registered. "That is one hell of a random question to ask a stranger. As a stranger,” you retorted, the skepticism in your voice as palpable as the cool night air that enveloped you both.

"You want one or not?" His reply was curt, edged with impatience, a stark contrast to the mysterious offer he had just extended.

"Why would you offer?" Curiosity laced your tone, mixed with a hint of caution. Billy Hargrove’s reputation had preceded him, painting a picture of a Californian rebel whose actions were as unpredictable as the ocean’s waves, and certainly, acts of chivalry seemed as foreign to him as a language unspoken.

"Forget it." His dismissive gesture, a psuh from the car before he swung the door open, spoke volumes of his irritation. Yet, as he made to seal himself within the metal cocoon of his vehicle, your voice pierced the night, a decision made.

"I do want one."

The car door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the car's engine coming to life, a growl in the quiet. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours through the glass. A roll of his eyes served as his acquiescence to your unspoken plea for a ride. The door cracked open, an invitation as gruff as his tone. "Are you getting your ass in the car or do you need a written invite?"

His words, brusque yet oddly inviting, spurred you into action. The interior of the car enveloped you, the scent of leather and the undercurrent of his cologne mingling in the confined space. No sooner had you fastened the seatbelt than the car lurched forward, tires screeching in protest as Billy Hargrove accelerated into the night, propelling both of you toward the unknown that lay in the direction you had originally been heading.

"I live at—" you began, the words barely taking form before they were cut short.

"I know." His interruption was swift, a statement so sure and unfazed.

Confusion momentarily clouded your thoughts, mingling with a spark of irritation. How the fuck could he possibly know? The question danced at the tip of your tongue, but before it could leap into the open air between you, realization dawned. The company he kept at school, the circles he moved in—those were all the answers you needed. Billy Hargrove, with his effortless charisma and an air of danger that clung to him like a second skin, naturally gravitated towards and was embraced by those you had learned to keep at arm's length. Those very individuals, Carol Perkins, Vicki Carmichael, and Tommy Hagan, had painted your world in stark, unflattering colors, branding you 'trailer trash' with their sneers and jeers for a decade.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, thinking of them, their cruelty a constant shadow over your school days. If only they knew the disdain you harbored, so potent and vivid. You wished, not for the first time, that their arrogance and aspirations could be forcibly fed back to them, a grotesque cycle that would see their malice choking them, expelled from their mouths like a vile confession of their true natures.

You adjusted the window, allowing just a sliver of the night air to slip through, and extended your arm, the cigarette perched between your fingers, embers dancing with each inhale.

"What happened to your face?" Billy's voice, laced with a curiosity that didn't match his usual demeanor, cut through the hum of the road beneath the car's tires.

"Fell from heaven, of course," you retorted, the words tinged with sarcasm as your eyes rolled, a silent protest against his prying. His persistence was like a thorn—unwanted and sharp. "Nosy much?"

"Catfight?" His guess was off mark, yet it pricked your patience.

You exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation coloring your tone. "Ran into a tree," the lie smooth on your tongue, as you took another drag, the cigarette's glow a brief flare in the darkness.

He scoffed, disbelief etched in the sound. "And the tree beat you up for that?"

Your agreement came out as a hum, a playful note in the solemn night. "Had a mean right hook, too. Damn birch trees," you quipped, allowing a brief smile to dance on your lips at the absurdity of it all, blowing the smoke out into the night, watching as it dissipated into the cool air.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to swell with each passing second. It was an odd sort of discomfort, more unsettling than the exchange of words had been, wrapping around you like a thick fog. You found yourself almost wishing for his voice again, to break through the quiet that now felt louder than any spoken word. Yet, as the car sped on, devouring the road with eager haste, the lights of the trailer park approached, promising an end to the journey and the silence that had settled between you.

Suddenly, he extended his hand towards you, an unspoken request hanging in the air. You found yourself momentarily puzzled, your gaze fixed on his fingers before realization dawned. After taking a final, lingering drag from the cigarette, you passed the diminishing ember to him. With an effortless flick, he sent it soaring out of the window, watching as it disappeared into the night after taking it down to its last breath.

"Since when are girls like you smokers of the good stuff?" His voice was casual, yet loaded with an unspoken judgment that hung heavily between you.

The implication behind his words, ‘girls like you’ didn't necessitate an explanation. You understood perfectly—the label wasn't about you personally. It was a placeholder, a stereotype applied broadly to any girl who found herself in his car, a commentary not so much on the individual but on the perceived collective. The notion that somehow, despite the vast differences among individuals, there was a uniformity assumed among all those deemed ‘other’ by those who never bothered to look beyond the surface. It was a tired, worn-out perspective, suggesting that understanding, respect, and equality were territories too foreign for those entrenched in their own narratives.

"I'm not a smoker," you retorted, your voice steady, pushing back against the label he tried to affix to you.

He turned to you, an eyebrow arching in skepticism. "Sweetheart, I think the tree might have hit you in the head." His words, meant to tease, danced in the space between you,

"Special occasions only," you finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between you, thick with unvoiced judgments and assumptions. Your voice carried a defiant edge, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability you felt. "Also, fuck you."

Billy's response was a chuckle, the sound low and somewhat amused, as if your resilience added an unexpected flavor to the night's events. "What's the occasion?" he inquired, his tone lighter, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You found yourself hesitating, caught on the precipice of disclosure and reticence. The likelihood of crossing paths with him again felt as remote as the stars dotting the night sky above, their light distant and indifferent. You weighed the ephemeral nature of this encounter against the catharsis of sharing, even if just a sliver, of your reality. "Having choices," you said at last, the words feeling like both a confession and a declaration.

"What choices?" His question followed, simple yet laden with the weight of stories untold.

You offered no reply, merely a shrug, a gesture cloaked in layers of meaning. Your silence was your fortress, safeguarding the complexities of a life marked by pain and defiance. Within you, a habit had taken root, a ritual born from the ashes of violence at the hands of your father. Smoking had become your rebellion, your assertion of control in a life that often felt governed by the whims of a man whose presence was as oppressive as it was destructive. To smoke was to choose the manner of your harm, to claim agency over your own demise, however slow and insidious it might be. It was a twisted form of empowerment, preferring the slow burn of tobacco to the acute brutality of paternal hands. Crushing the extinguished remnants of your defiance under your boots served as a tangible metaphor, a declaration that the man who should have been your protector held no more power over you than the spent cigarettes you ground into oblivion.

Entering Billy's car that night, accepting the ride from someone enveloped in rumors and mystery, was a choice emblematic of your current state of being. Bruised, both physically and spiritually, by the very person who should have been your haven, you found yourself gravitating towards choices that flirted with danger. In the shadow of your father's tyranny, even the potential threat of an unknown like Billy felt like a liberation, a dare to the universe that tonight, of all nights, you were the master of your fate, no matter how recklessly that fate was courted.

Merely blocks away from the shadowed outlines of the trailer park, you felt the tension knot tighter in your gut, prompting you to instruct Billy with an urgency that surprised even yourself. "Stop the car here." It was a calculated measure, a bid to remain unseen should your father's usual stupor be interrupted by a rare moment of vigilance. You couldn't risk him spotting you from the confines of an existence you both shared yet endured on vastly different terms.

"Why?" Billy's inquiry sliced through the hum of the engine, a roaring beast that seemed all too eager to encroach upon the sanctuary you so desperately sought to protect.

"'Cause I said so!" The words burst from you, a mix of fear and insistence, as panic clawed at your chest with icy fingers when he veered dangerously close to the trailer park's entrance. "Stop the damn car!" The command was punctuated by the violent squeal of tires as they ground against the asphalt, the sudden deceleration forcing the seat belt to bite cruelly into your already tender flesh. "Thanks for the ride," you managed to huff out, a terse farewell as you swung the door open and exited with a haste born of desperation, the door slamming shut with a resounding finality. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control over the rapidly fraying edges of your composure.

You had barely taken a few steps when a compulsion, inexplicable and unnerving, urged you to cast a glance over your shoulder. There he was, Billy, his gaze already locked onto your retreating form. Even through the cloak of night, his silhouette was unmistakable, and the distance did little to obscure the wink he sent your way—a gesture that felt both mocking and oddly comforting in its audacity.

With a swift turn of your head, you dismissed the fleeting connection, quickening your pace as if to outstrip the myriad emotions that encounter had stirred within you. The night air, cool and indifferent, seemed to whisper secrets as you disappeared into the labyrinth of shadows that promised both sanctuary and imprisonment.

In the sanctuary of shadow and silence, you made your way to the trailer that bore the dubious honor of being called home. The silver metal shell, tarnished by time and wear, loomed before you, a testament to a life far removed from the dreams you once harbored. With each cautious step, you moved with the stealth of a creature well-versed in the art of invisibility, ensuring that your presence remained undetected by Billy's lingering gaze.

Approaching the window to your room, the cool night air kissed your cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth that awaited inside. Your hands, acting on the instinct honed by countless nights of return, deftly managed the small but significant task before you. The purchases, a meager collection of necessities and small comforts, found their way through the open window with a soft thud against the carpeted interior, a silent testament to your return.

With the grace of a practiced climber, you hoisted yourself up and through the window, your body moving with an economy of motion born from necessity. The interior of the trailer welcomed you back into its cramped but familiar embrace, the air tinged with the scent of a life lived on the margins.

That night, as the world outside continued its indifferent spin, you took a moment to secure the only sanctuary you knew. The lock on your door clicked into place with a finality that spoke of a desire for solitude, or perhaps, a prayer for safety. In the dim light of your room, surrounded by the humble trappings of your existence, you prepared to surrender to sleep.

The act of locking your door was more than a mere precaution; it was a ritual, a whispered plea to the universe for just one night of peace. As the shadows deepened and the trailer park settled into the quiet hum of the night, you lay down, your thoughts a tangled web of hopes, fears, and the stubborn resilience that had carried you this far. In the stillness that followed, sleep arrived, a reluctant visitor, to claim you in its embrace, offering a temporary reprieve from the trials of a world that waited just beyond the thin walls of your silver metal haven.

…

Dawn's first light crept through the cracks of the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred from the uneasy dreams that had plagued your sleep, finding the morning's silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of last night. With a deep breath, you summoned the strength to face another day, one that began with the painstaking task of camouflage.

Seated before a mirror streaked with age, you embarked on the delicate art of concealing the evidence of yesterday's storm. Each brushstroke was a silent battle, each dab of powder a feeble attempt to erase the marks that pain had etched upon your skin. The bruises, a palette of purples and blues, refused to be hidden completely, protesting under the layers of makeup you applied with a desperation born of necessity.

As you dressed, a sharp twinge of pain caught your breath. The mirror revealed a ghastly bloom of purple spreading like a shadow across your side, just below the ribs—a grim reminder of the violence you wished to forget. A lie formed in your mind, a necessary deception for the physical education teacher, claiming the protection of a condition as natural as it was unrelated to the truth.

The ritual of preparing breakfast unfolded with a practiced ease, though your heart was elsewhere. You moved through the kitchen, your gaze carefully avoiding the man who sat at the table, expecting the service you provided as if it were his due. The sizzling bacon and the scramble of eggs filled the silence between you, a silence as heavy and uncomfortable as the bruises hidden beneath your clothes. His expectations hung over you, a constant reminder of the narrow path you were forced to tread to avoid further displeasure.

School offered no respite from the act you were forced to live. With your hood pulled high, you navigated the halls with a deliberate slowness, dreading the moment you would have to enter the classroom and face the day's challenges. The quiet comfort of anonymity was shattered when Mrs. O'Donnell's voice, sharpened by authority, cut through the air. Your heart sank as her words found you, a beacon spotlighting your defiance.

"I do not condone hats or hoods in my lessons," she declared, her tone leaving no room for dissent. In that moment, the weight of the day pressed down upon you, a reminder of the battles yet to be fought, both in the light of day and in the shadows of your own life.

The atmosphere in the classroom thickened, a palpable tension that clung to your skin as you stood at the precipice of decision. Around you, the collective breath of your peers hung suspended, their curiosity mingled with the anticipation of rebellion they'd come to associate with you. Yet, in that moment of scrutiny, you chose compliance over defiance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slid your hood back, exposing the canvas of your pain to the voracious eyes around you.

A collective inhale filled the room, a chorus of shock and disbelief that painted you in a light far removed from the anonymity you craved. Even your teacher, usually so composed and authoritative, faltered under the weight of the revelation, her voice lost to the ticking clock that suddenly seemed deafening in the heavy silence.

She recovered, albeit shakily, her command to continue an attempt to restore normalcy to the disrupted order of her classroom. But the damage was done, the facade cracked. You couldn't wait to escape, and the moment the class was dismissed, your hood resumed its place, a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments.

The day unfolded exactly as you had dreaded. Each class became a battleground, your hood the flag of your defiance and your bruises the wounds of wars fought in the shadows of your life. The whispers followed you like a relentless shadow, and when lunch arrived, you sought solace in the solitude of the cafeteria's farthest corner. Surrounded by the outcasts and the unnoticed, you found a semblance of peace, even if it was the peace of a pariah among peers dreaming of revolutions they did not understand.

You observed them, the future rebels with their leather bracelets and spiky hair, their existence a stark contrast to the battles you fought daily. They wore their rebellion like a badge of honor, unaware of the true cost of surviving a war against the very fabric of one's life. And as you sat there, hidden in plain sight, you couldn't help but wonder about the diverging paths of those destined for a picture-perfect existence and your own, forged in the crucible of pain and resilience.

Stepping out from the confines of the school building as the day bled into the mellow hues of late afternoon was like shedding an invisible shackle, a temporary respite that made your shoulders relax and your breath come easier. This fleeting sense of liberation accompanied you, a silent companion that whispered promises of tranquility, until the familiar sight of the trailer park loomed ahead, shattering the illusion with the harsh reality waiting within.

As you navigated the maze of silver metal homes, the sight of the lights blazing through the windows of your own trailer felt like a physical blow, a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. Your heart, a frantic drummer in the cage of your ribs, seemed to echo ominously with every step you took toward the creaking door that served as the barrier between you and what awaited inside.

He wasn't supposed to be there, not yet. The very thought was a cold hand squeezing around your heart, draining the color from the world. With trepidation lacing each step, you entered, your gaze flitting nervously from the desolate sofa to the ominously closed door of his bedroom. The strap of your school bag became a lifeline, something tangible to anchor you as you tiptoed toward the sanctuary of your room.

But fate, it seemed, was not on your side. The floor beneath you, a traitor clad in aged wood, groaned loudly under your weight, a sound so jarring in the silence that you couldn't help but wince, your entire being tensing in anticipation of the fallout. Time seemed to stand still, a suspended moment filled with the electric charge of impending doom.

Then, movement shattered the silence. The bedroom door was flung open with such force you half expected it to fly off its hinges, revealing the man who stood in the doorway. His presence filled the space, an imposing figure that you could barely reconcile as the one responsible for your existence. In that moment, as you faced the man who should have been your protector but felt more like a looming threat, you realized the fragility of the peace you so desperately sought in the confines of what you called home.

The utterance of your name, whispered with a darkness that cloaked the room, immediately heightened your senses, alerting you to the imminent storm. Instinctively, your feet shuffled backwards, attempting to put distance between you and the tempest that was your father. His voice cracked through the tension like a whip, "What did we talk about?" The words barely left his lips before your body responded with a quiver, the dread manifesting physically.

"You're just as useless as your bitch mother," he bellowed, his hand cutting through the air with predatory speed to clamp around your throat. Your legs struggled to bear the sudden weight of fear and despair as he dragged you, your resistance feeble against his force, through the claustrophobic hallway into the stark light of the kitchen. There, he released you not in mercy but to crash onto the unforgiving floor, his grip morphing into an iron band around your neck. "Now, I know you ain't the smartest but how can anyone be such a dumb cunt?" His eyes flicked toward the refrigerator with a menacing expectation.

Frozen, more by terror than choice, you remained motionless, inciting his fury further until he yanked you upward by the very lifeline he was squeezing. "Open it!" His command was a shout, propelled by anger, as he thrust you toward the cold metal of the fridge. With every fiber of your being screaming to comply just to make it stop, you mustered the strength to lower your shaking head and fumble with the fridge door.

"What did I tell you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear.

"To take care of things," you managed to whimper, your voice barely threading through the tightness of his grip.

"That's right," he confirmed with a dark, rumbling voice. But his next words were like daggers, each one punctuating your worthlessness in his eyes. And then, with a brutality that seemed to echo in the sparse kitchen, your head was forcibly introduced to the side of the fridge. The sudden release from his hands felt as much a punishment as the assault, a clear message that you had once again failed to meet his expectations. "Fucking take care of it," he spat, leaving you with the pain and the cold echo of his disdain.

For a fleeting moment after his departure, you remained motionless on the cold kitchen floor, the echo of his retreating footsteps a temporary relief. As you coughed, savoring the rush of oxygen filling your lungs once more, you rose with shaky resolve. Closing the refrigerator with a soft click, you retrieved some cash from the hidden savings can, each movement automatic, driven by necessity rather than thought. Your feet carried you swiftly to your car, a sanctuary of sorts in the midst of chaos.

With trembling hands, you inserted the keys into the ignition, pausing as you caught sight of their unsteady dance. Just as you were about to press the gas pedal, a different sensation caught your attention. Blood, warm and unsettling, trickled down from your nose to your lips. Instinctively, you reached up to wipe it away, only for a solitary tear to escape, tracing a path down your cheek. In a burst of anger, you struck the steering wheel, imagining for a split second it was his face absorbing the impact, receiving the punishment he so richly deserved.

The drive out of the trailer park felt like an escape, albeit a temporary one, as you headed deeper into town. Your destination was the only supermarket in Hawkins that turned a blind eye to selling alcohol to minors. The cashiers, two souls long since resigned to the monotony and despair of their roles, barely registered your presence, their gazes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the walls of their confinement.

You found yourself wiping your face again, this time checking the rearview mirror to assess the damage. The sight of your bloodshot eyes was a grim reminder. Physical blows you had learned to endure, but the insults, the verbal lashings that cut deeper than any fist, remained wounds that refused to heal. The most painful barbs were those aimed at your mother, a woman who had possessed nothing in terms of material wealth but had fought valiantly, albeit futilely, to escape the tyranny of your father. She was a woman of courage, standing between you and his wrath, even as cancer waged its own merciless battle within her. Your admiration for her was boundless; on her deathbed, she had worn a smile, radiant and victorious, for in her passing, she had finally escaped the man who had sought to break her spirit.

As you entered the supermarket, you smoothly plucked a basket from the stack beside the entrance, weaving your way through the aisles with a practiced ease. With each step, you carefully selected items, filling the basket with an assortment of goods that you knew would appease your father's palate. The basket grew heavier, a testament to your meticulous effort, until you reached the final checkpoint: the beverage section.

The coolers stood before you, a chilled barrier between thirst and satisfaction. You reached for the door, the cold air brushing against your skin as you grabbed a six-pack of your father's preferred beer. It was then you noticed him, a figure barely three weeks familiar with Hawkins, yet here he was, navigating the town's veins as if born to them. His friends had evidently provided a thorough briefing. Your attempt at a discreet observation failed miserably, as his attention snapped to you, an unspoken acknowledgment between strangers.

Your brows arched in involuntary surprise, not at his presence but at the sight of fresh cuts and bruises marring his face — wounds absent just the night before. A silent question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but before it could take flight, he dismissed the moment with a roll of his eyes and brushed past you, leaving a trail of unspoken stories and a fleeting connection dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

The line at the checkout moved slowly, a trivial inconvenience, yet it granted you a few more moments of anonymity. The store's quaint little bell announced Billy's departure, a sound that seemed to echo the finality of a moment passing. When it was finally your turn, you engaged in the mechanical transaction with the cashier, your mind elsewhere. Stepping out into the waning light, the sight of Billy Hargrove, casually nursing a can of beer against the cool metal of his car, intruded upon your thoughts. His car parked nonchalantly beside yours felt like a deliberate coincidence. The brown paper bag, a temporary vessel for your burdens, found its place in the backseat as you closed the door, acutely aware of his gaze tracing your movements, an invisible tether pulling at the edge of your consciousness.

You cleared your throat, a prelude to breaking the silence as you stood by your car, the keys dancing a nervous ballet in your hand. "Birch tree got you too, huh?" The words slipped out, a tentative bridge spanning the gap between you two.

Billy's scrutiny lingered, a silent appraisal, before his eyes dropped to the testament of violence painted on your skin, eventually locking with yours. "You want a smoke?" His voice broke the tension, an offer hanging in the balance.

Surprised, yet intrigued, you glanced around before nodding, a silent agreement forged in the twilight. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to the supermarket's side where the guardians of refuse, a row of large dumpsters, stood in solemn assembly. Climbing atop one with an ease born of necessity, you found a perch, waiting for him to join you in this makeshift sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Billy, with a nonchalance that seemed to cloak him like a second skin, produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, its silver surface catching the last rays of the sun. With a practiced flick, he ignited a flame, bringing it to the cigarette perched between his lips. The glow of the ember briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced with the smoke. Taking a drag, he then passed the cigarette to you. As you inhaled, the sharp, acrid taste of tobacco filled your lungs, a bitter reminder of choices made, of moments shared in silence and smoke.

As the minutes melted away under the haze of shared smoke and silent camaraderie, the cigarette passed between you became a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding in the twilight of shared solitude. Eventually, Billy broke the silence, his voice rasping slightly from the smoke. "You have blood on your nose."

"Yeah?" Your response was tinged with a nonchalance that belied the undercurrent of tension between you. You accepted the cigarette once more, its ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. "You have some on your lip." Another drag, a momentary escape, then silence enveloped you both once again. The final act of discarding the cigarette to the ground felt almost ceremonial, as you crushed the lingering spark beneath your boot, a definitive end to the fleeting respite. "See you 'round, Hargrove."

Your words hung in the air as you turned to leave, a tentative goodbye to a shared moment of vulnerability. His voice reached out, halting your retreat. "You hungry?"

The question paused you in your tracks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as you turned to face him. There was something in his gaze, a reflection of weariness and something unspoken, that mirrored your own. For a fleeting second, pity stirred within you, its target unclear, as empathy blurred the lines between self and other.

"I am," you conceded, the admission heavy with an unspoken understanding of the complications it invited. Yet, the reality of your own circumstances pulled you back from the precipice of further entanglement. "But I have to get home, actually." Your smile was a feeble attempt at normalcy, a polite curtain falling on the scene. "Bye, Billy."

His acknowledgment was a silent nod, a mutual recognition of the distance being placed between you once more. As you drove away, the rearview mirror captured the solitary figure of Billy Hargrove, a temporary companion in your shared narrative of survival and solitude, fading into the background of your departing world.

