#second might be transparent?? maybe??

[thrushppelt]

a little shardkit thats part of a bigger thing that i may be too ambitious for

[cattatoir]

Anyway this is what I mean by I want to see Adam and Jesus talk

[wormtoxin]

ok. Narrative obfuscation in House Of Leaves. It’s a relatively simple story about a man who moves into a house with his wife and kids, and the house is haunted. That’s it. The core themes are very transparent.

Except, that story is documented by a famous war documentarian, then published as a series of rare tapes, which are discoursed by film buffs, then interpreted from viewings and reading film critique by a blind old man, then his thoughts are transcribed into a manuscript by a series of young women, which is then compiled from scattered notes by the most mysoginistic, damaged, toxic pothead drop-out who won’t stop talking about his life, which is THEN edited and published by some vaguely nefarious agency who soberly refuse to provide any clarification or context.

It’s not simple, but there are so many different hands on the wheel with wildly differing opinions that you can’t discern the truth.

Johnny Truant is such a miserable hopeless fuck up. He has no sense of academic rigor or archival professionalism. Any interference he provides only muddies the waters and taints what would otherwise be a gripping piece of metaphysical film criticism. His neurotic rambling and personal anecdotes cloud an otherwise reasonable story.

If he wasn’t in it, if we could read Zampano’s manuscript directly, WE would be able to understand the truth. We would get it completely, and we wouldn’t have to encounter so much violence, so much miserable graphic detail. It would be a better story.

And fuck it, if we didn’t have to read all of Zampano’s tangents and analyses and interpretations, if we could just find a copy of the famous “five-and-a-half minute hallway” vhs, if we could SEE it, we’d understand. We wouldn’t need endless pontification of what Navidson and Karen’s marriage might entail, or recitations of what a director once said in a Rolling Stones article. We’d see the hallway itself, stretching out into what should be the backyard, and we’d get it. Hell, Zampano is blind in his old age. He can’t even watch the damn movie! But we could. We’d know instantly, the second we saw it. The impossibility of it, the gravity of it, the weight of that dark abyss.

And well, the VHS recording is a little dark, and the quality is poor, and maybe the white balance isn’t so perfect. And actually, VHs tapes could be manipulated. We can’t be sure that Navidson isn’t just using clever videography tricks to invent a hallway. If we were there, if we found the house (it’s in virginia, isn’t it? we even have the address). If we GO there, we could look down that hallway. And it’s dark, so if we just brought a flashlight, maybe took a few steps inside-

[forlix]

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・1.2k / 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・chan x gn!reader / 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲𝘀・fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, berry being the perfect girl she is. inspired by these bubble messages and @cosmic-railwayxo's treachery. (love u deni)

𝟬𝟲:𝟯𝟲 — “Where’s my baby, hm?”

This is the question on Chan’s lips the moment he lets go of the bedroom door, closed with agonizing caution as to not wake the figure still curled up under the duvet inside.

It’s early. Early enough so the walls are colored a rich beige by new rays of sunlight, so his footsteps are the only sound reverberating around the hallways when he commences his search. Early enough to evidence how he was only bestowed a few hours of sleep before waking up with a budding headache and leaden eyelids.

But he doesn’t mind the lack of rest, not this time. Not when there’s a wad of love with a freckled snout and floppy ears under the same roof for the first time in too long.

“Berry?” Chan calls, his voice tattered and low, like sandpaper. He rakes his eyes over the spots he remembers to be her favorite. Maybe they’ve changed since he was last home. Maybe everything has changed since he was last home.

The thought causes a familiar pang to go off within him, poignant and powerful, but the quiet scuffle of paws against hardwood takes the edge off the guilt straightaway.

Chan finds the beginnings of a smile on his lips before she even rounds the corner, and when she does, well. His grin might as well split his face down the middle. He’s on his knees in seconds, outstretched hands rediscovering home in the puppy’s silky fur as she clambers onto him with blown pupils and excited pants.

His adoring coos of her name falter into muted laughter, which then fragments into a sob. His vision narrows to his precious girl and then starts to blur. When Berry climbs up to give his cheek a few happy licks, she’s fascinated by its saltiness.

You emerge from the bedroom a little over an hour later. Sleeping is hard enough when you’re jetlagged, and even harder when there’s only mattress where you remember Chan’s warm solidity to be. The fabric of Chan’s hoodie suppresses your vocalization of his name as you ungracefully pull it over your torso, still struggling to rouse your body from sleep.

Your beckon produces no response. You wrap a hand around the nearest door frame and peek your head into the living room, a little more alert now.

“Chan? Baby?”

You feel silly. How many visits has it been for you to still feel this nervous, wandering around Chan’s family home? Yet you undoubtedly are, whether because of your absentee boyfriend or that his whole family is a few walls away. You pad through the silent abode with mounting trepidation and intense care to not make any more sound than necessary.

Then you reach the family room and instantly come to a standstill, hands drifting to your sides, features deliquescing to a soft smile. 

Lying on the nearest couch is your boyfriend, head propped up on top of his elbow, his fluttering lashes and gently oscillating shoulders indicating that he’s asleep. You can’t see his face below his eyes, as he has his nose nuzzled into the Cavalier spaniel resting securely in his arms, snoring tacitly into his sleeve, slumbering as deeply as her human companion.