…

An unsettling sense of change lingered in the air, a silent shift that had settled over Hawkins High like a thick fog, imperceptible yet undeniably present. This peculiar feeling began to wrap around you, a subtle yet persistent presence, in the days following your second encounter with Billy Hargrove. As you stepped through the school's doors, braced for the usual barrage of sneers and the biting sting of ‘trailer trash’ hurled in your direction, you found instead a surprising void where hostility once thrived.

This newfound anonymity was strangely soothing, a reprieve wrapped in the unexpected guise of indifference. For once, the hallways that had felt like gauntlets now offered passage free from judgment, allowing you a semblance of peace amidst the storm of daily life. It was an odd sort of liberation, moving unseen and unmarked by the cruel jibes that had once shadowed your steps. For the first time in your tumultuous high school saga, the final bell did not signal a hasty retreat but a deliberate detour to the sanctuary of the art room.

The art class assignment, a canvas awaiting the touch of inspiration, became your excuse to linger in the quiet aftermath of the school day. While your peers carried their artwork home, eager to splash their visions across the canvas in the comfort of their own spaces, such a luxury was a distant dream for you. Home was no haven for creativity; your trailer, a place where art met its end not in completion, but in destruction—torn, smashed, a casualty of the chaos that waited beyond the school's gates.

There, amidst the smell of paint and the soft light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, you found solace. The art room, with its clutter of brushes and the palette of possibilities, offered not just an escape but a moment of creation untainted by the harsh realities that lay in wait outside its doors. It was in these stolen hours, surrounded by the silent witness of unfinished projects and the ghosts of inspiration, that you dared to believe, even if just for a fleeting moment, in the possibility of a world shaped by the stroke of a brush, rather than the sharpness of words.

As the day waned into evening, the corridors of Hawkins High slowly emptied, leaving behind a tranquility punctuated only by the distant hum of the cleaning crew making their final rounds. The fading light cast long shadows across the halls, painting everything in a soft, melancholic glow. You glanced at the hallway clock, a silent reminder of the hours you needed to kill to ensure you'd return to an empty, quiet home, free from the looming presence of your father.

Chewing thoughtfully on your lip, you diverted towards your locker, thoughts swirling with the prospect of solitude. It was then that a wave of laughter and lively banter washed over you, as a group of jocks, fresh from the showers and glowing with the invincibility of youth, breezed past, oblivious to your existence. Their jubilance, a stark contrast to your solitude, left a fleeting shadow across your spirit, one you shook off as you reached your sanctuary—a small, metal locker.

The ritual was familiar and comforting: exchange the day's burdens for the evening's necessities. But as your hand lingered on the locker door, preparing to seal away the day, another hand, unexpected and swift, slammed it shut. Startled, you spun around, only to find yourself inches away from a familiar face framed by a blond mullet, a figure who had become an unexpected constant in the landscape of your days.

"That was rude," slipped from your lips, a feeble attempt to assert some distance between you and the uninvited closeness. Yet, Billy Hargrove stood unyielding, a smirk playing on his lips, evidently amused by the discomfort flickering across your face. The proximity was overwhelming; his presence, a force that seemed to challenge the very air between you. You yearned to retreat, to press back into the cold, indifferent metal of your locker as you had so many times before. But something within, a spark of defiance or perhaps a curiosity yet unnamed, anchored you firmly in place. His gaze, intense and searching, held a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer, igniting a silent standoff in the dimming light of the nearly deserted hallway.

"Oh, I might just disagree with you on that one, sweetheart," Billy chuckled. "In fact, I found it was rather chivalrous of me to spare you from having to close the locker." Billy's grin unfurled like a flag of both charm and challenge, hovering in the nebulous space between disarmingly sweet and maddeningly smug. It was as if his every gesture, every flicker of expression, had been honed to perfection before an audience of his own reflection, each nuance calculated for effect. Whether your suspicion held water mattered little; the notion that behind his practiced ease lay a carefully maintained facade wasn't far-fetched. After all, mastering the art of the mask was a survival skill in its own right.

You responded to his teasing not with retreat, but with a stance of quiet defiance, arms crossed as if to ward off the sway of his charm. Your chin lifted slightly, an unspoken challenge, while a reluctant smile threatened to betray your composure. "I was actually talking about you trying to scare me into having a heart attack, but sure, let's go with your excuse," you retorted, your voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

His laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space between you, a sound that seemed too genuine for someone so practiced in artifice. The hand that had been a casual claim on the locker next to your head shifted slightly, drawing your gaze despite yourself. It was an involuntary flicker of attention, pulled momentarily to the subtle play of his tongue across his lips—a gesture that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, you felt a sudden, inexplicable connection, framed by lashes any starlet would envy. Yet, as quickly as it came, you shook off the allure, the momentary weakness. With a willful effort, you pulled away, stepping back from the invisible line that had drawn you dangerously close to his orbit. The air seemed to clear as you moved, dispelling the strange spell that had momentarily tethered you to him.

"Do you have any… plans for tonight?" His inquiry floated into the space between you, his hand retreating from the locker, leaving behind an echo of warmth where it once rested.

You found yourself momentarily caught in the headlights of his question. Friday evenings were the realm of raucous parties and cozy gatherings among friends, a social tapestry you found yourself conspicuously absent from. Your plans, if they could even be called that, consisted of nothing more than acquiring a solitary snack and retreating to the quiet of your car's hood in some forgotten corner of a parking lot.

"I'm more the spontaneous type," you offered, a deflection born of necessity as you idly scratched at your elbow. The admission of your solitude, especially in front of Hawkins' newest import, the effortlessly cool Californian, seemed a bridge too far.

"Good," he cut in, a word punctuated with decision as he turned on his heel towards the exit. You watched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling within you as you followed him, your steps a beat behind, to his car. He performed the gentlemanly act of unlocking and holding open the passenger door, an invitation hanging silently in the air.

With a gesture towards the parking lot, you demurred, "I got my car here." Your thumb jabbed backward, signaling the aged Volkswagen that wore its rust and verdigris like badges of endurance, a relic from a bygone era now under the scrutiny of his oceanic gaze.

The tapestry of scars your car bore was a map of your tumultuous journey thus far. The rear windows, obscured by patches of duct tape, were a testament to a violent shove that had sent you crashing into them. The dented trunk narrated another tale of youthful recklessness, a collision with a telephone pole just weeks after your sixteenth birthday had granted you the freedom of the road. But it was the scar on your hip, hidden beneath fabric yet forever etched in your flesh, that told the most painful story. A vase, hurled in anger by your father, had shattered upon impact, embedding its fragments into your skin. Alone, you had navigated the sterile lights of the emergency room, weaving a tale of clumsy mishap to explain the glass shards that had to be meticulously extracted from your body.

Billy's gaze on you felt like a searchlight, probing for a jest or a convincing argument as to why you wouldn't abandon your car to join him. "I can’t just leave my car here, Billy," you found yourself protesting, even as part of you yearned for the escape he offered.

His response was a casual shrug, his posture relaxed against the frame of his open car door, the denim fabric of his jacket accentuating the lean muscles beneath. "Sure, you can," he countered with an easy confidence. "I can drive you back here after."

The word lingered between you, a mystery yet to unfold. "After what?"

Another shrug, the gesture becoming a signature of his nonchalance. "After." His reply hung in the air, an invitation to an undefined adventure, sparking a blend of apprehension and exhilaration within you.

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with a dark humor that twisted your words into a sinister prediction. "You know, that kind of sounds like you are going to hack me up and then just dump my severed limbs here. After."

Billy's reaction was instantaneous, his voice laced with feigned hurt, "I would never do that." For a moment, you almost believed him, almost extended an apology, until the glint of mischief in his ice-blue gaze betrayed his jest. "You would get blood all over my car seats."

Your response was an eye roll, the tension easing into a grin at the absurdity of it all. "Fine," you declared, your resolve melting as you approached his car. "But don't you dare take me to someplace with all that healthy stuff," you added, a playful warning in your tone as he stepped aside, allowing you to claim the passenger seat as your own. Pausing, one leg already inside, you issued your culinary demands. "I want a burger, some greasy as fuck chili-cheese fries." You paused, a thought occurring. "And maybe a milkshake."

Billy's smirk was a beacon of complicity in the fading light, his teeth a flash of white as he gently closed the door behind you. Circumventing the vehicle with a swagger, he slid into the driver's seat, igniting the engine and bringing the car to life. The sudden eruption of Ted Nugent's distinct voice filled the cabin, the volume dialed to an almost reckless level. You recognized the voice, not out of personal preference, but thanks to a neighbor's musical obsession which had mercifully shifted from Nugent's raspy rock to the heady depths of heavy metal.

As the car pulled away, the world outside blended into a blur, the soundscape within dominated by Nugent's growling melodies. You found yourself enveloped in the paradox of Billy's world, where the threat of fictional dismemberment faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, vivid reality of a quest for the perfect greasy meal.

As Billy caught the wrinkled disapproval on your face, a chuckle escaped him, tinged with amusement. With a swift movement, he dialed the volume down, though the music still filled the car with a lively barrier against silence. It was loud enough to keep the void of conversation at bay, ensuring that the ride was enveloped in a continuous melody rather than awkward pauses.

You found a brief escape as you rolled down the window, extending your hand into the open air, mimicking the actions of your childhood adventures. The wind battled against your palm, inviting you to sway your hand rhythmically, an instinctive dance of freedom and nostalgia. Your eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the flood of memories that washed over you. Those adventures, as your mother had fondly termed them, were simple yet profoundly magical. They consisted of visits to art museums where she would craft whimsical stories behind each painting, imbuing them with life and laughter. There were hikes through dense woods, where she spun tales of bear hunts, making you believe in the thrill of the chase and the glory of imaginary conquests. On the rare occasion, she would navigate the aisles of thrift stores with you in tow. Financial constraints made these trips bittersweet, as the allure of unattainable treasures tugged at your young heart, a reminder of desires just beyond reach.

These excursions, modest in their execution but rich in imagination, formed a tapestry of cherished moments. They were escapes from the mundane, where every outing with your mother became a venture into the extraordinary, a testament to the power of love and storytelling to transform the ordinary into the unforgettable.

As Billy brought the car to a halt in front of the neon-lit facade of the arcade, you couldn't help but turn to him, an eyebrow arching in silent query. He responded with a heavy sigh, the weight of reluctance in his voice as he confessed the need to pick someone up. A brief glance at the digital watch strapped to his wrist revealed a clenched jaw, a silent testament to his impatience or perhaps something deeper, an annoyance or an obligation weighing heavily on him.

Before you could voice the questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, Billy's hand darted forward, retrieving a cigarette from the pack nestled within the confines of the glove compartment. The swift flick of his lighter brought the cigarette to life, its ember glowing fiercely with each inhalation, a beacon of his momentary escape. Exhaling a cloud of smoke through the window, he extended the cigarette towards you, a gesture of sharing in his solace, yet his eyes never met yours, as if the offer was made out of habit rather than genuine intent.

"I don’t smoke," you stated, a gentle reminder of your stance. His reaction was almost immediate, his gaze shifting to you, eyes searching for any sign of jest. Finding none, only the earnest clarity of your refusal, he muttered a blend of resignation and a half-hearted vow never to offer again, his attention quickly diverting to the arcade's entrance with a stare sharp enough to bore holes through the walls. "Are you trying to open the doors with your mind?" Your teasing broke the silence, a playful nudge against his intensity. As you sank deeper into the embrace of the leather seat, the corners of your lips tugged upwards. "I tried moving a pen once. I swear, I almost had it." Your words floated between you, a light-hearted attempt to pierce the seriousness that had enveloped him, inviting him back to a moment of shared levity amidst the unexpected pause in your night.

"She's late again," Billy grumbled under his breath, a tinge of irritation lacing his voice as his gaze flickered to his wristwatch once more, a silent sentinel of his impatience. "Little dipshit can skate home." His hand moved decisively towards the gear shift, ready to abandon the wait and drive off into the night, but you intervened, placing your hand gently over his, a silent plea for patience.

"We've been waiting here for barely five minutes." Your eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and curiosity as you met his gaze, attempting to understand the rush. "We can wait a little longer. I don't mind." Your words were soft, an offering of compassion in the face of his growing frustration.

At that exact moment, as if summoned by your willingness to wait, a figure emerged from the glowing entrance of the arcade. A ginger-haired girl, her face flushed and breathless from her rush, her relief palpable as her eyes locked onto the familiar blue Camaro. With her skateboard tucked securely under her arm, she hastened her steps, almost speed-walking towards the safety and promise of a ride home that the vehicle represented.

As the ginger-haired girl approached, you smoothly exited the Camaro, your movements fluid and deliberate. Pulling forward the seat to allow her access, she clambered into the back with a graceless smile, her eyes flicking briefly to Billy with a mix of gratitude and irritation. You caught the exchange, a silent laugh hidden behind your facade as you adjusted the seat back into place and reclaimed your spot beside Billy.

The tension in the car was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the small confines of the vehicle. Billy's gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the girl through the rearview mirror, anchoring her with a look that brooked no argument, yet he made no move to merge into the street's flow.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, a fragile attempt to quell the storm. Her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in any corner that wasn't filled with Billy's imposing presence.

"You remember what we talked about?" Billy's voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. His question, more an ultimatum than a query, hung heavy in the air.

"I said, I'm sorry," the girl retorted, her defensiveness surfacing with her words. A scowl began to form on your face, mirroring the growing frustration and discomfort that swirled inside you as Billy remained stationary, his focus unbroken.

His eyes never left her. "What did I tell you?" The gravity in his voice pulled at you, a painful wrench in your heart as you felt the weight of his words. "What did I tell you, Max?" At his question, your emotions teetered on the edge of a precipice, a quiver on your lip the only hint of the turmoil within.

Suddenly, the confined space of the car became too much, the air too thick to breathe. With a surge of resolve, you tore open the door, the sound of it closing behind you a silent scream for escape. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, a futile attempt to steady their shaking, as the silence from within the car enveloped you like a cold embrace, as his voice haunted your mind.

Billy emerged from the car, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he rounded the hood with measured steps. You stood there, amidst the quiet chaos, closing your eyes to gather the shards of calm scattered by the storm. A deep breath filled your lungs, an attempt to cleanse the tumult within. When his voice broke through the silence, a soft yet piercing inquiry, "You all right, sweetheart?" it felt different this time. Where once the pet names he draped you in felt like silk, now they scratched against your skin like burlap.

The glare you returned was loaded with an unspoken dialogue, a debate raging within you about the wisdom of diving into depths where perhaps you had no place. Yet, the image of the girl, her spirit dimmed in the rearview mirror, tipped the scales. "You didn't have to berate her like that," the words tumbled out, laced with conviction, while your arms folded defensively across your chest. "She said she was sorry twice."

Observing him, you saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a physical manifestation of his rising defensiveness, and his nostrils flared, a silent herald of the storm to come. "How about you stay out of my fucking business?" The words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision, meant to wound and warn.

As your scoff broke the tense air between you, it carried with it a bewildering sense of revelation. You found yourself staring, almost in disbelief, as the layers of Billy's persona peeled back to reveal the hot-tempered core you had only heard whispers of. Rumors of his impulsive shoves in crowded hallways and aggressive dominance on the basketball court had reached your ears, painting a picture of a boy who wielded his temper as carelessly as he did his charm. The teenage girls of Hawkins High had not been shy in sharing tales of his less savory deeds, and yet, in a strange twist of fate, they still crowned him with their affections, blinded perhaps by the handsome mask he wore. To you, until this moment, he had shown a different face—one that hinted at kindness beneath the rugged exterior.

"I don't think I can come with you. No, actually, I don't want to anymore." The words emerged from your lips, firm and irrevocable, sealing the fate of the evening that had taken an unexpected turn.

At your declaration, a storm seemed to gather on Billy's brow, his forehead creasing with anger as he teetered on the brink of letting loose a venomous retort. "Why are you being such a bi—" His words faltered, clogging the air between you as the realization of his near slip clamped down on his tongue. A sudden shift overtook his features, the anger washing out as if drained by an unseen force, leaving behind a pallid mask of instant regret.

"You know what, Billy?" you threw the words into the thickening twilight, not seeking an answer but rather casting them as a final verdict. Your feet started to retreat, each step a defiant dance away from the scene. "Fuck you. Oh, and while you're at it, why don't you shove those burgers up where the sun never shines, yeah?" With those parting shots, you spun on your heel, the world spinning momentarily before settling as you marched back toward the familiar silhouette of Hawkins High.

"You don't have your car!" His voice chased after you, a mixture of frustration and incredulity painting each syllable.

"And, still, I'd rather walk!" Your voice rang clear into the fading day, a declaration of independence. For good measure, and perhaps for the sake of your bruised pride, you flung one of your favorite gestures over your shoulder, hoping it would catch him in a moment of speechless observation.

Fucking men.

…

A month had woven itself into the fabric of your life since that tumultuous encounter with Billy Hargrove. His existence had become a silent shadow in your days, marked only by the occasional glimpse of his step-sister, a ghostly reminder of the confrontation that had severed whatever thread had begun to tie you to him. It was ironic, really, how the absence of someone could teach you so much about them. Your days flowed on, untouched by his presence, yet whispers of his life seemed to find you.

You learned of his origins, not through any desire of your own but through the idle chatter of classmates, their words painting a picture of a life you hadn't asked to understand. Billy Hargrove, the boy from California, now residing at 4819 Cherry Lane, wrapped in a scent that lingered in the halls—and apparently his pack—long after he had passed through. These snippets of his existence, caught in passing, seemed to stitch a portrait of a person you no longer knew, if indeed you ever really did.

Each revelation, each accidental eavesdrop, added layers to the image of Billy Hargrove, filling in gaps with colors you hadn't chosen. Yet, for all the unrequested knowledge that had found its way to you, the essence of the boy remained elusive, a puzzle pieced together from fragments overheard in passing. The tendrils of your past, entangled with dreams of a future beyond the confines of Hawkins, whispered to you in moments of solitude. Your aspirations reached far beyond the town's limits, aiming for the hallowed halls of college—a beacon of escape from a life mapped out by circumstances rather than choice. Each rejection letter that found its way to you felt like a door slamming shut, while the solitary acceptance, devoid of the golden ticket of a scholarship, seemed a cruel tease of what could be. College represented more than an education; it was your lifeline out of Hawkins, a chance to evade the shadows that lingered there, including him.

Financial realities cast long shadows over your dreams. The fruits of years spent toiling in odd jobs had been whittled away by the necessities of life and the unending demands of medical supplies, a silent testament to the sacrifices made. The money that didn't vanish into the bottomless pit of healthcare needs was swallowed by the mundane yet essential needs for gas and food, leaving nothing for the luxuries that others might take for granted. The memory of purchasing something solely for the joy it brought, something as simple as a new mascara or a piece of clothing in your favorite color, had faded into the realm of distant dreams.

Yet, as you maneuvered the car out of the school's parking lot, a resolve took root within you—a quiet declaration of self-kindness. The day's burdens lifted slightly at the thought of indulging in a small luxury, a token of appreciation for yourself after so long. The thrift store's familiar aisles offered sanctuary and the possibility of finding something uniquely yours. Amidst the labyrinth of second-hand garments, a splash of yellow caught your eye, halting your aimless search. Your fingers grazed the fabric of a flowy yellow dress, the color a vivid echo of happier times.

In that moment, a memory blossomed, vivid and sweet—a day at the lake with your mother, her laughter mingling with the breeze, her own yellow dress a mirror to the one now in your hands. Despite the harsh realities that awaited back home, her smile in that instant had been a beacon of pure joy, untainted by the shadows of daily struggles. The memory, so sharply beautiful, tugged at your heart with a mixture of longing and sorrow. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by the whispers of past lives encapsulated in the thrift store's treasures, you allowed yourself the luxury of reminiscence and the hope of brighter days, fueled by the simple act of choosing something that sparked joy in your heart.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping the dress, lifting it from its crowded perch among forgotten stories and second chances. As you queued for purchase, the monotony of waiting nudged your attention toward the world beyond the thrift store's window. Your eyes traced the ebb and flow of life on the sidewalk—a tableau of youthful laughter and the disgruntled expressions of passing adults, caught in a silent battle over public decorum.

Your gaze was about to retreat back to the cashier's call when the distinct rumble of a familiar engine sliced through the ambient noise, capturing your attention. A blue Camaro, unmistakable in its assertive presence, blazed past the window, a fleeting shadow in your line of sight. The timing hinted at a routine you'd inadvertently memorized, perhaps Billy Hargrove on his way to collect Max from the arcade. Despite the distance you'd placed between yourself and him, his existence still managed to weave its way into the fabric of your thoughts, an uninvited yet persistent presence.

Groceries, bought with the remnants of your carefully hoarded finances, soon occupied the passenger seat of your car, a tangible reminder of the practical concerns that governed your life. You returned to the trailer park, your vehicle coming to a rest beside the rusted silhouette of home. The neighborhood was alive with the small, personal escapes of those around you—barbecues, beers, and the semblance of community in the individualistic survival of trailer park living. You offered a half-hearted wave to the scattered acknowledgments from your neighbors, a gesture of civility in the shared anonymity of your lives.

One neighbor, a boy around your age with a habitual distance from the trailer park's confines, returned your wave with a shy, fleeting smile. His presence was a rarity, his time usually spent in the freedom of friendships beyond the park's boundaries. A pang of longing touched you at the thought, a wistful wish for connections you hadn't the luxury to foster.

Stepping out of your car, the dress in hand and groceries by your side, you couldn't help but reflect on the paths not taken, the friendships not formed. The trailer park, with its rusted dreams and patchwork communities, held both the weight of your realities and the whispers of what might have been, had circumstances been kinder.

The descent of twilight had always carried a particular solemnity in the trailer park, a silent herald of the end of another day's labors and the beginning of the park's nocturnal repose. As you ascended the weathered steps, the weight of the grocery bags in your hands was a tangible reminder of the day's responsibilities, a mundane yet necessary burden. Your father's gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, met you through the window, his eyes flickering with a mix of wariness and disapproval between you and the neighbor boy who had offered a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. His expression, a familiar tapestry of anger and suspicion, caused you to avert your gaze and hasten your steps, seeking refuge in the relative safety of the indoors.

The call to the living room came at an hour when the world outside had surrendered to the darkness, the only witnesses to its secrets being the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. The neighbors, those transient figures of your day-to-day existence, had retreated behind their doors, driven by the sudden onset of rain. It was in this secluded setting that your father awaited, ensconced in the worn embrace of his brown-leathered armchair, a throne from which he observed the small dominion of your shared living space.

You paused at a cautious distance, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension, a testament to the delicate balance of your relationship. In the dim light, your fingers absently traced the familiar imperfections in your nails, a diversion from the intensity of his scrutiny. Your father, a man whose actions were measured and deliberate, had managed to maintain a facade of normalcy to the outside world. Whatever speculations might have circulated among the neighbors about the dynamics within your trailer, they remained just that—speculations, with no concrete evidence to breach the veil of privacy that curtained your shared existence.

In that moment, standing in the living room's subdued light, the distance between you felt more than just physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and stifled emotions, a silent battleground where every gesture and glance held weight.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he spoke, orbs glued to your face which was turned to the carpeted floors. "I give you so much and don't expect a lot in return, now, do I?" You closed your eyes, teeth catching your lips as you shook your head no. "That's right." He lifted himself up from his seat, stepping closer. You stilled. "What I can't have, is my daughter whoring herself out to some boys."

You flinched as a hand gripped your jaw. "I don't—"

His hold tightened, warm alcohol-tinges breath hitting your cheek. "And to have so much disrespect to lie to my face."

"Please, Dad, I don't even know his nam—"

"Shut up!" You winced at his harsh tone, a trembling falling into your bones. "How long have you been going around spreading your fucking legs, huh? You think you can just do that while you're living under my roof?" He shoved you back into the kitchen counter, its edges digging into your skin painfully. "Fucking whore," he hissed. "If I ever see you looking at him again, I'm not going to be so nice."

Your voice was a mere whisper. "But I didn't—" A slap echoed and a jarring stinging spread across your cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare to talk back to me!" His fingers dug into your skin further as he yanked you forward and smashed you to the floor. "Who do you think you are, huh?" He ripped you upwards at the roots of your hair, wrenching you across the floor to the front door. Your head smashed into the wood as your father tore it open with no regard for you. His hand fell from your hair as he shoved you forward with his foot. As you didn't do as he pleased fast enough, he kicked you onwards and again until you tumbled down the stairs of your home.

"I don't want no disrespectful whore under my roof.” The night air was heavy with the scent of rain, a foreboding cloak that seemed to amplify your isolation as your father's anger found its final expression in the harsh, definitive sound of the door slamming shut behind you. Stranded in the aftermath, you lay there for a moment, sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground, every breath a testament to the throbbing pain in your ribs. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you managed to pull yourself into a seated position, the tears that you hadn't invited nor could contain stinging your eyes, mingling with the rain that began to drench you in its cold embrace.

The world around you felt alien, a labyrinth of uncertainties and fears about where the night might take you. Trust, a commodity you found in short supply, left you without a door to knock on, without a sanctuary in which to seek refuge. Even the shelter of your car was denied to you, the keys a distant, unreachable comfort. Your heart heavy, you stood, the direction of your feet a mystery even to yourself as you meandered through the dimly lit streets of Hawkins. It was as if some unseen force guided you, leading you on a path paved with desperation and silent pleas for solace.

Cherry Lane materialized before you almost as if by magic, the familiarity of the surroundings doing little to ease the tumult in your heart. The houses stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of those who dwelled within, until the sight of a blue Camaro, parked with an air of silent expectation, caught your eye. It was a beacon in the gloom, a signpost pointing towards a possibility you hadn't dared to consider until now.

With hesitant steps, you ascended the porch, each footfall a declaration of your vulnerability. The house before you was a tableau of quiet domesticity, its windows glowing softly in the night, yet betraying no hint of the lives unfolding behind them. For a moment, you allowed yourself the small comfort of shelter, the porch a temporary haven from the relentless rain. Gathering the remnants of your courage, you reached out, your hand pausing in mid-air as you braced yourself to bridge the distance between desperation and hope, between solitude and the possibility of finding an ally in the most unexpected of places.

Hesitation gripped you as the absurdity of your situation fully dawned upon you. What madness had driven you to seek refuge here, of all places? It had been over a month since any words had passed between you and Billy, and the possibility of him not being the one to answer the door loomed large in your mind, a specter of potential embarrassment you hadn't fully considered until now. Imagining the awkwardness of explaining your presence to his stepmother or father sent a shiver down your spine. Perhaps the familiar discomfort of your own leaky porch, where sleep would undoubtedly elude you amidst the elements, would have been preferable to the risk of utter humiliation here.

As you turned to make a hasty retreat, a clumsy misstep sent one of the plant pots clattering to the ground, the sound of shattering pottery piercing the steady drum of rain. Mortification washed over you as you knelt, frantically trying to salvage the situation by scooping the spilled soil back into its home, muttering curses under your breath for your own clumsiness.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Billy's voice, laced with confusion and rising over the roar of the rain, caused you to startle, nearly toppling the pot once more in your sudden panic.

You stood, hands smeared with dirt against the fabric of your wet pants, words tripping over themselves in a clumsy attempt to explain. "I'm sorry," was the simple, inadequate conclusion you reached. A nervous laugh escaped you, highlighting the absurdity of your predicament. "I... I don't even know what I'm doing here," you admitted, your voice tinged with the realization of your own folly. "I—I'm going to go. Sorry about the plant."

Billy's gaze drifted past you to the empty street, a silent question in his eyes before returning to you. "Where's your car?" The inquiry was straightforward, yet it left you grappling with the decision of whether to fabricate a lie about its whereabouts.

"I walked," you confessed, the truth slipping out with a hesitance that betrayed your vulnerability.

"In the rain?" His question hung unfinished in the air as his attention abruptly shifted, focusing intently on your face. Whatever he saw there caused a transformation in his demeanor, his previously questioning gaze hardening with resolve. He swung the door wider, an unspoken invitation hanging between you. "Get in," he commanded, a mixture of concern and command in his tone. Your uncertainty was palpable, a silent question mark in your stance until his impatience broke through your indecision. "Do you always need a second invitation? Get inside." His words, more a directive than a suggestion, propelled you forward, his intense stare ushering you into the warmth and shelter of his home. No sooner had the front door clicked shut behind you than Billy’s hand enveloped yours, his grip firm and unexpectedly warm. He led you through the hallway with a sense of urgency, the sound of your sodden shoes squelching against the floor marking your passage. The door to his room was next, closing with a definitive thud that seemed to isolate the world outside. Releasing your hand as though he suddenly remembered the protocol of personal space, Billy turned his attention to the task of decluttering his room with an efficiency that left his clothes arching through the air to land perfectly in a hamper across the space.

You found yourself standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, the chill of your drenched clothes causing you to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, you crossed your arms in an attempt to preserve warmth, your gaze drifting downwards before curiosity prompted a survey of your surroundings. The room was a capsule of Billy's world – his bed, a stark island in the chaos, lay opposite the door, while a white dresser burdened with an assortment of items claimed territory to your left. A stereo system and a mirror positioned at the foot of his bed stood guard in front of his closet, serving as silent sentinels of his privacy. The walls were an eclectic gallery featuring a mix of band posters—Metallica's ‘Kill 'Em All’ and Tank's ‘Filth Hounds of Hades’ among them—and a singular, provocatively posed woman adorning a minuscule bikini set.

A cough from Billy broke the silence, his posture shifting uncomfortably as he planted a hand on his hip, mirroring your own awkwardness. "Do you wanna take a hot shower?" His voice, hesitant yet earnest, sliced through the tension.

You matched his earlier gesture, clearing your throat before responding with a nod, your smile timid yet sincere, a silent thank you. "If you don't mind."

His response was quick, almost reflexive. "I wouldn't be asking if I did." The briefest flicker of something akin to regret crossed his features, a look that suggested he found the current situation less than ideal. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to dismiss his own thoughts, he guided you to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Handing you a towel with an awkwardness that seemed out of place on him, he promised to find you some dry clothes, leaving you with the comforting prospect of warmth and a momentary escape from the night's chaos. Peeling away the layers of your drenched attire felt like shedding a second, clammy skin, each piece a testament to the frugality that necessity had imposed upon your life. The fabric, cheap and worn, clung to you with a stubborn chill, and even as you stood bare in the relative warmth of the bathroom, shivers danced across your skin, relentless in their embrace.

You stepped over the edge of the tub with a cautious grace, turning the faucet with hands that trembled not just from the cold but from the uncertainty of the moment. As the water sputtered to life, you drew the shower curtain with a swift motion, sealing yourself away from the world for a brief interlude. The array of bottles lining the tub's edge caught your eye, prompting an involuntary snort of amusement.

Billy, it seemed, defied the stereotype of masculine simplicity in skincare, the stereotype that suggested a preference for efficiency over variety. Your father, with his staunch allegiance to three-in-one products, had been your benchmark for male grooming habits. Yet here, in Billy's shower, was a collection that spoke of a different creed. You couldn't help but smirk, a playful curiosity lifting your brows as you inspected the labels one by one. Shampoos, more than one might expect, each bottle worn from use, nestled beside conditioners—one clearly favored, its contents more depleted.

The body wash, singular in its presence, was an olfactory enigma. Unscrewing the cap, you were met with an assault of scents, as if the essence of every cologne and deodorant had been distilled into this one vessel. The smell was overpowering, undeniably masculine, a concentrated embodiment of Billy's presence. You searched for the words to describe it but landed on the singularly fitting—manly.

As the warm water cascaded over you, washing away the layers of the day—the sweat, the remnants of makeup that had survived the downpour—you moved with haste. There was a keen awareness of not overstaying your welcome in this unexpected sanctuary. Gratitude for Billy's kindness mingled with a sense of urgency; such generosity was a rare currency in your world, and you were acutely conscious of its value. In these moments, under the stream of cleansing water, you found a temporary reprieve, a fleeting sense of solace amid the turbulence of your life. The moment your skin felt the cool air of the bathroom, a soft knock echoed against the door, a gentle but unexpected intrusion into your solitude. Clutching the towel around yourself with a sudden modesty, you cracked the door open just enough to extend a hand into the gap. Billy's presence on the other side was palpable, his chuckle a low, soft sound that fluttered through the air as he passed a bundle of clothes to you. "Thanks," you murmured, a rush of words barely escaping before you retreated behind the door once more.

Dressed in the clothes Billy had chosen—socks, boxers, sweats, and a shirt—you paused at the threshold of his room, suddenly conscious of the absence of your bra and acutely aware that he was, too. With a final act of tidiness, you folded the towel meticulously and flicked off the lights, leaving behind the sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty that lay beyond.

You found yourself lingering in the doorway, arms wrapped defensively across your chest, the fabric of his shirt a poor shield against the vulnerability you felt. Billy's gaze upon you was indescribable, heavy with an unspoken expectation as if he wished to peel back the layers of your being and examine the hidden scars that lay beneath.

Mustering what little composure you had, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed, confusion and something else—was it concern?—etching lines into his forehead. "For what?" he queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and something softer.

You diverted your gaze, a sense of intrusion overwhelming you despite the sanctuary he'd provided. "Bothering you. It's late," you admitted, feeling the weight of your unwelcome presence.

The sound of his movement pulled your eyes upward, half-expecting, half-hoping he might bridge the distance between you. Instead, you were met with the sight of his back as he rifled through his nightstand, the tension in the room palpable. "Sit," he commanded, and though under any other circumstance you might have bristled at the order, the exhaustion and gratitude mingling within you coaxed compliance.

Without protest, you perched on the edge of the bed, a silent observer to his actions, the room around you filled with an unspoken dialogue made of glances and gestures, a fragile understanding hanging in the balance. As he pivoted towards you, a black box in his grasp, an electric tension filled the air. He chose not to sit beside you on the bed; instead, he knelt before you, an unexpected intimacy in the space between your parted knees. Your breath caught, a silent gasp lost in the moment, and irritation flared within you as you noticed the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a mix of curiosity and wariness lacing your words, your gaze sharply tracking his movements.

"If I remember correctly, Sweetheart, you gave me a lecture on using Neosporin or otherwise you get scars, right?" His voice held a playful rebuke, cutting off any response you might have mustered. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen, huh?"

His attention fixed on a spot on your forehead, drawing your own hand reflexively to the area he observed, only to flinch at the tender reminder of a wound you hadn't registered until now. The memory of the collision with your trailer door flickered through your mind, a painful blur in the chaos of the night. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he attended to the wound, a carefulness in his actions that surprised you, challenging what you thought you knew of him. Despite the months you'd spent in his orbit, this moment revealed layers you hadn't glimpsed before.

"You don't have to do that," you found yourself saying as he procured a tube of Neosporin—a recent addition to his kit, no doubt on your advice. "I can do it, too."

"Never said you couldn't," he hummed back, undeterred as he meticulously applied the ointment, his focus undivided. With deliberate care, he placed two butterfly plasters across the cleaned wound, a silent testament to his unspoken concern. Gathering the discarded wrappers and used items, he compressed them in his hand and rose, moving to dispose of the trash. In that small, enclosed space, with the sound of rain a distant murmur against the windows, a different side of Billy was illuminated under the soft glow of the room's lighting — a side tender, careful, and starkly at odds with the rough edges of his usual demeanor. You cleared your throat, a gesture so small yet so loaded with the weight of the evening's events.

"Thank you," you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. He paused in his motions, turning towards you with a smile so radiant it threatened to stop your heart in its tracks.

"No problem, Sweetheart," he replied, his voice a smooth salve over the jagged edges of the night. As he moved to dispose of the trash, a sudden, inexplicable tumult stirred within you. With a hand pressed against your chest, you sought to quell the storm brewing beneath your ribs, a futile attempt to calm the chaos his mere presence invoked.

Rising to your feet, you drifted towards the window, seeking solace in the steady downpour that mirrored your inner turmoil. The rain continued to fall, now more fiercely than before, a relentless deluge that held you captive in this moment. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the glass.

"Didn't get much of this in California, huh?" you ventured, an attempt to bridge the chasm of silence between you.

He let your question hang in the air, unanswered, yet the fleeting shadow that crossed his face spoke volumes, a bitterness that matched the storm outside. His gaze shifted, momentarily caught in the past before refocusing on the present — on the wound that marred your forehead. "What happened?" he asked, the question simple yet loaded with unspoken concern.

You shrugged, a movement laden with the weight of untold stories. "Nothing," you replied, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breath, a practiced deception you had mastered over time. "I tripped."

"And that had you walking through the rain in the middle of the night?" His skepticism was palpable, a challenge to the facade you'd constructed.

A battle raged within you, the urge to confess warring with the instinct to conceal. You bit back the tears threatening to spill, the pain of admission too great to bear. "I locked myself out and didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah?" he pressed, his disbelief a tangible force.

"Yeah." Your affirmation was a whisper in the storm, a feeble attempt to maintain the crumbling walls around your heart.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, trapping you between the solid reality of his form and the immovable barrier of his closet. "If you don't want to talk about it then say so," he declared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "Don't lie and pretend to be fine when clearly you aren't."

In that charged moment, with the rain as your sole witness, the space between you became a battleground of unspoken words and concealed wounds, a testament to the complexity of human connection. Your jaw clenched tightly, a tangible manifestation of your frustration and defiance. The notion of receiving unsolicited advice, particularly from him, was almost laughable. Gratitude for his shelter in the storm did not extend to welcoming painful truths. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Billy. It's not like you aren't just fine all the time," you retorted, your words sharp, laden with a bitterness born of too many hidden truths.

The shift in him was immediate, his anger dissipating as though your words had pierced a veil, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability he so meticulously guarded. When he raised his hand, the gentle brush of his forefinger against the stray tear on your cheek sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "I never said I wanted to talk about it," he murmured, his voice soft, revealing a hint of his own battles fought in silence. Your heart fluttered uncontrollably, his touch igniting a flurry of sensations, momentarily tethering you to a moment of raw connection.

The sudden crack of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, jolted you back to reality, breaking the spell that had momentarily bound you. The urge to flee, to return to the semblance of normalcy that awaited at home, surged within you. "I should probably go," you whispered, hoping against hope that your father's drunken stupor would erase the night's events by morning, that a simple act of domestic normality could smooth over the fractures in your life. "Do you have an umbrella or something?"

His response was instant, a resolute rejection of your plan. "Do you really think I'll let you get back there now? So, you can flash a cut lip and a blue eye tomorrow at school, too?" His words, though posed as a question, left no room for argument. In his refusal to allow you to venture back into the storm, both literal and metaphorical, lay an unspoken pledge of protection, a sanctuary against the tempest that raged beyond his door. "What does it matter?" you found yourself arguing, feeling the weight of your own arms as they fell limply by your sides. The sense of defeat was palpable in the air. "So, I stay tonight, then what, Billy? I'll have to go back eventually, and it's only until the school year's over. Then, I'm gone anyway."

His response came in the form of a growl, though you could tell his anger wasn't directed at you. It stemmed from a place of shared desperation, from having clung to the same sliver of hope himself. "So, you're just gonna let him beat you for the rest of the year?"

Your response was a snort, laced with sarcasm, as you tilted your head, challenging him. "Aren't you doing the same thing?" The silence that followed was telling, even if no words were spoken, until he dared to step closer.

"It does matter, you know," he said, his voice softer now, reducing the physical distance between you yet careful not to invade your personal space.

"Why?" The question came out more as a whisper of disbelief. For the past month, he had acted as if you were barely visible, and suddenly, he seemed to care deeply. "Why now?"

His hesitation was palpable, as if the words he was about to utter could scorch his tongue. "I like you." The simplicity of his confession hung between you, fraught with unspoken complexities.

You bit your lip, a sad, resigned smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lowered your head. "Don't do that to yourself." The words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime. Tears threatened to spill over, a testament to a sentiment you had never expected to receive. The idea that someone could not just tolerate but actually like you was foreign, almost too much to bear. All your life, you had erected walls to keep people at a distance, for their affection meant empathy, and with empathy came pain. The sight of your wounds would become their agony, and in a twisted way, their suffering would become yours, completing a circle of shared hurt you had always sought to avoid.

"Who do you think I am, Billy?" You backed away slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of distance between you and Billy, but the inevitable happened—your retreat was abruptly stopped by the wall. A wave of unfamiliar pressure washed over you. Was it fear? Or perhaps vulnerability? You couldn't quite place the emotion. "I'm not the kind of person to have around. I won't complete you, won't enrich your life,” you stammered out, your voice a mix of warning and fear. These words were your feeble attempt to shield him, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment that seemed to follow you like a shadow. "I—I'm just so fucked up and stuck trying to put everything... everything broken back into place. I... I can't look for your shards, too."

When your eyes finally dared to meet his, you expected to see annoyance, maybe even rejection. Instead, what you found was empathy, his expression softened, recognizing the turmoil within you as something he too understood. "I don't want you to try and fix me," he said, his tone gentle, soothing the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. His hand reached for yours, not as a claim but as a gesture of companionship, of solidarity. "But searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together." In the dimly lit room, where shadows danced across the walls with a life of their own, Billy Hargrove revealed himself in a way that words could scarcely capture. The man you thought you knew, encased in layers of protective anger and a cocksure swagger, allowed those defenses to melt away in your presence. It was as if he peeled back the veneer of bravado, exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his soul—a mosaic of past hurts and present struggles laid bare for only your eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against your cheek, a cascade of sensations unfurled within you. It was more than a touch; it was an electric current that surged through your veins, rendering you speechless, breathless. As you locked gazes with him, drowning in the ocean of his bright blue eyes, the world seemed to pause. Every attempt at drawing breath felt like an insurmountable task, and yet, paradoxically, you felt more grounded than ever, as if an invisible force tethered you to the very core of the earth. Simultaneously, there lingered an exhilarating sense of lightness, a curious wonder if you might suddenly break free from gravity's embrace and ascend into the ether. The effect Billy had on you was profound, leaving you to ponder if perhaps, in some small way, you affected him similarly.

Did you trouble his thoughts as he did yours? Did your presence steal his breath and unsettle him to his core? Within the quiet chambers of your heart, a small, worn, and lonely piece of you clung to the hope that he might feel the same.

As his index finger traced the contours of your face with reverence, from the softness of your cheek to the furrowed worry lines on your forehead, and finally to the tender vulnerability of your lips, you sensed a hesitancy in him. His other hand, which had been a mere whisper away from yours against the wall, dropped slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he had lent you. With a subtle tug, influenced by a brief flare of his nostrils, it was as if he was battling a storm of desire within, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from crossing a line from which there was no return. In that moment, Billy Hargrove was no longer just a name or a face; he was a force, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, threatening to unravel the very fabric of your being.

The words stumbled from your lips, frail and unsteady, shattering the facade of indifference you had desperately clung to. "So—" you began, only to have your voice fracture cruelly midway, exposing the turbulence beneath your calm exterior. "You want to be friends…like officially?"

A crooked smile unfurled across his face, his deep-set eyes twinkling with a blend of amusement and an unexpected trace of shyness. His grip on the fabric of the shirt intensified, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Trust me, Sweetheart, friends isn’t what I had in mind," he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent a wave of heat cascading down your spine, igniting a flurry of desire that pooled in the depths of your stomach.

You stood petrified, a statue of anticipation, as an inexplicable longing surged within you, compelling your fingers to twitch at your sides. You yearned to weave your fingers through the silky strands of his meticulously styled hair, to explore the contours of his being with a touch. Yet, as he retreated, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jeans, you found yourself anchored in place, watching him with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning disappointment. It wasn't the withdrawal you had anticipated that took you by surprise, but rather the keen sense of letdown that he didn't pursue the tension crackling between you further.

When he turned his back to you momentarily in search of an ashtray, a childish pout began to form on your lips, a silent testament to your discontent. Billy, however, remained oblivious to your turmoil, opting instead to lean casually against the wall by the open window, exhaling smoke into the tempestuous embrace of the rainy night. You pondered over his actions, the deviation from his usual indifference to smoking indoors. The scent of tobacco, which had once been a source of discomfort, had, over time, woven itself into the tapestry of comforts associated with Billy's presence. It was an aroma that, in the context of his room—a sanctuary of chaotic tranquility—had become oddly reassuring. Mixed with the other, more elusive scents that lingered in the corners of his space, it crafted an ambiance that was undeniably Billy, and in that moment, you realized how deeply entwined your senses had become with the essence of his existence. The array of colognes that enveloped him carried none of the hallmarks of the cheap fragrances that typically permeated the crowded hallways of Hawkins High. His presence, and indeed his room, was suffused with a complex aroma—slightly woody, perhaps a hint of leather, and beneath it all, a subtle undertone of sweetness that floated gently in the air. It was an olfactory melody that intrigued you, a scent that you found unexpectedly comforting.

Wrapped in your own arms, you approached him, a silent figure against the tumult of your thoughts, pressing your back to the wardrobe adjacent to his window. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to you, a gesture that halted you momentarily. As you reached out, the brief touch of his warm fingers against yours sent an inexplicable shiver down your spine, a sensation that seemed to echo on your skin long after the contact had ended. Drawing in the acrid taste of the smoke, you allowed yourself a moment to indulge in the bitterness, your eyes lifting to meet his.

There he was, a grin playing on his lips, watching you with an intensity that rendered you momentarily breathless. The world around you narrowed to the space between you two, your senses hyper-aware of his proximity. The cigarette, now a forgotten prop in your hand, no longer demanded your attention as you found yourself irresistibly drawn into the depths of his blue gaze. An unconscious bite to your lip betrayed your thoughts as your eyes darted to his lips and back again.