You’ve been stumbling upon Chan sleeping in unexpected places for the better part of two years now, but you still liquefy every time as if it’s the first. These are the moments, you’ve come to realize, when you can care for him in ways he would never let you while conscious: a lift of his laptop off his thighs, a brush of your lips against his hairline, a cardigan draped lightly over his back. These are the moments when you understand in full how far you’ve come together, for him to trust you with his exhaustion with such transparency, to be so vulnerable as to leave you with memories of him that he’ll never have.

Despite your prolonged experience, it’s hard to describe what exactly you’re feeling in this moment. The mere mention of Berry has always dissipated the shadows that veil his face, has always chased off the burdens that cling to his spine. How do you put it into words, seeing your happiness at his happiest?

It suddenly occurs to you that the window beside them is cracked open. That, and you spotted extra quilts in the top shelf of Chan’s closet last night.

Chan’s eyelids lift when he feels the gentle weight of a blanket fall upon his body; so do the corners of his lips, when the culprit materializes before him. Sitting on the edge of the couch, a hand hovering over his frame, face creased into a flinch.

“Sorry,” you whisper, closing the distance between your fingers and the curve of his neck. The pad of your thumb moves over his cheekbone like a willow branch skimming water. “I didn’t think that would wake you up.”

Both of you up, you mentally amend, seeing as Berry has noticed your presence and is wagging her tail with enough vigor for it to thump against Chan’s chest. He lets her wriggle out of his arms and into yours; you emit a noise of glee and gather her into you.

If only you had seen the expression he wears then, watching your eyes scrunch closed at the frenzied kisses she presses to your face. His first love and his very last.

“Don’t apologize,” he answers. “I’m the one who should be sorry for leaving you in bed, I just…”

His voice trails off, but he knows by the softness in your irises when they meet his that you already know.

You move like clockwork. Chan presses up into the back of the couch, the quilt’s edge lifted in wordless invitation. It is your chest that Berry burrows into this time, the top of her head sliding into the space between your chin and the sofa’s cushion. It is Chan’s chest that you’re folded into, the arms around your waist like the coziest of cabins in a sun-spattered wood. It is the back of your neck that he nuzzles his nose into, but not before he litters gossamer kisses across the expanse of skin, as if printing the notes to a lullaby he knows well.

Everything is warm, so warm, so right, and jetlag starts to feel like a distant trouble.

You open your mouth while teetering on the cusp of a dream.

“Baby?” 

He hums into you, listening.

“Always be happy, okay?”

You don’t notice the solitary tear that traverses the bridge of his nose, lands in the cotton of your hood, and dyes the bunched-up fabric a few shades darker. You don’t notice how his embrace around you tightens marginally, like how one’s eyes can’t help but find their dearest possession when the building’s on fire.

“Okay,” he whispers, and kisses your nape once more. Your and Chan’s eyes close together. Berry licks your chin again, then follows suit.

(Another hour later, Chan’s parents walk into the family room. They decide to go out to breakfast for fear of making too much noise in the kitchen, Chan’s mother blotting away tears as she ducks into shotgun, Chan’s father laughing at her sentimentality while blinking back his own.

Another few hours later, Hannah takes maybe fifty-some photographs of the triad of unmoving heaps occupying their couch. Then she grumbles at Berry for being dead asleep at eleven in the morning: “Those two arrived here from across the world yesterday. What’s your excuse?”)

🔖 (send an ask or reply to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・ @automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8

© 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘅 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support.

[on-the-clear-blue]

Dead Man's Diner pt 2

Danny had to admit, Lunch Lady was an excellent teacher.

Sure they were blitzing though a cook book thst was more tape and hope the paper, but Danny was for once actually understanding and enjoying being taught.

Cracking an egg into a bowl, Danny held it close while whisking quickly, not fully incorporating the flour in his pancake batter before dumping a good sized dollop on the flat top, smiling from the brief sizzle that he heard.

There was a sudden cacophony sounds from the front of house (which was the dining area? He never knew that before) putting the flat top on low, Danny looked over to where Lunch Lady was floating only to find nothing.

Blinking a bit, Danny wiped his hands off OK his apron as he poked his head out, frowning at the diner car, "What was that..." his words were cut off by one of the blinds slats bending as if pried open, and as he squinted, Danny saw two figures watching from a distance ontop another rail car.

Vigilantes

Danny felt his heart flutter with excitement, while not as cool as maybe Martian Manhunter or StarFire (since y'know...fucking aliens, Space) the Gotham caped community were interesting, if only since Batman and his Flock were Sam's low key obsession, she had even gone out as Robin for multiple Halloweens, and don't even get him started on the fan theories about them all.

Smirking he tapped the bar, allowing thr blinds to snap closed, "Sam is so going to flip that I saw the Birds before her." Letting out a little giggled, Danny quickly swore as he smelt a bit of burning and rushed to flip his pancakes.

---

Tim was, in Dicks opinion, the most concerning member of the family, sure most days he gives of "miserable wet cat" energy but even then Dick had seen his little brother easily take down guys that even Bruce had trouble with.

That wasnt even touching on his um...mental quirks

The less he speaks of the time period between Bruce's and Kons deaths till their eventual return, the better.

Putting down the binoculars, Dick stole a glance over at Red Robin, who was frowning deeply at his wrist computer, scooting a little closer Dick leaned over to see what was happening, "Whatcha do~oing?"

So entranced by what he was reading Tim jumped a little, an elbow flying out to where Dicks face had been a second ago as he turned and glared.

"Don't...! Do that Wing! Ugh..." shaking his head as he let out a huff Tim took his eyes off the small monitor and looked up at the diner car, pointing at it as he spoke scornfuly.

"That place does not exist."

"Like, legally? I am sure Batburger doesn't either-"

"No." Tim said, cutting the older vigilante off, "It doesn't exist physically."

"Timmy..." Dick said as he ran through the protocols for when RedRobin got a little too many insane things in his head.

"Get that look off your face Wing, it really doesn't exist, like..." letting out a sigh, the teen tried to put his words right "Don't look straight at it but a bit to the side so it's to the side of your eye." Pointing to a middle distance a bit away from the diner cart, Dick sent a small frown at his brother but did as he was asked.

"Holy leaping lizards..." Tim, somehow, was right, since when Dick just looked about a few feet away from the diner, it started to waver turning...transparent? And a little blue? But when he looked at it closer it was just a normal, abet run down looking diner.

"Exactly, no need to bench me till Agent A stuffs me full of anti-psychotics!"

"That was one time Tim, and you were having a mental break down."

"I am not lying when I say we killed Santa Claus Dick!"

"Sure Tim...sure"

---

Danny drummed his fingers on the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited for something to happen.

He knew thst he was being watched, he had a vague idea who was doing the watching, but was starting to get a bit bored waiting for them to get closer.

Pausing mid sip, a grin spread across Danny's lips, "Hey cart? Can you do something that might draw those guys over here? Let's get some customers!"

Some how, Danny's grin only grew at the rumble of the cart, and he xould hav sworn he heard a sound that was a mix between a train horn and a chuckle.

---

Tim shot his brother a stinging glare, swatting at his arm as he blushed, he did every much indeed accidentally killed Santa Claus and took an impromptu trip to Apokolips to give DarkSeid coal.

His next rebuttal to Nightwing was cut off as the diner cart shuddered as if it was in an earthquake before it stilled, and the banner that was across it suddenly gained a new line.

[JUST NOW! VIGILANTES AND HEROS GET ONE FREE SIDE OF FRIES! COME ON IN BEFORE THE OFFER ENDS!]

Tim was silent for a moment, watching the cart to see if there was any more changes before turning to Dick, who had lost the joyful energy that he always seemed to have.

"RR, plans changed, we are going to investigate inside."

Tim gave a sharp nod, his bo staff elongating as he grappled down to the train tracks below, his boots crunching gravel underfoot as he slipped from shadow to shadow, getting closer to Big C's diner.

---

Danny was in the back, flipping through his cook book as he heard a bell ring, jolting up, Danny could see through the service window and see who came in.

He had never met a real hero before, not like the two that had just came in, feeling nervous, Danny fumbled with a small notebook as he came out from the kitchen, grinning at the two Birds.

"Heya! Thanks for coming to Big C's! Names Danny and I am kinda the only one in today, what can I get you both?"

His eyes flickered between the two vigilantes, noticing new things each time he looked at them, like how Red Robin's cape had buttons instead of being sown on, or how Nightwings suit wasn't slick but actually textured.

---

Dick looked at everything he could as he stood in the diners door, it looked like a typical 50s styled mom and pop kinda place, an old radio buzzed with songs of a bygone era while the seats were cracked pink leather vinyl.

He could hear someone moving in the back, resting a hand on his eskrima sticks, Dick stalked further in, it felt real enough...

He could feel Red Robin knock into his back as the person from the back came into view, it was a teen, and holy hell did he look like Bruce Wayne adoption bait, raven hair, blue eyes and a cheesy looking grin.

He couldn't be older than Damian, who had turned 16 a few months ago, the teen was just so...tiny.

Danny, that's the name given to them, and Dick can see it, he looked like a Danny.

Pausing to look to Tim, Dick smiled back at the teen, "Well...can we see a menu?"

[holybibly]

Today's unholy thoughts, bunnies 🐰

Let's talk about Seonghwa as a trophy househusband who is neglected both sexually and in terms of love and who is perhaps overly attracted to the best friend of his wife's daughter.

Seonghwa is gentle, sensual, and too needy for the constant praise and adulation he doesn't get. He has big, shining eyes, plump, soft lips, a velvety voice, and a completely unhealthy obsession with the pretty best friend of his 'daughter'. 

He knows it's wrong, or a small part of his knows it, but the way you look at him lovingly and the sweetness of your voice as you praise him, saying what a wonderful househusband he is and how well he keeps such a big house perfectly clean, makes his thoughts go in another direction. 

Seonghwa wants to hear you praise him while his beautiful, gentle face is buried in your little pink pussy and his tongue slides expertly between the soft, moist folds. And Seonghwa knows exactly how pink your cunt is because he has a couple of naughty photos of you that he took while you were sleeping. 

You had a habit of sleeping in nothing but a silk top and panties. The way the thin lace gathered between your labia, giving him a glimpse of your naked, sweet pussy, was too tempting for him to hold back his desires. 

He would never be able to say it openly, but he might have licked you between your legs while you were in Morpheus's sweet embrace, so ready and available for him. And now he can't help but think of how heavenly you taste on his tongue every time he looks at you. 

Seonghwa may only be thinking it, but he feels that you've been staring at him for too long, so he tries to dress as beautifully as possible and as suggestively as possible. 