He closed the distance with a single, purposeful step, igniting a trail of warmth that flickered to life within you. Billy leaned in, his breath—a mix of smoke and something indefinably sweet—brushed against your cheek, sending ripples of anticipation through you. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his voice a blend of amusement and challenge. "You gonna smoke that, Sweetheart, or are you just gonna keep staring?"

In that moment, under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath, you realized the cigarette was merely a bystander in a dance of tension and unspoken desires, a dance that had you captivated and wanting more. A blush crept up your neck, a vivid testimony to the turmoil within, as you extended the cigarette towards him, a silent plea for normalcy. Yet, instead of simply taking it, he lingered, his chuckle a low rumble against the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. He leaned back, his movements languid yet deliberate, eyes locked on yours as he accepted the cigarette, drawing in a slow, purposeful drag. Under the weight of his gaze, your heart raced, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. His lips twitched into a smirk, and in that moment, the tether of your restraint snapped.

Driven by a surge of boldness, you seized the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a collision of lips. The world narrowed to the point of contact, where fear and desire mingled in a single breath. But as quickly as the impulse came, it retreated, leaving you to recoil in a mix of surprise and mortification. "I'm so sor—"

But your apology was cut short, his hand finding the nape of your neck, an anchor pulling you back into the storm. His lips sealed over yours with a fervor that spoke of raw need and simmering frustration. The sensation in your stomach exploded into a wildfire, racing through your veins, igniting every fiber of your being. His hands, emboldened and roaming, traced paths filled with longing and anticipation, his grip on your hip a silent command that spurred a sharp intake of breath. Yet, as Billy drew you closer, melding your body to his with a hunger that spoke of endless waiting, the kiss deepened, transcending the confines of time and space. The world outside this embrace dissolved into insignificance, leaving nothing but the intensity of your connection, a thirst quenched in the meeting of lips, finally stilled in the embrace of shared desire. Emerging first from the embrace, you found yourself ensnared in a heady daze, breathless from a mixture of oxygen deprivation and the intoxicating effect of Billy's touch. Your hands clung to his shirt collar, a desperate bid to maintain the closeness, the electricity that buzzed between you. Yet, Billy harbored no intention of releasing you into the cold reality just yet. As your eyelids fluttered shut again, his lips embarked on a fervent exploration along the tender expanse of your neck. Each kiss was a brand, igniting fires within your veins, stirring a wild rush of blood that screamed for more.

In his ministrations, Billy was anything but tentative, his actions painting the strokes of your silent wishes with bold, assertive colors. You reveled in the sensation, a glorious chaos made of his fervent kisses and the playful nip of teeth against your skin, eliciting a hitch in your breath that morphed into a soft whine. This sound drew a triumphant grin across his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he wielded over you.

The moment shifted as he gently maneuvered you backward, only to ease himself onto the edge of his bed, pulling you into his orbit with an unspoken command. You remained on your feet, a silent statue, until he chastised you with a playful tilt of his head and a tug on the waistband of the pants he had lent you. "You do always need a second invitation, huh?" he teased, his voice a blend of amusement and desire.

His hands, firm and insistent, found your thighs, drawing you irresistibly onto his lap. Positioned intimately close, your breath caught as the proximity sparked a fresh surge of desire. Your gaze flitted over his features, captivated by the intensity in his eyes before inevitably being drawn to the smug curve of his lips. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze and the promise of his smile, you teetered on the edge of surrender, every fiber of your being alight with anticipation.

In the charged silence of the room, your voice was a mere whisper, a soft breeze that dared not disturb the delicate sphere of intimacy that encased you both. "Is anyone else home?" The words barely left your lips, a testament to the fragile moment you were so afraid to shatter.

Billy's response was a grin, one that spoke volumes of the thoughts he'd kept at bay, now unchained in the privacy of his domain. "No," he breathed, a single syllable heavy with unspoken promises. His hands, emboldened by the assurance of solitude, resumed their exploratory journey with renewed vigor. They ascended your thighs, ventured over the curve of your behind, and continued upwards until the rough warmth of his calloused palms met the smooth expanse of your waist. "Concerned you won't be able to stay quiet, Sweetheart?" he teased, a playful challenge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head, a flush of warmth crawling up your neck, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just curious," you managed to say, your fingers finding solace in the soft strands of his blonde hair. Under your gaze, something flickered in his eyes—was it adoration?—a fleeting glimpse into the depths of Billy Hargrove that few were privy to. The realization that you were witnessing the unguarded essence of the man beneath the facade was both exhilarating and daunting, a secret you cherished deep within your heart.

In an unexpected move, he drew you against him, erasing any distance that remained. The gasp that escaped your lips mingled with the air as you became acutely aware of his desire pressing insistently against you. His lips found yours in a seal of fervent need, prompting an involuntary arch of your hips against his. A groan, laced with curses and unbridled yearning, vibrated against your mouth as Billy's restraint began to unravel. And then, with a fluidity that left you breathless, the world flipped—Billy loomed above you, a figure of strength and passionate intent, casting a shadow that promised an escape from the confines of reality. One arm kept him propped up above you, the other sliding beneath your butt, lifting you to meet his movements. A delicate moan fled your tongue, almost lost in the kiss as he sealed his lips onto yours, excitement thrumming in your core. As Billy's lips departed from yours, a reluctant retreat that sent a pang through your chest, you were left gasping beneath him, the room spinning slightly in the absence of his touch. For a brief moment, the world outside the cocoon of his room ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths hanging in the air. Your eyelids fluttered open only when the tender caress of his thumb traced your bottom lip, drawing your gaze upwards to meet his. In his eyes, a storm of emotions hinted at a struggle, a reluctance to break the connection that had so fiercely ignited between you.

Silently, he rolled away, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark. The soft click of the light switch plunged the room into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon's glow filtering through the curtains. "Night, Sweetheart," he murmured, a term of endearment that now seemed to carry a weight of unspoken words between you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion and a myriad of unanswered questions swirling in your mind. The impulse to voice your bewilderment, to ask why he had halted the crescendo of your shared passion, rose sharply within you. Yet, each time your lips parted, no words emerged, as if the gravity of the moment held your voice captive. With a heavy heart, you turned away, presenting your back to him, a silent testament to the tumult within.

As the minutes trickled by, Billy's breaths deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, a testament to his drift into tranquility. Left alone with your thoughts, the questions continued to dance at the edges of your consciousness, unanswered, echoing in the quiet of the night. Despite the turmoil, the pull of exhaustion proved stronger, and eventually, your eyes closed, surrendering to the elusive promise of rest, even as the mystery of his actions lingered, a shadow at the back of your mind. Upon awakening, you found yourself momentarily lost in the fog of disorientation, the remnants of sleep clouding your senses. As your consciousness gradually sharpened, the events of the night prior began to piece themselves together, painting a vivid picture of unexpected solace. For the first time in what felt like eons, you had been gifted with the luxury of a deep, undisturbed sleep, free from the clutches of anxiety that so often held you captive. The sensation of safety enveloped you, a cocoon of warmth that was both foreign and immensely comforting.

As awareness seeped further into your waking mind, you became acutely conscious of the presence beside you. An arm, strong and reassuring, draped across your middle, its weight a silent promise of protection. A leg, muscular and firm, intertwined with your own, anchoring you to this moment of peace. The thought of disrupting this tranquil intimacy, of stirring him from sleep and thus dissolving the delicate bubble of comfort you found yourself in, was unbearable. So, you settled back down, surrendering to the warmth, allowing yourself a moment more of this rare contentment.

However, reality was never far behind, its relentless march signaled by the crimson digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. A quiet groan escaped your lips as you registered the time—6:30 a.m. The demands of the day loomed large, a reminder that the sanctuary you found in Billy's arms was but a temporary reprieve. School awaited, a stark return to the routines and expectations that defined your everyday life.

The fragile silence of the morning was shattered abruptly by the growl of an engine cutting through the calm, a harbinger of the chaos to come. The sound of car doors slamming, followed by the rise and fall of angry voices, punctured the tranquility of dawn. A woman's pleading tones, desperate for discretion, clashed with the male fury, an unwelcome intrusion into the peacefulness of the early hours. Footsteps, heavy and ominous, approached the house, the finality of the front door slamming open a jarring wake-up call.

In an instant, Billy was alert, his body tensing as he sat up, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the gentle stillness that had enveloped you moments before. The reality you had momentarily escaped was crashing back down with undeniable force, the impending confrontation a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond the haven of his room. You cursed under your breath, a sharp departure from the warmth and safety that had enveloped you just moments ago. The bed suddenly felt too large and cold as you distanced yourself, your presence—a constant source of comfort—receding with each step you took. Alarmed, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching your silhouette navigate the dimly lit room. You paused at the door, an unmistakable tension in your posture as you strained to listen to the cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing through the house. It was a dance of shadows and sounds, one you knew all too well, having played the same game of anticipation and fear in your own life.

The voices crescendoed then waned, the storm outside your sanctuary dissipating momentarily. A male voice, harsh and demanding, cut through the relative calm, summoning you with a ferocity that made the air in the room heavier. You watched as the boy before you transformed, your body stiffening, every muscle coiling in dread. It was as if you could see the gears turning in your head, a frantic search for any misstep that could have incited this wrath.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a ripple in the tense atmosphere as you moved to join him. But his arm shot out, a barrier between you, a silent plea for you to keep your distance.

The impending confrontation burst into your room with the force of a storm. Your father, a tempest of anger, filled the doorway, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck bulging with every shouted word. His rage was palpable, a living entity that sought to crush everything in its path. And then his eyes found you. In that instant, the fury that had contorted his features melted away, replaced by a facade as thin and fragile as ice over a winter lake. It was a look you recognized, one your own father adopted in the presence of outsiders, a mask that barely concealed the storm raging beneath. His gaze flicked between you and Billy, a silent accusation in the shift of his eyes.

"I thought we agreed on no more... guests?" His voice, though softer, still carried the undercurrent of a threat. You remained silent, a statue in the eye of the storm, your resignation more telling than words could ever be. Your father straightened, adopting a veneer of civility that did nothing to ease the tension clawing at your insides.

"I'm sorry, but my son isn't allowed nightly visitors. Why don't you show your lady friend the door, hm?" The words were spoken with a superficial politeness that did nothing to mask the disdain and control that simmered beneath the surface. It was a moment suspended in time, a crossroads between the sanctuary of the night past and the harsh daylight reality of your present. Billy remained motionless, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on his father. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken threats and long-standing grievances. It was in this tense tableau that he uttered your name, a sound so rarely heard in such a context that it jolted you. “Why don’t you get dressed?” His voice, though soft, carried an uncharacteristic gravity.

With a nod that was more reflex than conscious agreement, you skirted past the palpable tension in the room, escaping to the sanctuary of the bathroom where your clothes awaited, still bearing the chill of being slightly damp. Once enveloped in the privacy it offered, the murmur of voices beckoned you closer, curiosity and concern pressing you to eavesdrop.

“You’re gonna say goodbye to your whore and then you and I are going to have a talk,” you heard, the venom in the elder Hargrove’s voice unmistakable.

Billy’s reply was a shadow of his usual defiance, “She isn’t—”

“What was that?” The threat in his father’s voice was sharp, a warning that brooked no argument.

Unable to bear the thought of the situation escalating in your absence, you stepped back into the fray, positioning yourself as a physical barrier between Billy and his father. The air was electric with tension, a tangible force that seemed to test the very limits of endurance. Yet, your voice, when it came, was steady. “Billy, you promised to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, but Billy can’t right now,” his father interjected smoothly, a sneer barely concealed beneath his veneer of civility.

“But I have no other way of getting home, sir,” you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance born of necessity.

“I’m sure it’s close enough to walk. It’s Hawkins, after all,” he dismissed, his tone laced with condescension.

“See, sir, I live just outside of Hawkins, actually.” Your reply was calm, measured, even as you laid bare the stakes of the situation.

“Is that so?” His skepticism was palpable, a challenge thrown down between you.

“Yes, and Billy assured me he would take me home, otherwise I’ll miss school, sir.” Your words, carefully chosen, were a gambit, one that played on his momentary hesitation.

The standoff that followed was a testament to the complex web of power and defiance that characterized the Hargrove household. Eventually, he took a step back, conceding ground with visible reluctance. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?” His once-over was dismissive, reducing you to nothing more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be dispatched.

“We will talk when you get back,” he finally said to Billy, his words heavy with unspoken threats.

“I’ll have to drive straight to school after dropping her off, otherwise I’ll miss first period.” Billy’s response was a careful negotiation, a bid for time and a brief reprieve from the confrontation that awaited him. His father’s glare could have scorched the earth, a silent vow of retribution that hung in the air long after he had left the room. Billy closed the door with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. He leaned against it, a solitary figure momentarily bowed by the weight of his father’s expectations. The sigh that escaped him was one of relief, a brief respite in the eye of an ever-present storm.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was laced with trepidation, the words barely a whisper in the charged atmosphere of the room. A part of you feared his anger, worried that your intervention might have only served to escalate the already volatile situation. Maybe, in his eyes, you were to blame for exacerbating the tension. He turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that halted your breath. The silence that followed was thick, a tangible entity that seemed to pulse with your racing heart. When he remained motionless, the void of his response sent a spike of panic through you. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make things worse. I should have stayed quiet—"

But before you could further berate yourself, his lips crashed against yours, an urgent, fierce motion that swept away the remnants of the confrontation like debris in a storm. His arms encircled you, pulling you into the eye of his tempest, while your hands found the solid wall of his chest, a grounding point amid the whirlwind. Billy's grin, felt rather than seen, infused the kiss with a defiance, a silent declaration that no force, no matter how daunting, could intrude upon this moment he claimed as solely yours. His hands shamelessly groped at your hips and behind, tongue dominating yours. You pulled away in desperate need for air, panting and dazed. Billy’s lips fell to your neck, sucking and licking at the saltiness of your skin. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” Squeezing your ass again, he let go of you and, with one last kiss, went to get dressed.

You found yourself adrift in the center of his room, each breath a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that had carried you from silence to this uncharted territory. How, you pondered, had the distance between you closed so swiftly, transforming into an intimacy that left you both breathless and bewildered?

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, revealing Billy. His readiness was astonishing, his preparation swift beyond anticipation. With a nonchalant ease, he emerged, the very image of casual confidence. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's the hell outta here," he beckoned, his voice a mix of warmth and urgency. Grasping your hand, he guided you towards the promise of freedom beyond these walls. Yet, as fate would have it, his father's voice shattered the brief illusion of escape, calling out to him once more. Instantly, you felt the change in Billy, a tension coiling within him, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, a silent plea for respite, an attempt to shield his spirit from the weight of reality. Casting a fleeting, half-hearted glance your way, his fingers slipped from yours, leaving a cold absence in their wake as he turned to face whatever storm awaited him.

Left in limbo near the front door, you strained your ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the exchange, but silence was your only companion. With a soft sigh of resignation, you turned your gaze outward, taking in the Hargrove residence bathed in the soft glow of morning light, nestled among the uniformity of Cherry Lane, Hawkins, Indiana.

The neighborhood was a palette of similarity, each house a variation on a theme, distinguished only by the creativity or neglect of its occupants. Some lawns bore the scars of a relentless summer, patches of grass striving towards life amidst the drought, while others lay untamed, a testament to indifference. The Hargrove's lawn, though touched by the season's harshness, was neatly trimmed, a small rebellion against the decay. The path leading to their home was worn, stones cracked and yielding to time, yet adorned with recent attempts at beauty—flowers and bushes planted with hope at their edges.

It was a scene markedly different from the chaos of the trailer park, where the dance of avoidance was a daily routine—sidestepping the debris of forgotten nights and broken dreams. Here, in the relative tranquility of Billy's world, such hazards were absent, a small mercy in the grand tapestry of his life. When Billy reappeared, his stormy demeanor spoke volumes before a word was uttered. The disheveled state of his collar hinted at a confrontation, a silent testament to his father's harsh grasp. He breezed past you, the air crackling with the tension that followed him, his gaze barely grazing yours. You trailed behind, a frown etching your features, though you kept your thoughts to yourself. Settling into the passenger seat of his Camaro, you fastened the seatbelt, a silent barrier between you and the world outside. The cozy sanctuary that had briefly cocooned you both seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving a palpable distance. Billy had begun to wall himself off once more, retreating from the fragile bridge of intimacy that had been tentatively constructed between you. His words echoed hollowly in the cramped space of the car.

‘Searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together.’

The Camaro's engine roared to life, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil unfolding within. Your lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The sharp pang of regret and what-ifs punctured your heart with relentless precision. Had Billy not halted his advances, you might have found solace in his arms, seduced by the illusion of safety he offered. Alone, you might have scoffed at your own gullibility, labeling it as sheer desperation or foolishness. Yet, it was Billy's words that had resonated so deeply with you, mirroring the silent pleas that had haunted your thoughts for far too long. The desire to escape the solitude that clung to you like a second skin was overpowering. You yearned for something more, something profound to anchor you to this world, beyond the fleeting dream of liberation that the future promised. You sought a connection that bore significance, a beacon to guide you through the shadowed corridors of your existence. With the final stretch of senior year unfurling before you, the promise of college lingered on the horizon, a beacon of hope that signaled a departure from the shadows of your past. It was a chance to shed the oppressive weight of your father's legacy, to carve out a space in the world where his influence couldn't reach. You clung to this future with a desperation that was silent yet palpable, the prospect of freedom a balm to the wounds of your upbringing.

Billy, however, wasn't afforded the luxury of such dreams. The grim reality of his situation was a constant companion, a reminder that not all paths led away from hardship. College, a beacon for some, remained a distant, unattainable star for him. Influenced by the harsh criticisms that had echoed from his father's lips, he had internalized a belief in his own inadequacy. Education, a potential key to unlocking doors to a brighter future, held little allure for someone who had been taught to expect nothing from life. Instead, Billy had embraced a different kind of dream—a painstaking accumulation of savings with the hope of one day returning to California, to start anew on terms of his own making.

Yet, a shadow lurked in the recesses of his mind, a specter of doubt that cast long, dark silhouettes across his aspirations. On some days, it was but a whisper, easily ignored. On others, it roared to life, a cruel reminder that perhaps his dreams were just that—figments of wishful thinking, doomed to remain unfulfilled.

The journey to your trailer park passed in silence, each lost in their own reverie. As Billy's car rolled to a halt, you murmured a terse ‘bye’ and exited, the finality of the gesture marking the end of an era. Retrieving your spare key from its hiding spot beneath an empty vase, you slipped inside, intent on changing clothes and gathering your belongings. You assumed Billy would have driven off by then, his presence a chapter closed as abruptly as it had opened.

However, upon emerging from your room, you found him rooted in place in the heart of your kitchen, his gaze transfixed by something beyond the window. The sight of him, so unexpectedly still and contemplative, caught you off guard. In that moment, the kitchen—a space so familiar and yet suddenly imbued with a new, unspoken significance—became a silent witness to the complexities of connection and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, some dreams refuse to be confined by the shadows that chase them. In the fading light of the afternoon, the question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, "Doesn't that one drug dealer live around here?" It was an innocuous inquiry, perhaps, but in the context of your shared silence, it felt charged with an undercurrent of concern.

Billy's presence, both imposing and unexpectedly comforting, loomed beside you, a steadfast figure in the shifting sands of your tumultuous life. Your voice, laced with a hint of surprise at its own firmness, broke the stillness. "Why are you still here?" The question was more than just words; it was an expression of the myriad emotions swirling within you, a mix of confusion, desperation, and a fragile glimmer of hope.

He seemed taken aback, as if your tone had shattered an invisible barrier between you. The moment stretched, filled with an unspoken tension that danced in the air, palpable yet elusive. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a warmth, a promise, "I thought I had made myself clear, Sweetheart. I'm not gonna put you up to that shit alone anymore." His words, sincere and unwavering, offered a beacon of solidarity in the chaos that had become your existence.

You found yourself at a crossroads, teetering between skepticism and the yearning to believe in the possibility of an ally. It was a delicate balance, the choice to trust, to lean into the uncertainty rather than retreat into the familiar embrace of solitude. With a quiet resolve, you chose hope over despair. "Let's get out of here," you agreed, stepping into a future uncertain yet suddenly less daunting with Billy by your side.

The journey to Hawkins High was a study in contrasts, the roar of Billy's Camaro slicing through the quiet streets, a herald of change. Anxiety gnawed at you, the prospect of walking into school with Billy Hargrove by your side—a notion so fraught with implications, real and imagined. His presence was a double-edged sword, offering protection yet drawing attention, the weight of countless eyes a tangible pressure against your skin.

Yet, as you emerged from the car, Billy's protective aura enveloped you, his glares warding off the curious and the judgmental alike. He became your shield, a guardian against the world's harsh judgments, his reluctance to leave your side a testament to a burgeoning bond, forged in adversity and softened in moments of shared vulnerability.

The day passed in a blur, the rhythm of school life punctuated by Billy's steadfast companionship, a promise kept. And when the final bell rang, it was his car that awaited, Max in the backseat, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics of your intertwined lives.

The drive home was a brief interlude, a moment of calm before the next chapter. Billy's insistence on ensuring your safety, his promise to meet at the Hawkins Community Pool, was a new thread in the tapestry of your unfolding story.

…

The pool, a place of childhood traumas and lost innocence, loomed large in your memories. Yet, as you drove towards it, the realization that Billy had carved out a space for himself there, as a lifeguard, offered a glimpse into his own attempts at navigating life's turbulent waters. The parking lot was deserted, save for the familiar silhouette of Billy's Camaro. The unlocked gate stood as an invitation, a threshold to cross into a space that was both familiar and fraught with the echoes of past fears.

Yet, in this moment, it was not the specter of childhood bullies that filled your thoughts but the prospect of standing beside Billy in this quiet, abandoned sanctuary. It was an opportunity to redefine the spaces that had once defined you, to reclaim a piece of yourself in the company of someone who was, against all odds, becoming an integral part of your journey. As you navigated through the dimly lit gates, the air hung heavy with the anticipation of the evening. Your voice, laced with a mix of irritation and playful defiance, cut through the quiet, "Billy?" The words fell into the silence, unanswered, as you moved deeper into the shadowy expanse of the pool area. The setting sun cast a soft, yellowish hue over everything, the lights around the pool flickering to life in a welcoming yet eerie glow.

Again, you called out, a whisper tinged with exasperation. "Billy?" It seemed ridiculous, this cat-and-mouse game, and yet, there was a part of you that couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete as you approached the locker rooms, the sound a solitary reminder of your presence in the vast, empty space. With a mix of annoyance and determination, you halted, the frustration evident in your voice as you threatened the unseen presence of Billy Hargrove with playful retribution. “Billy Hargrove, you had better get your butt out here now, or imma kick it when I see it.” No sooner had the words left your lips than you found yourself abruptly pulled backward, a gasp escaping you as you collided with a solid, reassuringly warm chest.