On purpose, he wears transparent blouses so that you can see his hard, dark pink nipples and trousers that are too tight to show off his long legs and magnificent ass to perfection. He even paints his lips with your favourite gloss and deliberately licks them with his tongue, so you can't take your eyes off him for more than a second. 

He may look a little desperate when he invites you to sit on his lap during a family trip out on the town. Of course, it's all completely unintentional. There are just not enough seats in the car; he doesn't know how to drive; his "daughter" gets sick; and Seonghwa didn't intentionally pack things in the car in such a way that you have nowhere to sit except on his lap.

But most importantly, Seonghwa chooses the track perfectly—twisty, terribly long, with a broken road. And who else but him will hold you tight when the car jumps at the next pit. 

Seonghwa also knows that you hate trousers and shorts, so you always wear those unaffordable short skirts and slutty little thongs that don't stop him from discreetly touching you the way he wants. Maybe he accidentally forgot to button his jeans, or maybe he did it on purpose so that the wet, swollen head of his dick would rub against your tender ass throughout the trip.

Seonghwa is just too sensitive and needy to intentionally drool on your shoulder from this tiny stimulation and moan pitifully into your ear when his cock accidentally slips between your ass cheeks.

He apologises shyly, crumpling a long sweater in his hands, and says that he didn't mean to do it, that it happened by accident, and that he's incredibly ashamed of it. He receives a reply from you: "It's okay, Seonghwa, I understand. It can happen to anyone." 

And the way his name rolls off your tongue makes him come almost immediately without any touching.

It may get painfully icky to feel constantly aroused around you, but he can't help but imagine you riding his cock while his mouth sucks on your pretty tits when he happens to see you masturbating in the bath. 

Oh God, the way your cunt embraces the thick pink dildo, squeezing and stretching around the silicone toy, brings him to his knees. He would give absolutely everything just to fill your cunt with his cock, and he could swear that he would stretch you out much better than that stupid toy. 

Most likely, Seonghwa is going crazy waking up to the ghostly feeling of your lips wrapped around his leaking, throbbing cock because he is sure this will never happen in reality. 

Or maybe you just got tired of his ingratiating wet looks and decided to force him into action by waking him up with a blowjob while your girlfriend and her mother went shopping for breakfast, leaving you alone with the sweet and gentle Seonghwa. 

And the sight of his back arching and his soft, sensual mouth parting with a soft moan as his thick cum pours into your mouth is much sweeter for you than any pancakes for breakfast.

[ariseur]

“are you wearing flavored chapstick?” with yuuji

✧˖° idk if i like this one, giving ooc vibes because i got major gojo energy from this idea.. i hope it’s still okay ☹️

“is that,” yuuji smacked his lips together as his eyes darted around his peripheral to try and decipher the foreign flavor. “.. flavored chapstick?”

“mhm!” you hummed, smiling as you watched his tongue dart out to further find the flavor. he thought for a moment before he looked back at you with a sheepish look. “strawberry?”

“yes—! i wanted to do a trend i saw online.”

he had cocked his head, “what’s the trend?”

so here you are; an assorted array of flavored chapstick tubes next to you as the salmon-haired boy covers his eyes, awaiting the next fruity flavor that’ll settle on his lips once yours meet his. then cues the five minutes afterward of him trying to guess, when really, he’s just trying to make you laugh.

(“uhm, grape?” he’d ask, full knowing that it was orange. to which you’d giggle, “yuuji, no—!” and correct him, leaving him with a triumphant smile as you showed him the tube, where he’d feign an oblivious, “ohhh!”)

you hum for a second before going for the mint one, eyes flitting to your boyfriend to ensure that he’s not cheating. his lips quirk into a grin as he hears you pop open the cap and twist the bottom to let the light green, almost transparent balm of the product peek out.

“okay, turn around,” you chime, and yuuji can already hear the smile in your voice.

once he turns around to face you, he spends no time before smushing your cheeks and pressing an exaggerated kiss to your lips, huffing in amusement through his nose as your delayed reaction.

you only break the kiss to laugh, allowing your hand to rest on the nape of his neck as he smiles at the sound of your giggles. a heavenly sound, yuuji could die happy knowing he had made you laugh.

“so eager, aren’t we?”

“‘s not my fault i have an awesome girlfriend,” he grins boyishly. he gets an eye roll and a forehead flick at the comment.

“you’re supposed to guess, yuuji!”

his lips part into a small ‘o’ shape as he taps his chin. you can tell he’s really thinking about it, maybe because he put in too much effort in that one kiss that he didn’t take the time to actually savor the flavor.

that’s it, he thought.

“i dunno,” he hums. “i think i might need another taste.” he drags the ‘a’ out mindlessly, watching as your brows quirk up at the idea. now you’re holding a hand to your chin, crossing your arm under the other to hold it up as you think.

“one more only, okay?”

he nods, placing his hands and fixing his posture eagerly. you chuckle as you lean in once more, memorizing yuuji’s big brown eyes — the way they flit around your face before fluttering closed. memorizing the way his lips manage to slot so perfectly into yours despite only being taught a few months ago. you had commit all of his habits to memory absentmindedly, oblivious to the fact that he always did the same.

he hums before you break away, evoking a soft pout from him as you quirk a brow as a silent question. “oh—!” he mutters before growing silent. he looks at the ground, then back at you, and repeats the same motions until finally,

“i think i need another one.”

“yuuji!”

𐙚 dottie’s 500 event - 🍡 ( dialogue ) prompts!!

𐙚 taglist ; @sad-darksoul @kasumitenbaz @2ukika

𐙚 non-500 requests are closed — august twenty-first, 2024

[sinsirellaxx]

hi!! could i request the slytherin boys reacting to you moving on after breaking up w them bc of all the shit they pull… like they didnt believe her when she said she was done with them but they see her with another person who maybe treats her better?

Slytherin boys – Seeing you with another person that treats you well

Warning: Toxic boys. Not proofread.

Enjoy!

Mattheo …

… thought you’d be back in his arms within a month. You’d live through the different stages of a break-up before realizing that your life was meaningless without him – he was sure of it.

… is in denial when he sees you with someone else. He’ll think you’re just trying to make him jealous – to bring him crawling back to you and beg for you to take him back. That must be it.

… will stalk you and your new partner and is speechless when he finally realizes that you have moved on.

… he’d be absolutely livid if you were together with one of his friends. He’d probably tackle them to the ground before throwing the first punch – betrayal and jealousy clouding his mind.

Theodore …

… scoffs when he sees you with someone else.

… would be all “What a downgrade.”, while trying to stroke his wounded ego. Because how dare you? How could you move on, while he still had hope – while he still had feelings for you.

… would start ‘hating’ you, from that day on. He’ll deny having feelings for you – or having ever loved you, to make himself look less weak and avoid the pitying yes of the other students. But he was as transparent as glass.

… glares at you whenever you pass him with your partner and will wait for any moment to find you alone, just to say, “Where’s that new boyfriend of yours?”.

Lorenzo …

… immediately looks for a new girlfriend just to make you jealous. At least, that’s what he is aiming for: He wants to hurt you. Break your heart and have you beg for him to take you back. He’s sure you’ll be back in his arms within days. But he’ll make you wait and work for it.

… is utterly pissed when you don’t pay him any attention at all. You are so happy and distracted with your new partner – it makes him want to vomit.

... will quickly get rid of his new girl.

… thinks of a plan to destroy your new relationship: He’ll brew a love potion and has someone else slip it into your partner’s juice. Soon, your partner will be obsessed with someone else, and you’ll realize how much of an idiot that new partner of yours is.

Draco …

… is so cocky. Did you really think you could ever find someone better than him? Please. He’d smirk whenever he saw you two together.

… is humbled very quickly when he realizes that you are truly happy with your new partner and his whole attitude changes.

… grows increasingly sad and depressed – disappointed with himself and feeling utterly empty.

… just wants you bad but does not actively do something to get you back, thinking he doesn’t deserve you.

Blaise …

… watches you from afar, his chest tight as he thinks of all the times your laugh was directed at something he had said.

…would be too proud to actively do something at first.

… might spread nasty rumors about your new partner though.

… tries to orchestrate a situation in which he comes to your rescue after a while – because he has finally had enough of watching you lovebirds.

Tom …

… mocks you for your poor choice in men.

… knows that he is better than your new thing and watches you in contempt.

… will – depending on whether he really loves you or not – get rid of your new partner: He won’t tolerate someone else touching or loving you.

… will call you his slobbery seconds if he does not have any real feelings for you. You didn’t deserve him anyway.

[sunrenity]

⟡ㅤㅤFALLING JUST AS HARD  、NRK

PRECISㅤ⦂ㅤriki found himself falling just as hard as you fell for him.

니키ㅤ୨୧ㅤ𝓇iki x 𝒻em readerㅤ｡｡ㅤ(best?)friends to lovers, high school au(-ish?)ㅤ( kissing, )ㅤ1136ㅤ───ㅤbookshelf

it starts with the silence — the kind that stretches out between breaths, thick and heavy, but somehow not uncomfortable. the kind of silence that could only exist between two people who have known each other long enough to understand the spaces between words.

you’re sitting on the rooftop, a place you and riki have claimed as your own, an unspoken refuge from the chaos below. the sky is a burnt orange, the fading light of the day casting everything in a soft, golden glow. you lean back on your hands, feeling the rough surface beneath your palms, the concrete still warm from the afternoon sun.

beside you, riki is quiet. it’s unusual. normally, he’s all sarcastic remarks and teasing smiles, the kind of energy that fills the space around him. but today, he’s different — quieter, thoughtful, like he’s holding onto something too fragile to break.

“you’ve been weird all day,” you finally say, breaking the silence, your voice light but curious.

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he shifts, resting his arms on his knees, staring straight ahead like the answer might be hiding somewhere in the horizon. his jaw clenches for a second, and you catch it — just a flicker of hesitation, barely noticeable unless you’ve known him as long as you have. and you have. maybe too long.

“i’ve been thinking,” he finally says, his voice quieter than usual, like he’s confessing something he’s not sure he should say.

you blink, caught off guard by his sudden seriousness. “about what?”

he turns his head to look at you then, eyes darker in the fading light, and it makes your heart do that stupid thing where it skips a beat. you’ve been trying to ignore it for months now — the way his presence makes you feel too aware of every breath, the way your chest tightens when he’s too close, the way you wish he’d be just a little closer.

but you’ve buried it, suffocated it under layers of friendship because you can’t ruin this. not when you’re not even sure he feels the same.

“about us,” he says, voice soft but heavy, like he’s laying the weight of the world at your feet.

your heart stops. for a moment, you’re frozen, unsure if you heard him right. the world around you seems to pause — there’s only him and the words that hang in the air between you.