"Damn, Sweetheart," came Billy's hushed voice, a smile evident in its timbre, sending shivers down your spine. "Didn’t know you would be so violent."

The annoyance you felt dissolved into an electrifying tension as you turned within his grasp, your gaze lifting to meet his. The grin adorning his face was infectious, his fingers gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with an intimacy that set your heart racing. There he was, inches away, the warmth of his breath caressing your cheek in the cool air of the locker room. The proximity was intoxicating, a mere tilt of your head away from a kiss that seemed both inevitable and yet delicately suspended in the space between you.

You stood there, caught in his gaze, the world outside the locker room melting away. The anticipation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer without moving. It was a dance of moments and possibilities, each second stretching out as you waited for him to bridge the final distance.

In the soft, flickering light, the realization dawned on you how swiftly and completely Billy Hargrove had ensnared you, his presence alone enough to tilt your world off its axis. And there, in the silence that enveloped you both, you wondered if he too felt the gravity of this moment, this turning point that seemed poised to redefine everything. His hand, a warm presence against your skin, retreated, leaving a cool trail of longing in its wake. As he stepped back, the absence of his touch was immediate and stark, a silent protest forming in the back of your mind, yearning for the connection you were on the cusp of deepening. You watched him, a mix of emotions swirling within you. The situation had spiraled into a realm of the ridiculous—a term that barely scratched the surface of this intricate dance you both found yourselves entangled in.

"What are we doing here, Billy? It's still way too cold to go swimming." Your voice carried a hint of bewilderment, laced with a curiosity that refused to be quelled.

His response came with that signature grin, a look that promised mischief and excitement in equal measure. "Who said anything about hopping into the pool, Sweetheart?" The question hung between you, playful and inviting. As he pulled you along, a sense of adventure bubbled within you, despite the confusion that furrowed your brow.

The sauna loomed ahead, a promise of warmth and perhaps something more—an intimacy yet explored. Billy's excitement was palpable, his enthusiasm for the job and its perks infectious. "Since I'm going to be working here, I thought I'd show you what kind of privileges you could have over the summer."

"Privileges I could have?" The concept seemed foreign, amusing even. A sauna, of all things, wasn't exactly on your list of desired amenities. The skepticism must have been clear upon your face as you questioned the appeal, the idea of sweating in a small room hardly enticing.

"You'll see what I'm talking about," he assured you, his confidence unwavering.

As he opened the door to the sauna, a wave of heat greeted you, enveloping your senses in a cocoon of warmth that was surprisingly welcoming. The wood-paneled room, with its benches lining the walls and the gentle hum of heat radiating from the stones, offered a retreat from the world outside. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the chaos of daily life could not penetrate.

Billy's hand found yours once again, his touch grounding as he led you inside. The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in this haven of warmth and whispered promises. As you took a seat, the heat began to work its magic, loosening muscles and easing tensions you hadn't even realized you carried.

The air, thick with warmth, seemed to draw you both closer, an unspoken invitation to explore the connection that had been building between you. Here, in the seclusion of the sauna, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in a space where time seemed to slow, where every breath and heartbeat felt magnified.

Billy's gaze met yours, a question lingering in the depth of his eyes, a silent query if you were ready to dive into the unknown together. In that moment, the sauna became more than just a room—it became a crucible for whatever was simmering between you, a place where the heat wasn't just physical but emotional, a catalyst for desires and confessions yet unspoken.

The air vibrated with anticipation, each moment stretching, filled with the promise of revelations and a closeness that went beyond the physical. In the dim light and enveloping warmth of the sauna, you realized that this wasn't just about the privileges of summer or the novelty of a new experience. It was about discovering each other, about unraveling the layers of connection that had drawn you together.

Pent-up was merely one of many ways to describe what you were feeling, with his fingers dancing beneath your shirt and withdrawing as quickly as they had come—a teasing grin on his face, making you aware that Billy knew exactly of the effect he had on you. “You’re such an asshole, you know?” You hissed, frown deepening as he pulled his shirt over his head and put it down on the bench, using it to sit on.

He chuckled lowly, hands threading through his wild locks, tongue running over the sharp edges of his teeth. “’C’mere,” he simply stated, fingers moving in a lazy motion to accompany his words. You hesitated for a second, lips catching between your teeth as you moved forward and into his grasp. “You gotta be so hot, Sweetheart,” he started, fingers already working at removing your top. “Let’s take this off, hm?”

Words vanishing from your lips, just as quick as your common sense, you nodded, letting him pull the shirt over your head. You didn’t know where it ended up, didn’t—couldn’t—care when his hands started unbuttoning your pants with swift movements. The loose article of clothing fell from your form and Billy’s hands instantly went forward, grasping your thighs and pulling you closer. He groaned greedily, fingers digging deeper into your flesh as he nosed along your stomach and the line of your panties. There was an incessant fluttering in your stomach as his tongue slowly slid from your naval lower.

 “Billy,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shot, as his teeth pulled on the fabric of your panties, your hands falling to his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He mused, fingers sliding to the sides of your panties, before hooking his thumbs in the cotton. Flashing a grin up to your dizzy frame, he started pulling the fabric down your legs. “S’there something you wanna ask me, baby?” You shook your head in answer, swallowing heavily as you felt the cotton drop at your feet. “Had me so hard the whole day,” he groaned, pressing a sudden kiss to your core and you went rigid in anticipation. Heat gathered low in your stomach, down to your unsatisfied center.

“Kept thinking ‘bout pulling you into the locker room and fucking you stupid.” At the moan that tumbled from your throat, a dark chuckle fell from his lips. “Yeah, you’d have liked that, Sweetheart, ain’t that right?”

You whispered again, “Billy,” you tone edged with want.

“Hm?” He hummed, raising a casual brow at you as though his fingers weren’t trailing along the seams of your core. Even if he seemed utterly unaffected by the moment, you noticed the slight shift in his hips, as he adjusted himself. You forced yourself to swallow, eyes straying to the hardening bulge in his tight jeans. So terribly affected by only the thought of him, another rush of heat slithered to the pit of your stomach and lower. “C’mere here,” Billy said again, leading you onto his thigh with a quiet wickedness that set your chest aflame. He chuckled at your hesitance as you slowly settled on his thigh, the pressure against your core immediately pulling a whimper from you. His rough hand slid back to your hips, gripping tightly as the other one found your neck and brought your lips to his.

Sweat was leisurely building at the nape of your neck, a result of not only the sauna’s heat but Billy’s unhinged action, as he started to move you on his thigh. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck with a low moan, desire overshadowing your humiliation as you started to follow the pressure of his hand. Your head was starting to float with pleasure when Billy lifted his leg a little, the rough material of his jeans hitting your small bundle of nerves. A whimper slipped from your lips and onto Billy’s glistening skin. His thigh beneath your core felt so thick and sturdy, as he was whispering words so terribly vile they shook your being. One of his palms snapped harshly against the bared skin of your ass, the slap echoing in the small confinement of the sauna.

“Look at you,” Billy cooed, moving you back on his thigh before he jerked you back forward, your chest flush again his as he held you still. “Making such a mess for me, Sweetheart.” With a particularly hard grin of your hips, you felt his bulge pressing into the side of your thigh, straining beneath the blue fabric of his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, the graze pushing a low groan from Billy’s reddened lips. Trying to move again against his thigh, his arm gripped you closer against him, a broad grin flashing at the needy whine that came from you in response. “Tell me what you need, Sweetheart,” he hushed in such a sinister tone, the devil couldn’t have said it any sweeter.

“You,” you said with no second of hesitation. It wasn’t just an admission of the desire lingering in your core, but a promise of not wanting to fight the world alone anymore. You had done it long enough, both of you.

[mysumeow]

. . . ꒰ FOUND WOUNDED

Warnings: afab genitalia, gender neutral pronouns. PIV unprotected sex, Lilia takes a dominant role throughout the smut, hair pulling (reader giving), overstimulation (reader receiving), cunnilingus. not proofread it is what it is.

Summary: Out of the kindness of your heart —and naivety mixed in— you nurse back to health the injured fae you came across with in the forest.

Word count: 3.7k

A/N: if you find a mistake just ➖➖ close your eyes like that and pretend you dont see it. my contribution for general lilia lovers (myself included💗)

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ♡ 🌷 . . KOFI | NEXT

At first, General Lilia was like a feral cat when you tried to get close to him.

Injured and almost unconscious; that was how you had found him. A gaping wound on his abdomen. Regardless of his blurry vision, he could still make out the smell of a human.

Thus, through deep breaths and pained winces, he demanded that you not come closer. Those demands were accompanied by curses and hisses, of course.

Perhaps you were naive or had no sense of self-preservation, or both, because despite his refusal to receive aid, you carried him on your back.

Had the fae been in better condition, you wouldn't have made one step forward without some inconvenience happening.

Lilia's first instinct, when he awoke the next day, was to attempt to flee before you realized he was up. Granted, the pain from recent battle wounds sliced through his being, rendering him to fall back on the bed.

His heartbeat picked up once he saw you walking into the room, kicking the door shut, and carrying breakfast in your hands.

The fae's words were nothing short of disdainful, accompanied by threats.

You were aware of the complex human-fae relationships and weren't surprised by his outburst. Instead, you ignored his empty words, left the breakfast on the little nightstand next to the bed, and left.

Although the general wasn't pleased at the fact you dismissed his words as if he were blabbering, he himself knew he wouldn't hurt a defenseless human like yourself. He's willing to turn a blind eye to those that aren't part of the Silver Owl's; after all, you weren't an immediate threat to him.

He sighed, turning to look at the source of the appealing aroma on the nightstand.

He wasn't that hungry, right? He could just wait a while longer, just to establish a sense of power over you—he didn't need you as much as you thought he did.

The grumbling from his stomach made his thoughts pause.

By lunch time, you decided it was a reasonable idea to check back on the fae you rescued yesterday.

The plate was clean, as you expected.

Without sharing another word, you gathered the plate and the utensils to head back to the kitchen, until the fae’s low voice and dry manner of speaking interrupted you.

“You know our kind have had conflicts of interest, right?” You couldn’t identify any sort of hostility or ill-intent from him when he spoke his mind.

“I...” You stopped to wonder if you actually considered that detail when you decided to bring this stranger into the safety of your home. “I wouldn’t be able to turn my back on someone who’s about to die,”

Lilia stared at you; you couldn’t discern how he took the comment.

“Hmph,” he said, crossing his arms. “You humans underestimate faes. I’ve survived worse wounds. This is nothing in comparison.”

“Yeah, yeah. You're, oh, so dangerous, and I'm, oh, so fragile. Please don’t kill me, Mr. Fae,” you feigned a squeakier voice. You reveled in amusement at his displeased expression. Suddenly, you realized you didn’t even know his name. “By the way, I don’t know what to call you.”

For a moment, Lilia considered not telling you. He would flee this place as soon as he could, so what was the point? He reasoned. Despite that, he figured that you would be more fearful of him if he revealed his name, as everyone knew the title that was accompanied by it.

“Or do you want me to keep calling you Mr. Fae?” You kept poking fun at him.

“I’m Lilia Vanrouge. Does the name ring any bells to you?”

You stopped for a moment to think.

“To be honest, no.”

Lilia wondered how you were still alive at this point, being so detached from the current events going on. You had just enough information to know about the war that was going on.

Unbelievable. He shook his head before looking down at the bandages wrapped around his lower abdomen.

The dull pain that comes from wounds was still present, albeit less than yesterday. He made an effort to sit up on the bed and undid the bandages, wanting to check the wound. If he applied less strength than usual, the sting was bearable.

You stitched his lesion while he was unconscious. Even though your work was decent, he couldn’t help but wish there were fairies nearby who could speed up the healing process. He couldn’t stop thinking back on his troops, the princess, his kind—they needed him right now.

Lilia’s troubled pondering stopped when you came back.

“I was just about to ask how you were feeling. The stitches haven’t opened, right?” You dabbed the rag into the water, looking to use the piece of cloth to clean up any dirt or blood that might’ve been left over from the prior day.

“Halt, human,” he tried to scurry away, flustered. “I can do it myself. I managed to eat on my own. I don’t need your help. Wait outside,”

“Okay, but you still should clean the rest of your body. I thought I could help you walk to the bathroom so you can use the shower,” you said, placing a hand on your chin. “Will you be able to reach your back? Bend enough to clean your legs?”

Lilia narrowed his eyes, partly out of suspicion. “If I were you, I’d be more cautious of a stranger,” he sighed. “I’ll allow you to help me clean my back. The rest, I can manage. Try anything funny, and I’ll make sure you’ll regret it,”

“Anything funny? You mean killing you? Do you think I would go to these lengths just to murder you?”

“My point stands.”

You guided the fae towards your bathroom; you left him alone so he could undress and wash what he could without your help. Once he was done, he called to you, where he was waiting, sitting on the wooden bathroom’s stool with a towel wrapped around his hips.

He didn’t acknowledge you entering; he just sat there in silence, waiting for you to pour water on his scarred back. Some scars were new, some were old, and others were fading.

His ears flicked when he heard you sit behind him.

The session was…awkward, to say the least. You both were quiet, and you wondered what he was thinking about during his silence. You resisted the urge to trace the scars on his back. You surmised that it must be a sensitive topic for him. You knew about the hardships of war, but having a glimpse of the surface of them awakened a sense of pity for him.

You slid the rag along his back. Albeit having a thin frame, there was some tonification...

He shivered, interrupting both your train of thoughts and your languid movements.

“You done?” he asked, looking at you over his shoulder.

“Yes,” you answered curtly, ashamed of yourself for allowing your mind to wander that much.

From then on, having the general living under the same roof was...an experience. To you, he seemed to have some sort of internal conflict when speaking to you; sometimes, he would speak in a kinder way, and at other times, he would go back to his withdrawn and indifferent attitude.

Like he was afraid of getting too attached soon.

You would tease him, proclaiming that he had developed a soft spot for you. He would either roll his eyes, huff, or deny, until he stopped paying attention to your “pointless ramblings” (as he called them). You couldn’t help but find amusement at the idea of this fae getting tired of your teasing and preferring to ignore them.

Of course, the general would rather die than admit his days in relative leisure with you were quite endearing—he wouldn’t admit his true feelings to himself either—as having someone looking out for you was a change of pace for his days of solitude. Solitude comes in the form of having no one else but himself to rely on.

For a human such as yourself to be selfless enough to nurse him back to health, even if not necessary until a certain point, made you stand out over the rest of the past human interactions he’d experienced.

Avarice and thoughtlessness were, after all, the reasons why the fae clashed with humanity.

Alack, he couldn’t stay here with you for the rest of his life.

Basking in the last rays of sunlight, sitting on the fresh grass as you shared a meal, you didn’t expect Lilia to have a gloomy expression.

“You’re going back to your military camp?”

“The war isn’t over yet. I’ve wasted enough time waiting for my wounds to heal,” Absentmindedly, his hands hovered over where the gaping wound once was. “You’ve been…”

“Hm?” You directed your focus to him, expecting him to finish his sentence while you munched on a slice of bread.

“I’ll give it to you. You’ve been helpful, but also annoying. I wouldn’t have imagined someone to have the ability to both heal and damage someone at the same time,” he took a sip of the tea and turned his head away in agitation.

“Would it hurt too much to just say ‘thank you’?” You rolled your eyes.

“Thank you,” he agreed, so you would drop the topic.

The sun had long since set, the single light source coming from your home. Lilia gave one last glance at your profile, noticing you were deep in thought.

He opened his mouth to tell you he was going inside again. Then he closed it again, thinking maybe you didn’t want to be disturbed by whatever you were reflecting on.

For the past few weeks, stress over how his troops were doing has built up. The general couldn’t wait any longer to go back to them.

He departed that same night.

Lilia took a quick look at the bedroom he has been staying in, checking if there was anything he should take with him before departing.

Alongside his mask, he wielded his magical lithic with practiced ease. 

He placed a hand on the window and pulled the lower panel up to open it. With a foot already on the windowsill, he hesitated.

I haven’t said goodbye to...

Almost as if driven by instinct, he went back to the living room, where he last saw you a couple of hours before.

At first, he didn’t see you. He rationalized that you were in your bedroom now; however, a soft snore made him realize that wasn’t the case.

Sprawled on the couch. Blanket on the floor. Your head is almost falling off the edge of said furniture.

That’s how he found you sleeping.

He deadpanned, reaching down towards the blanket on the floor and draping it over your sleeping form.

Did Lilia feel at fault that he didn’t get to say goodbye? Yes. Nevertheless, the fae was set on answering the call of his obligations before letting himself realize it.

Being a proper general like him, he located the camp with ease. Every single one of his comrades celebrated his return.

Now, this was an environment he was used to. It felt right; this was what he was familiar with.

And despite that, he couldn’t shake you off his thoughts. Not even the next day.

His mind kept reeling back on the idea of heading towards your small cottage to apologize.

Lilia groaned in frustration, turning around on the makeshift bed inside his tent. He stared at the walls, asking himself if it made sense for him to have these feelings.

Humans are weak. I should check on that human. Yeah, that’s it. That human is clumsy.

While putting on his armor and tying the knots in their places, he couldn’t believe himself—he was going back just to see you.

It was past midnight. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to go see you, but he hoped you were up. He remembered that you tend to stay up past that hour.

He found himself smiling fondly at the memory before his smile dropped at the smell of smoke and fire in the distance.

With a racing heart, Lilia hurried to where he knew your home was.

Engulfed by fire.

The orange embers reflected on Lilia’s eyes as he gawked at the unbelievable sight. Soon, his attention was brought back to unknown faces inspecting around the perimeter. He identified the silver armor, and Lilia didn’t waste any more time acting.

“The general!” One of them shouted, the others unsheathed their swords, and they prepared to attack.

By the sound of it, Lilia supposed that this was an ambush, since it appeared that they were after him and set the house on fire to have a better chance of hunting him down.

“Where’s the human?!” Lilia demanded, pushing the lithic blade against the soldier he trapped.

“Calcinated, perhaps,” he spat.

As she was about to slice him open, something stopped Lilia.

With a hand on his arm, you managed to halt his movements. Had you come any later, the soldier would’ve had his neck chopped.

You didn’t give him a chance to question you; rather, you pulled him away from the burning place and into the forest.

To say the fae was speechless was a way to put it—he was baffled. Up until a certain moment, he managed to regain his composure and grab you by the shoulders.

“Why didn’t you let me end him?!” He shook you. “You allowed those pesky pests to get away with it!”

“Lilia—”

“What?!”

“You’re digging your nails. It hurts.”

His arms dropped back to his sides, as if you were scalding hot.

“Now what’re you going to do? Your home…”

“I have no other choice other than traveling back to town.”

“Alone? In the middle of a war? You’re lucky enough I was willing to spare you, but I can’t guarantee other faes will do the same,” Again, his hands were on you. “You’re coming with me,”

Your mind stalled.

“Huh?” You followed him when he began heading in a direction only he knew where it ended. “Are you accompanying me towards the town?”

“Do I look like someone who has that much time to spare?” He squeezed your hand more. “I’ll take you to my camp,”

You stopped walking, pulling on his hand.

“You can’t be serious. Aren’t they going to kill me?”

“Dare anyone lay a hand on you, I’ll return the action tenfold.”

“How are you so sure they won’t dare hurt me?”

“Because I’m their general.”

“So, when were you planning on telling me that minuscule detail?” Your voice became increasingly louder as you spoke from shock. “That all this time, I’ve had the general in my home?!”

“You’re going to attract an enemy’s attention. Shut up,” he said, covering your mouth with his hand. “Let’s get going,”

You managed to escape unscathed from the fire but were exhausted from the stress of having to flee. You hugged yourself while you followed the general, fending off the chill of the night that was starting to seep into your being.

There was someone waiting by the camp’s entrance, and Lilia knew who that was.

“General, there you are!” The man’s green eyes fixed on you; sheer disdain reflected on them upon seeing you. “What’s that human doing here? They didn’t harm you, right?!”

“Quiet, Baur! This human is coming with me,” Lilia looked at you for a second. “This person is... who found me wounded back then,”

It seemed as if Lilia had mentioned you to this fae named Baur before your meeting.

“I trust you’ll keep this a secret. If the soldiers ask why this human is with us, tell them that they’re being held hostage to aid with manual labor,” Lilia had made up his mind. There was no way he would let you dive into danger.

“General… I trust your judgment above all, but—”

“My decision isn’t up for debate.”

Baur shifted his gaze back on you, unconvinced of the general’s judgment. Regardless, he recognized his position and didn’t object further.

You were drowsy. You didn’t notice you followed Lilia into his tent.

Lilia, too, occupied with his own musings, didn’t bat an eye at the arrangement.

"It would be a better idea if—" he turned around and saw you had already made yourself comfortable on his bed. You had shrugged your coat off in a messy manner, one sleeve still up your shoulder.

Acting out what felt natural, he kneeled on the makeshift mattress and finished pulling the sleeve off your body. Then he grabbed the blanket to place it over you, but you stopped him by putting your hand on his cheek.

"You look tired too," you noted with a whisper.

"Not more than you."

"My body's exhausted, but my mind's wide awake still," You moved your hand away from his cheek and reached behind him to slide the hair tie off. His ponytail became undone, locks of hair falling on either side of his face.

His hand snatched yours, albeit his face was flushed and his ears red. He held your gaze, bodies rising in temperature, until he couldn’t hold it anymore and leaned down to kiss you. It started as a vehement desire to demonstrate the feelings bottled up inside.

You weren’t faring any better, hugging him close to you despite how his fangs would bite down on your lip, almost drawing blood from his eagerness. Lilia rested his weight atop yours, pinning you down against the bed, hands wandering around your torso and squeezing what he could.

Breathless, Lilia pulled away, panting, his fangs peeking.

Intrigued by their shape, your thumb touched the pointy edge, feeling its puncture on the surface.

“Your fangs. They’re very sharp,” Your thumb moved away from the impressive canine teeth, preferring to graze it across his reddened bottom lip.

“Keep touching me like that, and I’ll use them to leave marks on that pretty neck of yours.”

You swiped your finger over his lip again.

His hand went straight to your head and pulled to expose your neck; a soft mewl escaped you. In no time, restless hands undid each other’s clothes in a haze. Lilia reminded you to avoid waking up the slumbering soldiers with your constant moans.

Had his mouth not been occupied slurping and sucking your clit, he would’ve had to control his voice too; Lilia had told you to get on top of him, baring your pussy in the most vulnerable way possible by placing your knees on either side of his head. You started by trying to not suffocate him, fearing that it might be too much—Lilia couldn’t care any less about that since he pulled you closer by your hips.

Sloppy—the very image of starving and making a mess between your legs. He guided your hips to move in backward and forward motions, just making it harder for you to quiet down. 

“Lilia,” you tried to warn him of your approaching orgasm.

One hand tightened on your hips when he sensed you trying to get off, while the other slid up the small of your back to push you forward, making it easier for him to reach your clit.

“I’m going to cum, Lilia. Please,” You weren’t even sure what you were asking for, but your hips trembled, and you didn't want that satisfaction to end.

You bit down on your hand to silence yourself when you reached your climax.

However, Lilia’s hunger wasn’t satiated. You felt as if he was about to pounce on you, which wasn’t far-fetched, because he proceeded to change positions and push you on your back.

You couldn’t hold back your whimpers as Lilia kept teasing your sensitive clit, trying to tell him you were still coming down from your orgasm, but your own mind betrayed you. Lilia’s grin was fiendish, adoring the way you were so responsive to him.

“That was all it took to get this pussy this drenched?” He fingered your hole, and beyond indecent sounds came from there. “Listen to that. You’re beyond soaked. Even the insides of your thighs are covered with your cum. Didn’t you enjoy that a little too much?” he teased.

“F-Fuck, shut up,” your cheeks burned from embarrassment.

He wasn’t better off himself either. Beads of precum both roll down his dick and drip on your thigh. With the same hand he masturbated you with, he used your slick to further lubricate his cock, even if it wasn’t necessary given how wet you were.

He aligned it with your entrance and pushed in, panting from how good you felt to him. The moment he was completely inside, he began thrusting with unparalleled pace. You bit your lip, along with teary eyes, making your best attempt at keeping your voice down. Lilia noticed you struggling and bent down to shut you up with his own lips. For that instance, the tempo staggered but was still thrusting hard.

Through your foggy mind, you wondered how such a slim body like his was able to muster this much force at such a rapid pace. How a fae with a pretty and charming face like his could be this debauched...

“Ah…” he moaned against your neck, hunger overriding any sense of rationality. Lilia hid his face in your neck, licking and kissing it.

Without you needing to tell him, the general busied his hand with your clit again, pushing you closer to an orgasm. At this point, he went back to that sloppy tempo, and your hands darted to his disheveled hair, tugging those lovely locks of magenta and black hair. You tugged slightly harder without you discerning as you orgasmed, your body quivering from the intensity of the climax. A small grunt left him and came shortly after you.

After a while of catching his breath, he pulled away and lied down next to you.

“You’re lucky these soldiers are heavy sleepers, and my tent isn’t close to theirs.”

You covered your face, realizing that you were basically surrounded by more faes. “I don’t want to show my face to them,”

Essentially, the soldiers were heavy sleepers thanks to the weariness of having to train early in the day, do manual work, fight, run up and down the mountain, and everything else. They didn’t hear a thing. As for Baur, however...

[solxamber]

Hey there! This is just a request but could you please do an unhinged reader x Leona(romantic)? Like, menace to society, 0 self preservation skills with questionable morals that just keeps bugging Leona out of boredom.

I guess the genre would be crack and you can basically choose the details.

Thank you❤️

Leona Kingscholar x unhinged Reader

thank you for this, I had so much fun writing this <3

Leona wasn’t sure why the universe had cursed him like this. Of all the people in the world, why you? Why had you, a walking disaster with all the survival instincts of a toddler with scissors, decided to latch onto him? And why did he fall for you?

And it wasn’t even in a cute, lovesick-puppy way. No, you were like a chaotic gremlin that had crawled out of some alternate dimension just to make his life worse.

“Leona, watch this!” You stood precariously on the edge of a crumbling wall, grinning like you were about to unveil the world’s greatest invention.

Leona didn’t even bother lifting his head from his nap spot under the tree. He’d learned that reacting only made you more encouraged. “If you fall, I’m not catching you.”

“That’s fine, I’ll just bounce!” you chirped back.

Leona opened one eye, an eyebrow twitching in disbelief. “You’re not a ball.”

“Not with that attitude,” you shot back, then proceeded to leap from the wall like you had just discovered flight. Spoiler alert: you had not. Gravity, however, was very familiar with you.

You crashed to the ground in a flurry of limbs and dust, groaning dramatically.

Leona sighed and got up with the enthusiasm of a sloth being asked to run a marathon. “You good, or should I call someone with a stretcher?”

You waved him off from your spot on the ground, laughing despite the fact that you were very clearly in pain. “No worries! Just testing my limits. Next time, I’ll stick the landing.”

“There better not be a next time.” Leona rubbed his temples, wondering how his life had come to this. “You’ve got the brain of a rock, y’know that?”

“Rocks are strong!” you shot back, scrambling to your feet, dusting yourself off like you hadn’t just risked spinal damage for absolutely no reason.

Leona turned to walk away, muttering, “Great. I’m babysitting a suicidal pebble.”

But, of course, you followed him. You always followed him. It was like you’d made it your life’s mission to annoy him into an early grave. He wasn’t sure if it was boredom, insanity, or both.

“Where are we going?” you asked, bounding beside him like some overexcited puppy.

“We’re not going anywhere. I’m going somewhere. You’re going away.”

“But that’s boring,” you whined, clearly oblivious to any and all social cues. “You’re so lazy! Don’t you ever want to do something exciting?”

Leona stopped dead in his tracks and turned to glare at you. “I don’t want to do anything exciting. Ever. I want to nap in peace, without you pulling some stupid stunt every five minutes.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Sounds like quitter talk. What if I found us something really fun to do?”

Leona gave you a deadpan look. “Fun by your standards means I’ll either end up in jail or hospitalized. No thanks.”

You grinned mischievously. “What if I told you I’ve got a plan to steal all of the fancy food from the Mostro Lounge? No one would even know it was us!”

Leona stared at you, trying to figure out how you’d come to this conclusion with a straight face. “We literally live in a dorm with a kitchen. If you want fancy food, just ask.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” You waggled your eyebrows. “Come on, live a little! You’re a lion, aren’t you supposed to be all fierce and stuff? You should be excited to commit some petty crime.”

Leona pinched the bridge of his nose. “First of all, lions don’t do crime sprees. Second, stealing isn’t a hobby. And third, if you try something stupid, don’t expect me to bail you out.”

“Oh please,” you waved him off, smirking. “You’d totally bail me out. You love me.”

Leona narrowed his eyes at you, opening his mouth to argue, but then closed it. Damn it, you had a point. He would bail you out. Probably. Begrudgingly.

But he wasn’t going to admit that.

“I tolerate you,” he corrected, turning on his heel and continuing to walk away.

“Aww, that’s practically a love confession coming from you!” You sprinted after him, making ridiculous heart gestures in the air. “Leona Kingscholar, prince of sarcasm and naps, tolerates me. I’m honored.”

Leona groaned. He’d tried ignoring you, scaring you off, threatening you with bodily harm (all of which you’d laughed off). And somehow, despite his best efforts, you were still here. Still determined to bring chaos into his otherwise peaceful life.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day,” Leona muttered as you fell into step beside him again. “And I’m not dragging your body out of trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” You waved him off, clearly not listening. “So, what’s for dinner? And can I challenge Ruggie to a spoon duel?”

Leona sighed heavily. Why were you like this? And why, despite every instinct telling him to ditch you in the Savanna, did he kind of, sort of… not hate it?

Great. Now you were rotting his brain with your nonsense. Just what he needed.

At least life wasn’t boring anymore.

Masterlist

[mypoisonedvine]

𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺 | ghostface!darren (pig) x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | he probably wasn't even invited to this party, because who would invite him? but he came anyways... just to torment you. far more than you could've imagined, in fact.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 | 2.5k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | NONCON DARK SMUT 18+ ONLY!!, public sex, degradation, pain kink, knife kink, a bit of predator/prey, blood kink, smoking, unprotected sex/implied risk of pregnancy, darren is kind of an incel lmao

It was a pretty traditional high school party— overcrowded, loud and sweaty, bad music and worse liquor— but at least the sea of costumes, ranging from scary to silly to sexy, added at least some new layer of interest to the whole thing.

You hadn’t tried very hard with your devil costume— more accurately an attempt at a ‘sexy devil’ costume— but you put on horns and heels with a tight red dress and nobody can really complain.  You weren’t really here to get into the ‘spooky spirit’ or whatever anyways, just an excuse to drink and maybe chat with some people you’d been missing.

The person you ended up chatting to right in that moment, though, was exactly the last person you wanted to talk to.

You didn’t even know there was someone behind you until you felt him press up to your back, suddenly hovering right by you.  “Want a drink?” he asked, shoving a cup towards you, but you were too busy nearly jumping out of your skin to care— you almost knocked the drink over, actually some of it did splash onto another partygoer, but she was too drunk to notice.

“Fuck!” you yelped, turning to see the gangly boy behind you.  “Christ, Darren, do you have to always sneak up on a girl like that?”

He just smiled and tried to offer the drink to you again.

“M’already holding one,” you pointed out with a frown, “didn’t ya notice?”

“O-oh yeah,” he mumbled, lowering the cup finally.  “Costume looks good.”

“Thanks,” you shrugged, though you suddenly felt the urge to tug down the bottom of your dress.

“You’re not worried what the boys are gonna think with you dressed like that?” he asked, and you glared at him as you shoved his shoulder.  

“Don’t you think before you open your fuckin’ mouth?” you spat.  “What are you, anyway?”

The black robes didn’t really tell you anything— not until he reached behind his head and pulled a Ghostface mask over his face.

“Oh,” you snorted, “not the most original, is it?”

“Don’t like t’movie?” he wondered as he pulled the mask back again.

“I mean, it’s pretty good,” you relented, “but—”

“You wanna fuck ‘im, don’t you?” he insisted suddenly with a lascivious grin. 

“What?” you squinted.

“Ghostface,” he clarified, “you’re one of the girls who thinks he’s fit, yeah?”

“Why are you always such a creep?” you asked him with a grimace, but then you decided to change the topic quickly.  “Kinda thought you’d be a pig or something,” you admitted, “with the nickname and all.”

“Nah, that’s stupid,” he rolled his eyes, crossing his arms— which made you notice the prop knife in his hand.  It actually looked pretty good, shinier than most plastic costume knives.

Just then, Jimmy O’Doyle sauntered up beside you, slipping his arm around your shoulders.  “Ay, little devil,” he greeted, flicking the red horns on your head as you smiled sheepishly.

He hardly acknowledged Darren, spare for a quick nod, but Darren was staring at Jimmy for a little too long before he looked at you again.

“Thought you said you didn’t want a boyfriend,” Darren said sharply, glowering a bit.

Jimmy scoffed and you shifted uncomfortably; Darren tended to be… what’s the word… desperate?  Clingy?  Overall bizarre?  He certainly couldn’t take much of a hint.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said first, though that didn’t really matter— you didn’t need any reason to reject Darren, outside of your natural self-preservation instinct.  He actually wasn’t bad-looking, but it was hard to tell past those leering eyes and the uncomfortable smile.  He wasn’t smiling now though… he looked quietly enraged, sipping pointedly on his drink as he glanced away for a moment.  

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Jimmy smirked at you, hardly waiting for your nod before disappearing back into the crowd.

Suddenly, as you felt Darren’s livid gaze from awkwardly close, you decided that you needed a little fresh air.  And by that, you really meant a cigarette.

Not wanting to tell Darren that you were going outside for a smoke, you instead mumbled some excuse about going to the loo— somewhere he was just sane enough not to follow you to— and bumped through the crowd until you found a door out into the neighbourhood.

There was a slight drizzle still going outside— more of a misting, really— that made everything all foggy and grey, spare for the yellow-y glow of the streetlamps dotting the way.  It wasn’t a full moon, as cool as that would be, but near to one… regardless, it wasn’t visible behind low, dark clouds, leaving the night starless and dreary.  There wasn’t much to look at in the alley as you lit your cigarette and took slow drags from it, so as you stared blankly forward at brick walls with chipping whitewash, your mind wandered a bit.  Nothing of great merit: upcoming assignments, the possibility of an afterparty, the lingering hope you could find a steamy hook-up for the night… you didn’t just put this outfit on for the pictures.

Before you could get too far into your imagination, you were startled by a distant sound, jumping slight as your head turned towards it— but it was just the dark alley, not much to see.  You squinted, trying to make out movement in the shadows, but for quite a while you couldn’t see anything.

Only when you turned your head back forward with a shrug was there any sign of what you’d heard, just a shift in the corner of your eye.  You looked at it again, and you hated to admit it, but your heart froze up for a second when that white face emerged from the darkness.

Of course, you gave your best unaffected scoff when you actually processed what you were looking at.

“Quit it, Darren,” you warned, willing your voice to sound stable as you shouted down the road towards him, “you’re not gonna scare me.”

You watched him move closer, stepping into the light so you could see him better, and tried to ignore the way the hairs on your neck stood up.  If he knew he was getting to you, he’d just keep doing it; you rolled your eyes and took a drag through your cigarette to try to seem nonchalant… but you had to stop your hand from shaking just a bit.  Only because it was chilly out, surely…

You thought it was a joke— a stupid joke, but still just a joke— until he dragged his knife along the brick wall as he stalked toward you.  The sharp, high-pitched screech of metal against stone was unmistakable… and that was how you realised it was a real knife.  A very sharp, very real knife; he’s going to actually kill me, you thought, just before you let out a primal and instinctive scream.

Turning on your heel, you ran as fast as you could.  Each rapid pulse of your heart pumped adrenaline through your veins, and you felt so shaky that you worried the light night breeze would knock you over.  

These were far from running shoes, though— they were pretty excruciating to just stand in, actually— and it was only a few blocks of a chase before you tripped.  Yelping in pain, you tried to scramble up or even crawl forward… but just as you rolled over and winced from landing on your hip, you saw him stalking forward into the flickering light of a streetlamp.

He was probably just going to take the mask off and laugh at you, right?  Reveal the whole thing was a silly prank and the knife was fake and that he just wanted to prove you were scared of him.  Yes, that would be the most sane thing for him to do at that moment, even after being so not-sane by chasing you with a knife.  Instead, as you tried to crawl back, he just tilted his masked head curiously at you, and with his free hand reached down and palmed at his groin.  He was hard— you could see the outline of it through his costume, his hips rocking forward slightly into his palm as you heard a muffled hiss from his mouth.

He knelt down and grabbed your kicking legs, roughly yanking you closer and hovering above you menacingly.  “C’mon and scream for me,” he ordered with a delighted purr, pulling his mask back, laughing when what came out of you was more of a wail or sob instead.  “Louder, y’little whore—”

“Get off me!” you shrieked, trying to fight him away, whining as he laid down over you instead and licked your neck.  You turned your head with a grimace, shuddering as his weight pinned you against the slightly-damp pavement.

“G’na show Pig how tight the little hole gets when you’re scared— aren’t ya, fuckin’ slut?”

“Be serious, Darren— s’not funny, get away from me!”

You struggled less when he flashed the knife; as little as you could, in fact you actually nearly froze as he teased you with it, running the tip down the front of your dress with just enough pressure to pop a few sequins off, making you whimper in terror.  He laughed, though— a small, dark, chuckle.  “Quiet now,” he noticed.  “Don’t make a fuss, sweetheart.”

You had to bite your lip to hide a shout, though, when a gloved hand up slipped under your short dress, grabbing greedily at your lacy panties.  He licked his teeth, bared by his grin, as he stared at you with those haunting eyes of his.  “Wet, aren’tcha, girl?” he taunted— not that he’d be able to feel it through his black gloves, but past your own groaning you could almost hear it (though you tried not to).

“You’re such a creep!” you spat, though you tried to regulate your tone as you glanced at his knife again, held against you by one of his hands on your arm; maybe part of you still thought he would stop and admit it was a joke, but the darkness in his stare made you doubt that more and more.  The gravity of the situation still hadn’t really set in yet— sure, you were coursing with fear and had goosebumps all over, but it didn’t totally feel real.

“Won’t take too long,” he promised with a sigh as he hastily tugged his costume out of the way, still pinning you down with one hand (if not as effectively).  When he roughly yanked his cock out, proudly brandishing it between your legs as your eyes went wide… that’s when it felt real.

“Don’t,” you gasped instantly, looking up at him with pleading eyes.  “Don’t, Darren, please— you can’t—”

“Shh,” he hissed quickly, “s’good— gonna feel good, alright?”

He gasped loudly as he pushed inside you, eyes shutting tight before he dropped his head down onto your chest.  “Fuck, girl— what’s a whore cunt so tight for?”

Not wasting any time, he pulled his hips back and roughly thrusted forward into you again, making you choke on your cry.

“S’for me, isn’t it?” he decided with a sick sort of grin.  “Want Pig to feel good?  Like t’squeeze the thick cock, don’t ya?”

“I— I fuckin’ hate you,” you whimpered, shutting your eyes tight, in disgusted disbelief that this was happening— that it was him inside you, holding you down.  But you couldn’t forget it, not with him moaning and purring above you, mumbling stuttered praises… and the feeling of it, it was impossible to ignore, as much as you hoped to somehow.  It was a deep stretch, each thrust making your chest tighten out of more than just fear.

“Mmf, fuck,” he grunted, holding onto you tighter— another reminder he still had that fucking knife.  “Pretty— it’s a pretty thing… it’s warm inside…”

Grimacing, you hated the way your body responded to his lewd comments about it; your walls clenched on him slightly, you could tell by the way you felt even more sore inside than before.

He pressed the knife up against your neck, growling in amusement at your wince of fear.  “Think Pig’s gonna slice you?”

“I… I don’t know,” you stammered out your answer, eventually.

“Waste of a pretty face, no?” he smirked, moving the knife up and caressing the side of your face with it— not that it could really be called a caress, all rigid and cold like that… “Say please.”

“Huh?”

“Say please,” he repeated, “beg me not to hurt you.”

“Already are,” you sneered at him, but he pressed the knife to your neck with a little more intention— a little more pressure, a wild look in his eyes suddenly— as he insisted again.

“Wanna hear you beg,” he spat.  “Do it or Piggy might hurt you worse.”

“Please, please,” you whispered shakily, shutting your eyes.  “Please don’t, Darren…”

You gasped sharply as he pressed the knife down just enough to draw a thin line of blood, only to pull the blade away and lick hungrily at the wound.  Feeling dizzy and sick, you winced at the sting of his tongue lapping at your pierced skin, lips wrapping around and suckling as teeth dug painfully into your pulse.

He thrusted faster, recklessly so, and bit down on his lip as he breathed heavier.  You were too focused on how painfully deep he was going to really process anything when he started to slow down— that is, you felt that he was slowing down, and didn’t think for a minute about why he was slowing down.  

His loud, low groan gave it away; you snapped back to reality and looked up at him in a new kind of fear.  “Fuck, Darren, did you just—?!” you whimpered, squirming harder as you realised what he’d done.

“Shh, shh,” he soothed you sharply, hissing as he grabbed a tight hold of your hip.  “Stay fuckin’ still, girl— fuck, I’m still coming—”

You yelped and tried harder to fight him off, but he kept you pinned down easily, even forcing you into a rough and sloppy kiss.

He sighed into it after a second, relaxing on top of you until it was a little hard to breathe under his weight.  You whined and tried to break away, but the hand with the knife still in it held your jaw, the cold metal pressing threateningly against your face.

Whimpering and blinking up at him, you met his icy gaze and he smiled proudly down at you.  “Little devil, eh?” he smirked as he toyed with your horned headband, which had become quite dishevelled from all the running and struggling.  “Your blood matches the outfit— poor whore, red all over…”

“Darren,” you choked, fighting a sob of disbelief as you felt him pull out of you with a hiss— a steady, sticky leak giving away how much he’d come.  “What the fuck did you do?”

“Don’t be fussin’, girl, like I said,” he rolled his eyes, though he was still grinning wide.  “Ready to go back to the party now?  Or do you just want Pig to take y’home, sweetheart?” 

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

K follow me Astarion just sees tav like loving on children wherever they go and hes like?????

And tavs like ive always wanted my own child but i didn't wabt to ask you with every

This sends poor starion into a crisis does he was children how many

I think I have followed you. Let's see!

So for this one we got a lil time jump, ambiguous and vague setting and timelines with game spoilers present. M/F pairing because that is my go to and pregnancy is mentioned. Vampiric pregnancy also so there is some weirdness there (i made it up no idea if it's dnd accurate). Vague Tav backstory of a wonderful mother and going off to become a cleric.

~

Astarion was well used to your antics by this point. You had a severe lack of instincts linked to self-preservation, which led to a consistent pattern of doing, frankly, stupid shit. Stupid, but kind. Nothing that Astarion hadn't adapted to, after nearly two years of being attached at the hip you became pretty attuned to your lover's personality.

He could even go as far as to say that he had grown to love your annoying predilection for pious morality. Perhaps he loved talking you out of certain virtuous dangers more, but still. He appreciated who you were, he adored who you were. But Astarion was no saint, despite his insistence on attaching himself to one.

Which is exactly why he was far from amused when you signed him up to babysit a couple of brats. All for acquittances he barely cared about.

But you at least had the good grace to look guilty, "I didn't mean to! But she looked so tired and she said their anniversary was coming up and it's not like we got anything for their wedding-"

That was a nice try, one that Astarion wasn't falling for, "We didn't know of their existence when they got married darling. Just because I can't remember their names doesn't mean you can trick me."

"I'm not trying to trick you!" You whined, arms crossed as you pouted. It sure felt like a trick, especially when Astarion knew that you were well-aware how easily he fell for your sulking. Adorable little monster that you were, "It's only three kids and a baby for one night, it won't be that bad! You don't even have to help-"

Astarion rolled his eyes as he sat next to you on the bed, "I didn't say I wouldn't help."

That seemed to do the trick to get the pout off of your face. You perked up immediately, looking at him like you couldn't quite believe it, "Really?"

"Yes, really," Astarion sighed as you tugged you closer. Sure he liked to bitch, but he really would do anything for you. Even extremely annoying things like this, "I'm not going to sit back and feed you to the wolves."

"They're not wolves! The oldest is barely five," You laughed as you let him manhandle you, settling you into his lap, "And I am sorry, I really wasn't thinking. I promise it won't happen again."

Astarion doubted that, not when he was well-versed of your weak spot for children. No matter where you went you couldn't help but fawn over them, not to mention the insane lengths you would go to keep any child safe. It was a complete and utter blind spot, your kindness extending to them all, even the little scam artists and hellions.

It was sweet, if not extremely worrying at first. Astarion had been terrified of you finding out his past. The things that he had been forced to do, the innocents whose lives he had destroyed. But not only did you find out, you were forced to see it. Both of you were, and it had been worse than anything Astarion could have imagined. He had always found a slight comfort knowing that those he captured would at least die quickly, that at the very least they wouldn't suffer the same agonizing fate as he, just an agonizing death. But no, even that small comfort had been a lie. The horror of finding them all down there has yet to be matched. He had never felt more self-loathing, more pure disgust than the moment he had found those children, tortured and pale, all because of him.

How you didn't see him for the wretched thing he was after all that, Astarion wasn't sure. But he was grateful. You were too good for him. A fact that he was devastatingly aware of, but that wasn't going to stop him from keeping you.