“us?” your voice is barely a whisper, and it’s terrifying how vulnerable you sound.

riki doesn’t look away. he holds your gaze, and for the first time, you can’t read what’s behind his eyes. he’s always been so easy to understand, so transparent in the way he wears his emotions on his sleeve. but now, there’s something deeper, something unfamiliar, and it scares you more than you’d like to admit.

“yeah,” he says, his voice a little firmer now, like he’s made a decision. “us.”

there’s a pause, a beat where you don’t know what to say, where you’re caught between hope and fear, between everything you’ve ever wanted and everything you’re terrified of losing.

and then he moves.

it’s slow, tentative, as if he’s giving you time to stop him, to pull away. but you don’t. you can’t. his hand brushes against yours, fingers barely grazing your skin, and it sends a shiver down your spine. your breath hitches, and you can’t help but look down at the small point of contact, the way his fingers curl, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid to take more than what he’s allowed.

but then he does. he laces his fingers with yours, his palm warm against yours, grounding you in a way that nothing else ever has.

your heart is racing now, so loud you’re afraid he might hear it. you glance up at him, searching for something in his expression, but all you find is that quiet intensity — the kind that makes your chest ache.

“what are you doing, riki?” your voice cracks, betraying the storm of emotions you’re trying so hard to keep in check.

“i don’t know,” he admits, and there’s a soft chuckle, but it’s hollow, lacking his usual confidence. “i just… i’ve been thinking. about how i feel. about how… maybe i’ve been feeling this way for a while now.”

your throat tightens. “feeling what?”

he exhales, and for a moment, you swear he’s going to pull away, take back everything he’s said. but then he looks at you — really looks at you — and something in his expression shifts, softens.

“i think i’m falling for you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, like it’s a secret he’s kept for too long. “and it scares the shit out of me.”

the words hang in the air, heavy and fragile, and you’re not sure if you should laugh or cry or both. you’ve wanted to hear those words for so long, but now that they’re out in the open, you’re terrified.

because what if this ruins everything? what if he’s wrong? what if—

“i think i’ve already fallen for you,” you say, before you can stop yourself, the confession slipping past your lips like a dam breaking. “a long time ago.”

he’s quiet for a second, and you think maybe you’ve said too much, maybe you’ve just destroyed everything. but then he lets out a breath — a shaky, relieved laugh — and squeezes your hand, pulling you closer until your shoulder brushes against his.

for a moment, everything is still, and you realize just how long you've both been dancing around this feeling, tiptoeing on the edge of something more, too afraid to jump. but now, standing at the precipice, you realize you’re not scared of falling.

because he’s falling too.

“guess we’re both falling, huh?” you whisper, the weight of your confession sinking in. “falling just as hard.”

he looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s something in his eyes — something that mirrors your own fear, your own longing. and then he smiles, that lazy, confident grin you know so well, but there’s something softer behind it now.

“yeah,” he says quietly, his voice steady but filled with something deeper. “we are.”

and then he leans in, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away if you want. but you don’t. you close the distance, and when his lips meet yours, it’s soft and tentative, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

but then you kiss him back, and it’s like the world tilts on its axis, like everything suddenly makes sense. his hand slips to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you closer, deeper, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted.

when you finally pull away, breathless and dizzy, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, his breath warm against your skin.

and for the first time, you realize that maybe falling isn’t so scary after all.

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

You Remind Me Of Her

~

"Jason wake up I want to go see the new store!"

He felt his blankets get tugged off of him. Groaning he scrunched his face into the bed.

" Let me sleep another hour or two, it was late when I got in bed."

" And who's fault is that?"

He grabbed the nearest pillow to him and flung it to where the voice was coming from, even with perfect aim he wasn't surprised when he heard it connect with his wall and not a body.

"Yours! If you hadn't dragged me with you to look for those old music disk with you I would have gotten to bed earlier."

"Liar you would still have gone to bed late for whatever other reason."

He sat up rubbing his eyes, hissing slightly when he opened them not expecting his lights to already be on.

"Okay, what store are you making me go to today Martha?"

He dodged a swat to the back of his head. Grinning he headed towards the kitchen hearing her huff and following him.

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me grandma! Honestly, you're worse than a nipping dog"

"Well at least I'm not emotionally constipated like Bruce"

"True, but we're not speaking about my son right now we're speaking about you. Now hurry up! I saw the prettiest set of crystal glass cut tea set by the window when I was passing by!"

"Give me like 8 minutes to eat and get ready okay, will grampa be joining us?"

He turned to look at her in the eyes

Her green eyes, just barely glowing. The rest of her being transparent like fog in the early morning, her heels floating a few inches of the floor.

Martha Wayne his grandmother

His dead grandmother now a ghost

Just like he used to be

~

He walked into the small store the small bells jingling above his head.

"Look Jason they have such pretty things!"

His eyes followed her as she floated over to the display case. Quickly he took his phone and held it up to is ear.

"Which one's were the ones that caught your eye?'

He developed the habit of speaking into the phone when he was outside in public view while speaking with a ghost, that way nobody would give him a second glance looking like a normal phone call.

"The one with lilies and forget-me-not's."

His eyes quickly found the pieces and grabbed them. He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

"Is this all you wanted from here?"

The 'Do you want to continue looking?' in his gaze. She gave a quick glance around before turning back to him.

"No just that for today, we can come back another day when you don't have plans."