He still thinks about it on occasion, despite the fact that he had done all he could to right his wrongs. They all at least had a chance now to have a life worth living, Astarion could only hope that it would be used. Their future was out of his hands now, a small comfort.

But despite his complicated feelings towards children, he was more than capable of handling them for one evening. And in all honesty, he truly didn't have to do much. He was on self-mandated baby duty, because of course you had to help out the infant that would scream bloody murder unless it was being held. Keeping her tucked against him was a move of self-preservation, if he ever wanted to retain his hearing.

Most of the night was spent amused as he watched you entertain a gaggle of toddlers. You were so... creative with the ways you could defuse their antics. It came to you so naturally, nearly like you were a born mother yourself. It wasn't exactly surprising that you were fantastic with children, he had seen it time and time again. Arabella, Mol, Yenna, all of which still wrote you letters, visited occasionally. Staying forever attached, even from a distance.

Now that Astarion thought about it, it was odd that you weren't a mother. Odder still that you hadn't never even brought up the possibility of having children together. You were usually so open with your wants and always encouraging the same from him. Just one more thing he loved about you. But... why hadn't it been mentioned? Astarion had always assumed it was because you didn't truly want any of your own, that you enjoyed their fun innocence while avoiding the more laborious responsibility of raising them.

Though watching you take care of them all, changing diapers and negotiating silly arguments with a soft smile of your face had him rethinking his assumption.

"You're good with them," Astarion said eventually after you had successfully set the older three down for the night, the baby still stubbornly clinging to him, "I don't think there's a child we've met that doesn't adore you."

You laughed quietly, walking over to kiss him softly on the cheek. Your eyes wandered to the sleeping infant in his arms, still holding a piece of his shirt in it's little fist, "You don't seem to be too bad with them either."

"Newborns don't know any better," Astarion dismissed as he tried to put her down in their borrowed crib. Tried and failed, considering how the thing immediately started to whine the second he attempted to pry it's little hand away.

Oh for fuck's sake. Astarion wasn't even going to try and argue. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall into the crib with her, seemingly doing the trick of stopping her from waking completely.

When he turned back you were staring at him with soft eyes, looking lovestruck at the simple act of him laying a child down, "Looks like she has pretty good taste to me."

"I don't think your judgment should be trusted," Astarion huffed as he walked over to you, grabbing your hand to drag you to the bedroom. He glanced back at you, his heart nearly skipping a beat from the sweet way you kept looking at him. It had his mind wandering again, those questions still nagging him.

Questions that he didn't have the courage to ask until dead of night, when he had you half asleep against his bare chest, "Have you ever thought of having children?"

He hadn't meant to blurt that out in the middle of the night, but Astarion apparently had a knack for starting important conversations at inconvenient times. Not that you minded.

You just cuddled into him closer, nodding against him with a sigh, "I've always wanted my own children. My own mother, Gods bless her soul, made it all sound so magical. Pregnancy, the early years, puberty, all of it. She loved it all. And I guess it rubbed off on me. It used to be all I could think about, before real life got in the way."

Astarion listened, a little annoyed at himself for not putting the pieces together sooner. You had talked so lovingly about your late parents, how you always wanted to be like your mother. Of course you would want children. How had he not connected the dots?

"But then I went off to the temple," You continued, "I completed my training, went off into the world to do good, blah, blah, blah. You know the story."

"So you grew out of the idea?" Astarion asked.

"Not exactly," You admitted, sounding a little guilty, "But I would never ask that of you love, it's not something you have to worry about."

That-what?

Astarion stared down at you, brow furrowed, "What do you mean?"

"I mean I know that the topic of children is... difficult for you. Considering everything you've been through-"

"I think you mean to say everything I've inflicted on others," Astarion interrupted, unwilling to allow himself grace. Especially when it came to the children of the Gur, "It was much worse for them than me."

You nodded, knowing better than to try and fight him on that particular topic, "I understand, but my point is that I can live without them. You're all I need."

It was comforting to hear, an immediate balm to a brand new set of insecurities that Astarion hadn't been prepared for. But even so... he hated the idea of you sacrificing even more for him. It felt wrong, "But-"

"But nothing," You interrupted softly, setting a quick kiss to his mouth, I'm serious Astarion, you don't need to worry. I'm happy, I love you, and everything is fine."

"I love you too," Astarion murmured, at a loss to say anything else. But the conversation didn't end there.

Astarion couldn't stop thinking about it, even long after the temporary children were sent back home. ou seemed so... sure that he didn't want children, and a week ago he probably would have agreed. But that was back before he knew that he was actively keeping you away from something you wanted. Something you had dreamed about since you were a child. And it felt wrong to be the reason for that, so, so wrong.

He didn't even know if his true feelings on the matter were real. He didn't want children for many of the same reasons he never wanted a partner. The attachment to another was dangerous, he was beyond unequipped to deal with others, let alone care for them, and the entire ideology behind love was ripe for manipulation and heart break. But then he met you and everything changed. Suddenly, caring for another didn't feel like a weakness, it felt like the strongest aspect of his entire self. Taking care of you wasn't an unwanted duty, it was intimacy. Something that he now craved. If all of those steadfast ideals could fall apart simply through meeting you, whose to say he could even trust himself when it came the thoughts around having a child?

Would having one truly be so bad? A little piece of the two of you, alive in the world? And perhaps children were annoying but... Astarion would be lying if he said he didn't have a soft spot for them. He had kept his distance before, but now he was fully confident that he wasn't a danger, no with Cazador burned to nothing bus ash and his own bloodlust well controlled. And it's not as if he was incapable of being a father, worse men than him did it everyday.

It was a confusing place to be, this tightwire of indecisiveness. Confusing enough for him to start a bit of research. He was vaguely aware that it was possible for his kind to breed, but finding out the details was disheartening, to say the least. First he had to parse out the different horror stories of babes eating their way out of their mother's wombs with actual facts, which wasn't exactly pleasant. But the truth was that it was more than possible for the two of you to have child together. It had the potential to either be as noneventful as any pregnancy, with the cavate that the babe coming out looking slightly... dead wouldn't be a permanent state of being. Or it could be as risky as carrying a child could be, with pains and complications galore, even legitimate worries of internal bleeding from the wretched thing prematurely growing claws. Not to mention the occasional, intense blood lust that could occur, an experience that Astarion would prefer you didn't have to go to.

Looking into the reality of the choice didn't help as much as he had assumed it would. If anything it just made the whole situation more real. Even if he wasn't a vampiric spawn, childbirth was risky. Maybe not as risky for you considering how Astarion would move the heavens and hells to get you the best care possible, but still. The thought of you passing, leaving him alone with the child you wanted and would never see, would destroy him. Completely and utterly.

But then again... there was the magical alternative of everything working out just fine. The two of you were both beyond lucky in that regard, considering how you'd overcome mind flayer parasites and fought and won against a near god. It was more than possible that everything would be fine, that you would have a beautiful pregnancy that would end in an even more amazing child. Then two would become three, a family of his very own.

That... didn't sound too bad. Astarion was torn. On one hand, he was almost certain that he was willing to go through with it. Not just because he loved you and wanted you to be happy, though it was the main reason. But also because... he could be a part in making something good. A child that would never suffer the way he did, the way countless others had. One who would be loved, who would have the help they needed for their inevitable unholy hungers. Someone precious for the two of you to fret over, to adore and care for. He... wanted that. Or at least he would if you still did. Now if he could just figure out how to bring it up, maybe something could actually happen.

But luckily enough for him, you did the job for him. He had been pouring over another book dedicated to recording the births of Dhampirs in the area, only to be distracted by you loudly sighing behind him.

"What's wrong love?" Astarion asked, his eyes still scanning the page in front of him.

"Oh I don't know," You sighed, rounding the corner to sit on the edge of his desk, "I just can't help but wonder when you're going to explain why you've suddenly become obsessed with parenting books. And..."

You trailed off, ignoring his surprised expression to read the cover of what was in front of him, "'Vampiric and Mortal Love & The Spawn They Create'. It's not exactly your usual reading material."

Part of Astarion wanted to be surprised that you had already figured him out. He had at least been trying to hide things from you slightly, not that it mattered when you could read him like a book. And he supposed that blatantly reading things like this in front of you would eventually have an effect, even if he tried to obscure the titles.

But that didn't stop him from stuttering through a response, "Well-I, okay. I've just been thinking about options lately. Which you can't really do if you don't understand what they are. Hence the books."

You frowned at him, one leg crossed over the other, "Star, I already told you that you don't need to worry-"

"But I want to worry," Astarion interrupted, deciding that ripping the band-aid off would be the best course of action, "And if there is something I can be doing to make you happier than I should at least consider it."

"I'm not going to force you into this for that," You said softly, reaching out to twine his fingers against yours, "This isn't the kind of thing you do just for someone else."

Astarion was aware of that, there was an important truth to your words. But... "What if it wasn't just for you?"

You paused, your brow furrowed as you stared at him, "What do you mean?"

"I mean what if, and consider this purely hypothetical, what if I wanted one as well. What then?" It was as far from hypothetical as Astarion could get, but by the look on your face it didn't seemed like that needed to be clarified.

You swallowed, looking just shy of hopeful as you played with his hand, "I... well. I guess in that case we would have a lot to talk about."

That wasn't quite the answer he was looking for. He pressed on, "So if in theory, I did want one. Would... you still be interested in having one?"

With me?

He left that part unsaid as he waited for an answer, uncharacteristically nervous as you mulled it over. But you were smiling, bright and wide, giving his hand a little squeeze as you spoke, "I think that would be the only scenario where I would want it. If that's something you wanted."

"I think it is," Astarion answered honestly, done with being coy, "I don't know how, I... I'm not quite sure how I feel about you carrying something that could be dangerous. But... in general yes. I think I want this. I do want this. With you and only you. Whenever your ready."

The next part Astarion did see coming, his arms already open by the time you launched yourself at him. You straddled his lap, kissing every part of his face as you babbled, "We can wait! It doesn't need to be now but-I just-yes! Adoption, childbirth, I don't care. All I need is to have them with you. That's all I want."

"And that I can give," Astarion laughed, delighted at your reaction. He still had concerns, plenty of them in fact, but they were hard to consider when the woman he adored was so ecstatic.

He gripped your chin, chuckling at the whine you let out for him interrupting your onslaught of affection. You didn't have to wait long, not when he directed your mouth against his, kissing you deeply as a new wave of exciting, and slightly nauseating feelings worked through him.

He didn't know exactly what was going to happen in the future. He had no idea if he would be a good father, but he knew that he would try his damndest. He didn't know how the two of you would even procure a child, but he did no one thing.

With you by his side, it would work out. All of it, no matter how hard the road turned out to be. And that was all that mattered.

[l0vem41l]

mean when i'm nervous.

「 tws + notes: no tws, unedited as BAWLS, dc writer newbie but im very enthusiastic abt the comics and shows and movies, dog metaphor but insane and unsubtle, explicitly vigilante!reader in dick grayson’s part, dramatic asf but not really angst 」

「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic <3 」

↳ ft. bruce wayne, clark kent, richard "dick" grayson, and john constantine

author's note: so. we all know what my favourite thing right now is (⌒_⌒;) i still adore everything i used to write for,,, but i’ve been on my comic motives recently (*ﾟｰﾟ*) ! reading dc mostly but spider-noir and deadpool have been picked up along the way!!! um. anyways. if i get comfy enough, i might do more dc stuff but i get that this isn't my exact audience on this blog— sorry my loves (´＿｀。) </3 might write a part two cuz i love jason. and booster gold. and like every single one of them (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) halfway through writing this i realized everything feels very literal, so i feel the need to mention that this is not dog hybrid reader stuff but if u fw that u can imagine it that way

perhaps the habit of burning bridges you’re actively crossing isn’t a good idea. and you’re not an idiot, not in the slightest— but even if you were, everyone knows that needless self destruction when developing relationships is counterproductive.

you strike the match anyways, like it’s just a force of habit. another instinct.

if you spent life knowing that the hand only beats. why would you expect it to do anything else when it’s lowered towards you?

you learn to keep your hopes down, ears alert, and teeth sharp. you learn to get used to the taste of blood. to make things messy and complicated, and to end things when they need to be ended, because god knows it’s only self preservation when you do it.

you learn that the only way to survive is to bite— to hurt before something hurts you.

and one day, an unfamiliar hand that extends towards you decides to feed instead.

why do you still bare your teeth?

▸ BRUCE is unsure why he sticks around. he’s understanding, but also reasonably frustrated with your antics. it doesn’t evade him that they stem from something deeply rooted in your past— but he doesn’t know what to do about it. if there is anything to do.

at his core, he's a detective. he's got an eye for digging into strange pasts and a knack for knowing things he isn't supposed to. but in spite of his paranoia and hunger to know, bruce doesn't pry too much. he can do research on his own, without you ever having to realize.

you’re self-sufficient, he’ll give you that. you’re unsure sometimes of whether he’s proud that you can take care of yourself or irritated that you consistently insist on doing so. he’s unsure too. not like he lets you know.

it’s a mutual understanding the two of you share— he stays, you bite. yet bruce, unsurprisingly, doesn’t mind being bitten. he’d hope that the reason he’s sticking around is for the selfless reason of making sure you’re alright. though, the reality is, you’ve grown on him, whether you realize or not.

bruce has always been fond of strays.

▸ CLARK is nothing but patient. and that scares you beyond reason.

he sees the way you bare your teeth whenever someone gets too close for comfort to you. he knows when to back away, when to speak, when not to— he’s always attempting to never make you feel backed into a corner.

somehow, it makes you more anxious seeing just how much he understands about you. he knows just how to coax you out of the corner of your cage, how to bring you in closer, and it almost, almost convinces you to let your guard down.

the thought of that is terrifying.

you try barking, you try biting— and none of it works. clark doesn’t coddle you when you’re wrong— but he’s absolutely nothing but gentle. patient and understanding, sometimes you wonder how a man of steel can be so soft for someone like you.

▸ DICK isn’t dumb. it’s fairly easy for him to put two and two together. quickly, he figures out what he’s dealing with when he encounters you.

his conversations with you are never without a note of levity— a deliberate action on his end, you’re certain. he knows, you know, and because of it, everything feels oddly tense around him, even with the attempts to banter.

it’s too late to run. his observant gaze has caught a glimpse of you through your one way glass, and he’s chosen to meet your eyes with a smile. there's a sense of foreboding that gnaws at your gut, anxiously anticipating what might be lurking under that grin of his.

on his end, there are no malicious intentions. he doesn’t really have ulterior motives when it comes to you.

most times, he chooses to defend you and be the one standing at your side when no one else does. you don't understand why he insists on offering you friendship when all you do is pull away.

after a long night of patrolling the streets of gotham, you find the two of you leaning on the railing of a rooftop side by side. your eyes are on this cityscape of gotham. his are on you.

“you keep on insisting i’m not as bad as i seem,” you mutter under your breath.

late nights make for loose lips. he’s pleasantly surprised to hear you continue the thought instead of attempting to take it back.

“do you just hate being right?” you snort, allowing your gaze to flit over to him just for a second.

"no." dick smiles, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “i think you just hate the fact that i could be.”

▸ you tried not to bother with CONSTANTINE. the day the two of you met, you didn’t even introduce yourself.

john constantine’s presence alone reeks of trouble, as acrid and suffocating as the cigarette smoke that clings to his tan trenchcoat. you are attuned to things like that. he notices.

one thing you actually enjoy about him? he doesn’t chase. he’s a nosy one, for certain, sticking his nose into places no one in their right mind would— but for the most part, he steers clear of yours. initially, you think it’s because your urge to be left alone by him is so prevalent that he’s just chosen to heed the warning and not approach when unwanted.

but he’s not a man known for abiding by rules. he’s much more curious with you than you notice or prefer. in a way, your distance has made you more myth than man, more tale than tangible— you are a rumor passed through whispers between lips, a silent shadow lurking in the corner of the room… and he loves a good mystery.

“c’mon. you're actin’ like ‘m gonna bite your head off, luv,” he chuckles, lighting up the cigarette between his fingers.

i'd probably be the one doing that if i got any closer. you keep that thought in your head, standing with a gap between the two of you as always.

he doesn't miss how you avoid looking into his eyes like his gaze could murder, instead, focusing your gaze on the cherry of the cig, burning bright red.

“not much for a wee natter, hm?”

the quick shake of your head only makes his smirk grow. you could just walk away… so why exactly were you sticking around?

“fine by me. quiet company’s welcome.” that’s a sentence he’d probably never say to anyone else. in a strange way, he feels like he knows you well enough to be comfortable with the words that hang in the air.

it’s weird. you’re completely unknown, and yet, an irrational part of his mind keeps nagging at him to look just a little closer at you. sometimes, when he listens to it, he catches a glimpse of something silent in your eyes— an all too familiar pain of a person who can’t help but hurt the things that they cling onto.

so that’s why you’re keen on keeping everyone at arms length. it almost makes him laugh to think how similar the two of you are, plain as day, and yet unnoticed by you— a person who won’t even meet his eyes.

— reblogs always appreciated!

[simmplerussiangirl]

The courting

Sevika x Reader

Synopsis: Sevika had never been courted, bought her a drink, given her flowers and candy, or insisted on socializing. And then she came into her life.

Word count:2.3k

a/n: I love Sevika with all my heart. God, I hope my future wife will be like her. Otherwise, I don't see the point of moving on with my life lol.

- Wow,” I said, running my hand across the table where a girl of unimaginable beauty was sitting. She was smoking a cigarette and doing something with her mechanical arm, apparently fixing it. - So beautiful and alone. And bored.

 I sat down on the chair opposite the girl. Smiling with all her 32 teeth, I examined her without shyness. Her cheekbones were the first thing that caught my eye, and it looked like you could cut yourself if you swiped them. Oh, and what that look was worth.... She was looking at me angrily from under her forehead with her deep dark brown eyes. Her bushy eyebrows were pulled down to the bridge of her nose.

- Get out of here,” she looked down at her hand again, painstakingly fixing some part of it.

 I laughed softly and leaned on my palm, watching her movements with rapt attention. A lock of short, dark hair fell over her eyes, and she jerked her head to remove it. Allowing me to see her powerful neck, its veins bulging.

- I wouldn't dream of it - I smiled again - What did you say your name was?

 The girl looked at me again unhappily, taking a cigarette in her healthy hand and taking a puff.

- 'I didn't say my name. Get out of here before I spoil your face.

- Oh, you like it rough,” I laughed, and leaned back in my chair, watching her look of surprise, then curved my lips in a squeamish way and returned to my hand. - Don't worry, I like that too. I won't leave you until you tell me your name, you must understand that.

The girl snorted contemptuously.

-Sevika- -she angrily tapped her mechanical arm, she was clearly having trouble with it.

-Wonderful, I'm Sophie,” I smiled captivatingly as she looked at me angrily.

 I got up from the table and walked over to her, leaning slightly toward her face. Sevika pulled her head back sharply, which made me giggle slightly.

- You didn't put the spring in, Sevika - I sweetly held out the girl's name tasting it and held out my palm to her with the piece from her hand - Here you go.

 I watched with amusement as bewilderment and then rage grew in her. But by the time she realized that I had deliberately snatched the piece from her to ask her name, I was gone.

 Luckily my instinct for self-preservation was there.

***

The next time we met was at the same bar about a week after the hand incident.

 As I walked into the bar, I saw her sitting back in the spot where I usually hung out. “That's a sign,” I thought as I squeezed my way to the bar through a layer of drunk people.

-Tommy darling, hello there-” I sent the bartender an air kiss, ”I have a life and death question for you.

 The bartender laughed softly and walked over to me. Having a man behind the bar was a plus. He's a drinking buddy, a friend, an informant.

-I'm listening. - He said in a humble voice, leaning toward me so he could hear me better.

-Remember what a girl named Sevika usually orders? - I made the most pleading eyes I could and folded my fingers crosswise.

-I remember. -What is it?

-Tommy, you're my savior! - I jumped up and down and clapped my hands together - Make it my usual and add Sevika's order to the bill.

 He smiled suspiciously, but didn't ask anything, just went off to make drinks, muttering something to himself and shaking his head.

 -He handed the drinks to me, but as soon as I reached for them, he pulled them back to him, forcing me to look at him. “But be warned, she might hit you, so don't get too excited.

- Don't worry, it'll be fine,” I put the money on the bar, took the drinks and went to the girl. - “I love you,” I whispered with just my lips to him.

-Darling, what a reunion.

 I happily walked over to the girl and placed the mug with her drink beside her and sat down on the chair across from her again.

- You again? - she frowned and looked at me unhappily.

- Me again. Did you miss me? - I took a sip from my glass and nodded toward her, “Help yourself.

- What if you poison me? No thanks,” she pushed away the drink I'd brought her.

- Hey, I bought it for you. Do you want me to sip it? - I pouted my lips and stared naively into her eyes.

- No.” She cut me off and got up from the table.

 I turned my head to see where she was going. Sevika was leaving the bar. I rolled my eyes and clucked my tongue as I sipped my drink again, staring unhappily at the mug I'd brought for her.

 I stared at the glass for about ten minutes, and finally, unable to stand it, I slammed my foot down on the table, and the drink fell to the floor, spilling over.

 This drinking scheme always worked, so why did this girl refuse? I sighed heavily and got up from the table, heading home. I wasn't in the mood anymore.

***

The next time we crossed paths was late at night. I was coming home from a bar when Sevika and some blue-haired girl came out of the fog to meet me.

- Sevika dear, what meeting? - I smiled drunkenly and saluted her with my hand - Going to the bar with your girlfriend?

- She's not my girlfriend - the girl with blue hair snorted and ran forward behind my back, seemingly not wanting to see anyone at all.

-I stretched out and looked into Sevika's eyes. - This is the third time we've seen each other, how many more times do we have to see each other before she'll finally talk to me?

 I heard a quiet laugh. And the girl walked over to me, towering over me. And I was a little surprised at her size, she was taller than me by almost a whole head.

- Are you trying to intimidate me with your body? - I laughed when I saw her surprised squint, “You're not succeeding. So far I've only gotten aroused

 Sevika stepped away from me abruptly, going behind my back. To which I laughed out loud.

- See you later, sweetheart.

***

The next seven meetings were insanely monotonous. I bought her alcohol, she sent me away and left. The only thing that made them different was that in the last few, she started taking the drinks with her and leaving not from the bar, but to the second floor, where Silko's office was.

 And I thought that was a green light and started running into the bar more often, leaving flowers and candy at Tommy's. I knew she was picking them up. I didn't know if she was keeping it all for herself or giving it to someone else.

***

One Friday night, I bought drinks for the two of us again and sat down at her table.

- I was more excited than usual this time, and I felt like I was close to getting Sevika to talk to me.

- I'm already having nightmares about you - she rubbed her face with her hands and looked at me.

- Oh, so you're dreaming about me, interesting,” I smiled softly at her, waiting for her to take her drink and go upstairs.