Jason glanced at her while he quickly paid. Leaving the store he turned to fully look at her while still having his phone up to his ear.

"Plans? I don't have any plans for today?"

A sly grin made its way on to her face

"Well I thought it's been a while since you visited Alfred and since we're in the area we might as well visit, no?"

Jason sighed, " Fine, only because it has been a while plus if I don't go you'll just keep naggin' me."

Martha gave a small huff of amusement

"That's my boy! Now! Let's get some nice tea for our visit, it would be rude to go empty handed, how about some nice cinnamon tea huh?"

"Your obsession with cinnamon tea has started to spread to me, especially the weird way you like it."

"Gasp! It's not that weird, honestly I started drinking it like that because of my cravings while I was pregnant and just never stopped. But don't lie to me, you like it just as much as I do even with the peach jam."

"Fine maybe I do."

He looked down at the time, "Let's hurry up a buy that before it gets too late."

~

He knocked at the door, shifting the bags in his hands as he waited for Alfred to open the door.

Martha waited outside with him even though she could easily phase her way inside.

Jason heard light footsteps before the door glided open.

"Master Jason what a wonderful surprise to see you here please do come in."

Alfred herded Jason inside taking note of the bags he held.

"Did you go shopping before coming here?"

"Uh yea, some of it is for you."

"For me master Jason?"

"I thought it would be rude to come empty handed so I bought tea."

"Very thoughtful of you, lets head to the kitchen to prepare a cup shall we."

Jason quickly looked towards Martha raising a brow

"You go enjoy your tea with Alfred I'm going to look for Thomas, I'll be back by the time you leave"

Jason gave a quick smile in return before quickly following Alfred into the kitchen.

"Hey Alfie we can use the new tea set I got today, let me just wash them real quick."

He turned around, not noticing Alfred's confused stare

"You bought a tea set master Jason?"

Jason turned around after quickly wiping them dry.

"Yeah look, they even have some lilies and forget-me-not's on them, saw them by the window of the shop and thought why not?" He half lied.

"I see, I haven't seen these two flowers paired up together in ...a very long time."

Jason turned towards the kitchen entrance as he heard two pairs of footsteps nearing. Both Bruce and Dick appearing in the doorway.

"Oh good you're both here, I'm about to prepare some tea master Jason brought over for us ,sit down please."

They walked over to the table, Dick quickly hugging him.

"You didn't tell me you were dropping by!"

"Get off, and yea it was impulsive decision."

"Hn, good to see you chum."

"Yeah, you too B."

Alfred walked over with the tea prepared, placing it on the table.

Dick leaned over to see the tray.

"What kind of tea is it?"

"Master Jason brought us cinnamon tea."

Dick looked over at Jason tilting his head, "Since when do you drink cinnamon tea?"

"Since none of your business."

Jason took a small sip before sighing, "Hey Alfred do you have any peach jam?"

Alfred hesitated before looking at him confused, "Peach jam? What for?"

"I like to mix it in with the cinnamon tea."

Alfred's eyes glazed over for a second before heading towards the refrigerator, "...I see, of course let me get some for you."

He quickly came back with a small jar and placed it on the table near Jason.

"Thanks Alf." He scooped up a spoonful and dipped it in his cup.

Bruce and Alfred glanced at each other.

Dick looked up from his own cup, "Does that actually taste good? Can I try some!"

He made a grab at Jason's cup, he quickly pulled it out of reach, "Don't touch mine! If you're really curious make it yourself."

Dick slumped on the table whining, "But what if I don't like it, I'll ruin my tea!"

"That's not my problem"

"Oh come oooon just a little sip!"

"No"

"Pleaseee!"

"Ugh you're worse than a nipping dog, fine!"

Before Dick could celebrate they heard twin startled noises. They turned around and Bruce was covered in tea in what seemed like he spit out his tea, both Alfred and Bruce were staring at Jason faces pale.

Jason glanced around confused, "What? Why are you looking at me like that."

Alfred straightened up clearing his throat, " Apologies master Jason you seem to have startled us a bit."

"With what?"

Bruce finally stopped coughing, "Nothing, you just...reminded us of someone."

~

Just an Idea

[sanguine-prince]

i’m sure i’m not the first to say something like this, but let me tell you about my poc-passing-as-white jay gatsby headcanon!!

for some background, in the 1920s there was an interesting shift regarding (white) skin tones. previously, tans were viewed as a sign that a person worked out in the fields, and therefore a trademark of the lower class. however, slowly after the industrial revolution, it increasingly became a representation of luxury, since the rich upper class would have the time to lounge about and sunbathe at their leisure.

i say all this to show that a poc gatsby would have the ostensible class and wealth for a tan, which would ‘excuse’ a slightly browner skin tone in the public eye.

(the 20s was also the setting of passing by nella larsen, so that’s neat.)

in my vision, he’s biracial (maybe his mother was black & his father was a german immigrant) with skin light enough to pass for white.

the fact that nick states that gatsby keeps his hair neatly groomed and cut might be to prevent it from curling up.

additionally, i think it could contrast tom’s white supremacy & his fear of poc social progress.

it would also create a deeper divide between gatsby and daisy, and once again the contrast between him and tom. in my mind, daisy wouldn’t know about it until the point where tom reveals everything about gatsby’s bootlegging etc. with jay revealing it to her in the car ride back (oops then she hits myrtle).

then, when she chooses tom and the life of comfort, wealth, status, etc that their marriage offers, she also rejects not only gatsby’s new money but also his race.

it’s a lot more thematically significant for the american dream as well—it’s still unattainable and essentially tainted by capitalism, and it also emphasizes that it’s restricted to the white upper class. social mobility only becomes available to gatsby when he disguises his racial identity.

similarly, it fits with gatsby’s identity reconstruction—the quintessential american is white, rich, and educated.

daisy and tom have that ticket into society because they have that inherent thing that he will never have—pedigree, in both class and race. that’s something that even nick has.