 But instead she took a sip of alcohol and leaned back in her chair.

- You're not even going to run away from me? - I smiled mischievously, tilting my head sideways to look at the girl.

- You can't run away from me, you're not going to eat until I talk to you. So I'm sitting here in front of you, ask me anything you want.

- Oh, so you think you'll fuck off if you talk to me? - I giggled and tossed my hair back,” What's your favorite color?

 I saw a shadow of incomprehension run across her face, as if I had asked something insanely weird.

-What?” her arched eyebrow and surprised look made me laugh, and I burst out laughing.

-What? -I asked something personal? My maroon.

-Black. Why would you ask that?

- Because I'm curious. I put my hands on the table. Did you like the flowers I gave you?

- I gave them to Jinx.” She averted her eyes and looked behind me.

- First of all, you're lying,” I smirked, running my finger along the rim of the glass, ”and second of all, who is Jinx, your girlfriend or your girlfriend's girlfriend?

- My headache,” she rolled her eyes and sipped her drink, trying to hide her nervousness.

- Well, you've already admitted you're lying to me. So how about some flowers?  I tried to pick ones you might like.

- Pretty ones, Sevika said, why did you bring them?

- I was trying to get you to like me. All girls like to receive flowers. There are women who don't like flowers in general, but in any case even they like to receive bouquets. It's an act of consideration, but for some reason you're trying to prove me wrong. Why?

-Listen, you're wasting your time, I'm not interested in you or your attention. - Sevika flared up, and with a sharp swing of her arms, threw her drink off the table.

-Are you sure?

-Sure.

-Strange, -I stood up from the table, picked up the mug and, putting it on the table in front of Sevika, leaned over to her face. - After all, when a person is not interesting - courtship is not accepted. And you accepted, and drinks, and bouquets, and sweets, and all sorts of trinkets. All right, I'll leave you alone, dearie. But I have to try one last time. Come here tomorrow at 7:00 if you still want to go out with me. I'll be waiting, Sevika.

 Wiggling my hips, I left the bar. I knew I'd done a bad thing by manipulating her. But without it, I'd be running around like a puppy for a couple more months.

***

At seven o'clock that night, I was sitting at her table like a bayonet. Impatiently glancing at the time, snapping my fingers and glaring at everyone who entered the bar. With each passing minute, I doubted more and more that she was coming. So when it was 7:15 on the clock, I got up from the table.

 Pulling up the skirt I'd put on for her. I couldn't believe that she really didn't care about me and was accepting my advances, just because she was bored. I felt sick to my stomach about her blowing me off, I guess I was just imagining things.

 I looked up and saw her on the stairs leading up to the second stairwell. It wasn't clear if she was going up or down, so I just stared at her, waiting for her to move on. A couple seconds later, I saw her heading up the stairs at a brisk pace. I smirked, grabbed my bag from the chair, and walked outside.

 I crouched down on the curb and pressed my lips together, watching the passersby. And as luck would have it, there were only couples on the street. I bent my legs at the knees, put my hands on them, and hid my head in them, wishing I could just vaporize. “How could I screw up so badly, and fall in love with a girl I've only had a normal conversation with once...”

 I felt a jacket being placed on my shoulders. I instantly boiled up, why the fuck am I being touched when I'm in such a fucked up mood. I felt like I was going to punch the bastard in the face if he didn't get off my back right away.

- What am I, a fucking hanger?! - I exclaimed, turning my head back sharply, rage on my face, anger inside me. But that was until I saw who was standing in front of me.

 Sevika. So beautiful. Wearing a beautiful, seemingly new black shirt with the first two buttons undone. Her hair was in a fresh bun for once, not sticking out in all directions, and she was holding a small bouquet of burgundy roses.

- I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was you. - I stood up from the curb and fixed my skirt. - So does that mean you're okay to go out with me, or okay, but not with me? - I tilted my head to the side and adjusted her jacket.

 - I do. With you - she held out the bouquet to me and as I accepted it, I breathed in the scent of the flowers - You said you liked that you liked burgundy, so I... Um....

- Thank you, it's my pleasure - I interrupted her, seeing the girl's awkwardness - I was already thinking that you really aren't attracted to me.

- You're not good at thinking, Sophie dear, leave it to someone like me - the girl turned me away from the bar and put her hand on my back and gently nudged me to go.

-Wow, so I had to yell at you once to get you to start flirting with me? - I pouted my lips, turning my head toward her. -You could have told me that earlier.

- Yeah, like you said, I like it rough.

 I laughed, my laugh mingling with hers, husky and chesty. And I swear it's the best thing I've ever heard in my life.

[thatbadadvice]

I (15f) am slightly worried that I led on some guys I did not mean to lead on.

There are two guys that I've hung out with over longer spans of time or regularly.

1. Hung out with him for several hours non-stop cause he was fun to hang out with, and we took a walk in the forest aswell, he got (slightly) touchy but not that much.

2. Works in a shop in my small city and I go there almost weekly just to hang out but always buy something, he sometimes offers me drinks for free (twice by now) or reduces the price.

They both got my insta too

However, the problem is that a) I'm not looking for a relationship and, more importantly, b) they are both in their 20s.

I took care to mention that I am only 15 to both of them but idk if that changed anything. Any advice? I also don't want to confront them directly cause I might have just interpreted it like this.

Hello, anonymous!

Thank you for writing in. I am delighted to inform you that you have excellent judgment for wondering what the hell is going on here, and for questioning these guys' behavior toward you.

Grown-ass men — and that is what dudes in their 20s are — bear the burden of not being weird to, for, or about young women of your age. It is the grown-ass men of the world who are obligated not to make you, or young women like you, feel weird about literally anything. In fact, grown-ass men should go out of their way, on purpose and with gusto, NEVER to get even within ten million football fields' worth of "(slightly) touchy" with a gal of your age. So that's my read on Mr. Walk In The Woods. I have less to say definitively about Mr. Free/Cheap Drinks, but I trust your judgment: if you feel like Mr. Free/Cheap Drinks is sending some ~ signals ~, you're right about it.

It sounds like both of these Grown-Ass Men are trying to make pretty creepo moves, so let me be clear: nothing you could ever do could even possibly in the most remote sense amount to "leading them on," because you are not responsible for the behavior of Grown-Ass Men.

I think you know this, or you wouldn't be asking the Bad Advisor this question. You know they're being weird. You know you haven't done anything beyond exist in these dudes' general sphere, which you are entitled to do! You are allowed to exist in the world without having to swat off the advances of older guys! It really sucks that girls and women can just be living our regular-ass lives and have dudes be at us like this. But you're not responsible for their decisions — whether it's a decision to offer you free/cheap drinks (with strings attached, implied) or to get (slightly) handsy during a walk in the woods.

The fact that you told both of these Grown-Ass Men explicitly that you are 15 years old should have sent both of them spinning back into the sun with shame and embarrassment, not that they probably needed it spelled out, but GOOD ON YOU for making it so clear. That is actually terribly brave of you, and they should have fallen all over themselves to not fall all over you subsequently. They should be mortified about their behavior.

You did not misinterpret their actions; and if you did, who cares? Some dudes who weren't hitting on a 15-year-old will continue to not hit on a 15-year-old? Girl, your self-preservation instinct is INTACT and WORKING. It's on them not to be creepos. Any Grown-Ass Man who is on the level and not a weirdo would 1000000000000% never need to be told "Hey dude, I'm 15" in the first place. You have good judgment. You are reading these men correctly.

So what do you do about your good judgment? Well, first — no more walks in the woods. Suddenly you have an urgent appointment that precludes all walks in woods! The benefit-of-the-doubt ship has sailed. Dude got handsy and you dislike it. Dunzo. You are unavailable for future walks in woods (or anywhere). You've got a test to study for, a practice to go to, some buddies to hang out with elsewhere. So sorry, no-can. Dude can find a 20-to-90-something-year-old woman to paw up under the canopy if that's his jam. There are scores of women his age and older who'd be glad (i guess?) to get felt up while some dude shoves them ~ romantically ~ against the bark of a moldy Hackberry.

As for Mr. Free/Cheap Drinks — look, I appreciate the appeal of a discount beverage — but I think you gotta be prepared to aggressively (politely) pay for your drinks. Dude says "This one is on the house" and you DGAF, because you've got $5 cash and you're laying it on the counter with a smile and saying "I really appreciate it, but I'd like to pay for my drink — you get it!"

It's the "you get it!" that's really the key here. It's polite, but clear. It demands that these Grown-Ass Dudes do the work of not getting it and saying so if they're gonna be that dippy about it. You can use it on Mr. Handsy In The Woods, too. You can't do X, Y, Z because Reasons -- "Gotta get back to piano practice, it would be weird if I stayed here, since we're just friends! You get it!"

You shouldn't have to do the work of offering these dippos the "you get it" out, but it's a safe and reliable way of making it clear that they better the fuck get it. Like, they better the fuck understand that you are 15 and they are being weird about this whole deal.

Practice:

"Oh, I'd like to chill but doing another big long hang alone together would make it seem like we're going out or something, and that would be weird -- you get it."

"I appreciate the discount, but if I keep taking these drinks, it'll seem like you LIKE me or something. That's weird, right? You get it!"

If either of these Grown-Ass Men gets sketchy about these very polite brush-offs, that shit is on them and will only confirm what you know: you have great judgment. These dudes are weird. If they're going to be weird, you can be so polite that they have to explain why, specifically, they are being weird and don't understand what you are politely saying, which is that their interest in you is weird.

You have not led these Grown-Ass Men on by existing in their universe. You have not led them on by being polite to them and tolerating their inappropriate advances to preserve your own safety. The concept of "leading on" is bullshit, fucked up, heteronormative dipshittery that puts the burden on women, mostly, to account for the crappy behavior of men who can, do, and should know better. I assure you these men know better, and they think you don't. That's why older guys pursue younger and teen women in the first place — they think they get to be the big men in charge, because they're afraid they can't manipulate women their own age.

Here's what, though: they can't manipulate you, either. You are clever, self-possessed and a great self-advocate. They're being weird. You're being smart. Make sure they know it.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Life's Pleasures (S.R.)

Summary: Spencer struggles with some side effects of his medication after prison. Request: Spencer being insecure about his weight gain post prison. Couple: Spencer Reid/GN!Reader Category: Comfort Content Warning: Weight gain, body insecurity  Word Count: 800

MASTERLIST

Spencer was a creature of habit more than he was of comfort. Call it superstition or autistic tendencies, even the slightest alteration to his routine could have catastrophic results.

Unsurprisingly, three months in prison did little to help him with those feelings. In fact, they made them much worse.

Despite the best efforts of yourself and the entire BAU, there was no question that Spencer needed help. Thanks very much to each of you, however, he had finally felt okay adding a small capsule to his daily routine.

It was nothing he was ashamed of. Unfortunately, however, that magical little concoction of neurotransmitters had a few… unintended side effects. He hadn’t said anything about it yet, but you had watched his favorite clothing got tighter until he couldn’t bear to wear it anymore.

You were acutely aware of how sensitive he would be with such a dramatic change. So, that Sunday, when you see Spencer padding out in his favorite pair of Saturday-specific sweats, you try to be kind.

“Hey handsome!” you call.

He is caught off guard enough to smile.

“What did I do to deserve you in sweats on a Sunday?”

His smile falls just as quickly. His bashfulness turns into a sadness that feels all-encompassing.

“My pants don’t fit,” he mutters as he toys with the drawstring.

“Lucky me,” you joke.

Spencer doesn’t respond like you’d hoped. In fact, he doesn’t react at all. He just stays staring at the string that is shorter than normal. He doesn’t even notice that you’re approaching him until your palms are pressed against his cheeks.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” you whisper.

He winces.

“I just…”

You give him a small reassuring smile and it stirs something in him. Some small shift out of his self-preservation instinct and back into the comfort of your embrace.

“I know I’m getting older, and stress does a lot of damage, and that can always manifest as weight gain,” he rambles.

He leaves out the medicated nature of it all, but you don’t bother to correct him. You just listen as he continues.

“But my body’s never been like this. It’s never changed like this, even during puberty,” he scoffs.

You chuckle at the sound and the image conjured up from faded scrapbook pictures.

Spencer smiles too—just for a second—before he remembers that he is sad.

“It’s just… it’s happening so… fast,” he says like a whimper.

After a moment, you shrug. He seems almost offended by the motion until you explain.

“That’s okay, Spencer,” you whisper, “It’s okay if you have a hard time adjusting to change.”

His shoulders fall as he releases a shaky breath. Relief starts to creep back into his body, despite his fingers still twiddling with the string.

You look down at it and laugh because it is so much like how he used to be. A little bit better, even.

“You just need to remind yourself that… They’re good changes,” you insist as your hands fall and glide around his waist. It’s soft and pliant and reminds you of the peace you find when you lay in bed together.  You remember the smile he wore the first day he woke up without fearing the sound of a buzzer. You think about how he doesn’t seem afraid of his phone anymore.

When you look back up at him, your eyes linger on the subtle curve of his lips before they settle on teary eyes.

“You’re finally taking care of yourself the way you deserve, so things are going to look different,” you whisper before pulling him closer. You sway with his body, still perfectly him despite not looking exactly the same.  “And for what it’s worth, I happen to think you look wonderful.”

Spencer drops the string to hold you, instead. He chuckles, a soft and bashful noise that reminds you of the first time you met.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he sighs in defeat.

To console him, you provide another simple offering.

“Sweatpants, donuts, coffee full of sugar and syrup,” you hum, “I don’t know about you, but… I can get used to a life like that.”

“They’re nice, but…” he trails off. His body pulls away so that he can see that loving look in your eyes. The last bit of tension releases from weary muscles. Spencer gently rests his palm against your cheek. It’s warm and soft and exactly like it used to be before the scars.

“Of all of life’s pleasures,” he wonders aloud, “I still think you’re my favorite.”

You quickly note the conditional word.

“You think?”

This time when he smiles, it is brilliant and not at all bashful.

“Donuts are pretty good,” he jokes.

It’s such a beautiful sound that you don’t even have to wonder.

“You’re better,” you mumble against still-sweet lips.

And it only gets better from there.

(Tell me what you thought about this fic here!)

Looking for more to read? Check out my wonderful friend @spencer-reids-adventures's take on this request here!

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Thanks for reading!

[nitrowyverine]

I thought playing Obscura would help me get rid of my brain worms. no, it just gave me new ones. For Obscura, specifically.

I'll be adjusting the format from my TOUCHSTARVED expanded thoughts post. Brain dump after the cut!

[Demo/CH 1 spoilers are included]

(Header Image from Itch.io page! All images in this post are either from there or the Rotten Raccoons tumblr page)

Design/gameplay thoughts:

In full honesty without fluff: this game fucks immensely.

The setting for Obscura might be my new all-time favorite, like, ever. Mystery underground scandalous marketplace??? Under a mountain???? it's a diverse and vast city that's still elegantly contained and claustrophobic, but in a spicy way. The worldbuilding and flavor is excellent. I really want to run a TTRPG in a similar setting now, since its an area with so many possibilities.

CH. 1/the "demo" has a LOT of meat on it. It's got different endings, variations, a whole soundtrack. Speaking of sountrack-

Obscura is also one of the few games I've put on the soundtrack to just to vibe to. The soundtrack is SO good, and sets such a strong mood/tone. I think it complements the game perfectly.

Allot of people have mentioned it, but I am also a fan of the Safeword pause menu. It's a nice and comforting touch, especially when the game can get so intense. It lets players take a breather if they need it, but also doesn't interrupt the intensity/mood of the game for someone who doesn't want a break from the narrative.

Now, onto character specific thoughts!

Cirrus:

IN MY HOUSE WE DON'T BELIEVE IN NOT STARTING OUT STRONG

Shout outs for having your asexual option in the dating sim be. The kinkiest guy there

Cirrus is a bit too intense for me, however, that is NOT a bad thing in the slightest. I think his route is well done for those who are up for his brand of intensity.

I might still play his route because. damn this boy's issues got me curious about his backstory. ($10 on mommy issues)

I had the hardest time getting to Cirrus's good end during my playthrough because having pretty much any self-preservation instinct around Cirrus gives you a bad/neutral ending. He's the only one I had to pull the guide out to get the best ending. (I think I'm just too sassy)

I get medusa vibes from Cirrus. The snake imagery is more likely tied to the lunar church, but his staunch reluctance to take his own mask off makes me wonder (this is mainly referenced in asks answered by the Rotten Raccoon studios). Refusal to let people see his eyes + snakes + power + slightly unnatural abilities to influence is, something.

I am shaking this man like a snowglobe WHAT IS YOUR DEAL I MUST KNOW MORE

(I am. metaphorically shaking him like a snowglobe. I would never shake this man im terrified)

CONCLUSION: Most likely to shame you for your anime choices. Least likely to be normal about it when you ask for help peeling an orange.

Keir:

HERE COMES BIG MAN

yeah he's tied for favorite right now. the slow burn in his plot is just too good? big man....freckles...secret soft side...im weak

he's so nice I keep forgetting. He kind of kidnaps you? not even kind of he just drags you off the street and goes "you live in my house now". Even Griff calls MC a stray early on. My man really said "Here's a convenient lost human I'm dragging them home now"

oh my GOD they were ROOMATES

I definitely was too nice to him in my first playthrough until I realized he does need (and want) to be sassed to death.

this man is like 6'6 and the canon-ish Vesper height from the CG is 5'4. THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE. This kills the man (me)

The sprite of Keir's ears blushing SENDS ME INTO A FRENZY

I quite liked the gameplay style of Keir's route. I was so focused and invested as soon as I realized I needed to remember specific directions to save the heist group during timed decisions

Something I haven't seen discussed yet: I'm mega curious about the dagger Keir has on his outfit. It's specifically pointed out in text that it's high-quality, and I vaguely remember an ask that Rotten Raccoons answered that said it's a status symbol. (The dagger also just looks SO cool. and....it looks like Francesco's...?)

(My bet is that he either 1. stole it. or 2. got it from Oleander during their tryst (WHICH WE ALSO NEED TO TALK ABOUT-))

CONCLUSION: Most likely to be gifted a "WORLD'S BEST DAD" mug from his similarly-aged peers. Least likely to live down that one time he ate soap because he thought it was edible.

Francesco:

someone keep the "silver dust" away from this lad im scared

Originally, I was least looking forward to playing Francesco's route since I just wasn't interested in his initial concept. After playing his route though? It was excellently done, and I genuinely had fun. It was refreshing to have a character more naive than Vesper, so more cultural aspects were explained and we got a good alternate perspective on the marketplace. Also, it got REAL spicy in new and exciting ways the other chapters didn't. I'm really looking forward to the next chapters with his route!

I totally love the contrasts in his design and his character. He's got both bright red and blue highlights in his design, his outfit is very pointy and angular while his hair/smile is soft and flow-y.

And in his personality, he's both sweet and open, but extremely cagey about some information, and quite pragmatic when he wants to be. I think he's way smarter than he lets on.

that doesn't mean I don't want to bridal carry him and tuck him into bed at night after a all-nighter party

I do think Fran's slightly looser demeanor could lead to him being even more brutal than the other LI's. Remember that one anime clip (Found it, it's this one from Danshi Koukousei) where a group of friends wants to fight for fun, but one of the friends asks why they need rules in a fight? And said friend is shown like secretly holding a rock and was ready to use it? that's Fran. He would not have chill and does not heed the rules.

"Protect the boy", but mostly to prevent him from tasting blood. Because if that happens we're all fucked

CONCLUSION: Most likely to eat that M&M off the ground because you dared him. Least likely to beat the puppy allegations.

Oleander:

Oleander is tied for favorite with Keir. Oleander is just *chefs kiss* LOOK AT HIM. inscrutable......

Somewhere in an ask answered by Rotten Raccoons studio, they mentioned that for Oleander's route, they were going for a "Sexy boss situation that doesn't feel like a work safety violation". They hit that right on the nose; there's intrigue and a power imbalance, but in a non-restrictive or terrifying way.

I love being involved in the business part of his route. I keep making decisions like "Hmm yes my primary goal is to romance Oleander. But what would be the smartest business move here? How do we advance our agenda?"

Also, I do love playing a sexy evil secretary in a vn. love having a job and being evil at it AND being paid money. 10/10

That dance scene is everything I could have ever wanted no notes

I am fascinated to find out more about what he's been up to since his last trek into the marketplace. Seems like people are trying to kill him all the time anyway, so what would be enough to cause him to leave?

he's like an angler fish, but the lure is his booba

I relate to Oleander in that. I have too many online usernames because I can't stick with one. People get my 800 online names mixed up often. He has the same problem, we're basically twinsies

This man is pretending to be a himbo like his life depends on it (It probably does). He's too smart though, I know for a fact he has at least three different schemes going at any given time.

CONCLUSION: Most likely to be able to help you properly lace a corset (this man knows the boot-to-the-back necessity of the process). Least likely to be allowed to be banker during monopoly night.

Vesper:

black mask enjoyer 4 life

(all three are good I just wanted to say which one I picked. And to add my conclusion section)

CONCLUSION: Most likely to get their shit rocked by a falling piano. Least likely to survive an argument about pineapple on pizza.

Concerns:

With how separate the four routes are, the game could potentially feel like four separate visual novels all in one universe. Maybe I haven't played enough VN's, but there is a feeling of separation between the routes.

In the very beginning of the game, when you're picking your route, I wish there was a bit more heads up/information between who you're picking. For example, I had a rough idea that going into the church is where you'd find Cirrus, but only from information outside the game. I didn't know sticking around for the brawl would push you into Kier's route. It's overall pretty vague to which route you're going based on only in-game information.

Misc thoughts:

Vesper: "How are you going to keep me?? ;)" Keir and Oleander: "crimes" Vesper: "Wh-" Keir and Oleander: "you're an accomplice now congrats we're in this together. wanna get drinks"

catch my socially anxious ass wanting to be under the mountain and wear masks so I don't have to make eye contact with strangers all the time. at least its a fun thought to have when I mask for covid

OKAY FRANCESCO AND KEIR'S DAGGER MATCH? AND ARE RED/BLUE LIKE FRANCESCOS OUTFIT? DOES IT MEAN ANYTHING??? probably not but I do like the pretty knives....

For real, I got the brain worms for this game, I'm on the edge of making a big ol playlist. the headcannons? They go on my friend. they go on. I'm laying awake at night thinking about what each character would order at a coffee shop

by the time I publish this post. I did start working on the playlist

yes, I've also designed my own vesper, its such a prime opportunity for character design.

Obscura also may or may not have inspired me to get involved with an otome jam game team, more on that in the future possibly.....

OVERALL: I got the first chapter/demo of Obscura for free from Itchio/steam. High marks for writing, sound, art, game design, all of it! I am on the edge of my seat waiting for CH2.

TL;DR: If you haven't played it, and love spicy and dark stories, go play it! Part one is free! and fantastic.

Itch.io

Steam