(in my mind, he tells nick all about it the night before he dies & nick understands as best he can and doesn’t think less of him, because it further highlights the differences between his & gatsby’s relationship v. gatsby’s relationship with daisy; namely, the transparency -> acceptance give-and-take that he and daisy never had. because of having to hide himself from daisy in order to maintain her affection, he builds an expectation that he must be someone that he is not as well as developing a transactional definition of love (he gives, and people love him as long as he can continue to give) in order to be loved. therefore, nick’s immediate curiosity and fascination with who he truly is is foreign to him. not to get too into their dynamic lmao i just think it’s really interesting.)

finally, the very last part where nick is sitting and looking at the bay and thinking about the first immigrants and their dreams and how gatsby embodied the purity and naivety of those dreams is further exemplified by his racial ‘otherness.’

and there’s,,, technically nothing in the book to explicitly refute this from what i remember!

(n.b.: it has been a hot second since i’ve read tgg, so lmk if i’ve got anything wrong!)

[tanjamikaelson]

BEST FRIEND'S BROTHER - CHAPTER 2

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 2: | HE'S AN IDIOT |

The following morning was filled with the sound of waves and the soft hum of voices as you and Sarah joined a beach cleanup, mingling with the community, hands busy gathering discarded cans and stray wrappers tangled in the sand.

After a couple of hours in the sun, the cleanup wrapped up, and you and Sarah made your way back to her house. She was off with Topper, laughing and relaxed on her boat, while you headed into the kitchen, hoping for something quick to eat since breakfast had been a hurried affair. Just as you grabbed a bag of chips and a drink, you turned and nearly collided with Rafe, who appeared out of nowhere in the foyer.

You both froze for a split second, and the chips slipped from your grasp, tumbling to the floor. Rafe leaned down, mumbling, “Shit, sorry,” as he retrieved the bag. His fingers brushed yours for an instant, sending a spark through you that made your heart race.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” you said, trying to make light of the moment even as your stomach twisted in nerves and curiosity.

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, his expression unreadable, but his usual confidence wavered. “I wasn’t expecting you here,” he said, his voice low, almost distant.

A slight laugh escaped your lips, though it felt too light for the weight between you both. “Like you didn’t expect me in your room the other night…”

Your words seemed to make him tense even more, his gaze darting around the room as though searching for an escape. His eyes looked a little glazed, and you wondered again if it was the lingering effects of that night, or whatever it was that had him on edge lately.

“I’m sorry about that,” you added, the words catching in your throat. “Maybe… maybe I shouldn’t have done it.” Your heart sank a little as you spoke; had you really pushed too far?

Rafe’s eyes softened, just barely, and he shook his head slightly. “You don’t have to be sorry about it,” he said, though his tone carried an unspoken weight. He looked as if he wanted to say more, to reach out to you, but something was holding him back.

You couldn’t help but smile, though it felt bittersweet. “Are you going to Kelce’s party later?” you asked, hoping to bridge the awkwardness lingering between you two.

“Yeah,” he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips as he nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Okay, see you then.” You glanced at him one last time, wanting so badly to understand what was going on behind those conflicted eyes before you turned and left the room.

As you walked away, you felt his gaze on you, lingering even after you’d turned the corner. Rafe seemed lost, struggling to find his footing, caught between the pull of his own feelings and whatever else haunted him. It was clear he didn’t know how to act around you, as though every word or touch might unravel something inside of him that he was afraid to face.

•°•°•°•°•°•

You arrived at Kelce’s party with Sarah and Topper, the evening air warm against your skin. You were wearing a white swimsuit underneath a nearly sheer black dress, its delicate pattern of pink roses giving it an air of elegance. It clung to your body just right, the subtle transparency leaving just enough to the imagination. You had spent the last half hour watching Sarah and Topper, noticing the way they seemed lost in their own world as they playfully splashed around in the pool. Their laughter echoed through the yard, carefree and full of excitement.

Earlier, while getting ready for the party, Sarah confessed to you that she was ready to take the next step with Topper. Tonight, she said, would be the night. There had been a glimmer of nervous excitement in her eyes, a kind of anticipation that only firsts can bring. Now, as you watched them sneak away together, you knew what was about to happen, and your heart swelled with protectiveness for your best friend.

As the night moved on, you made your way back into the house, hoping to find a place to sit down and relax. That’s when you saw Rafe, sitting on a couch surrounded by people—girls and guys, all vying for his attention as he passed around small bags of coke. You rolled your eyes, the sight of him dealing drugs like it was just another casual social activity filling you with annoyance. You hated that he was caught up in that lifestyle, and even more, you hated that he used them too. It was something that separated you from him, something you wished he would stop.

Despite your frustration, you found yourself drawn to him. He seemed to sense your presence immediately, even as he was in the midst of his drug transactions. You sat down across from him, not close enough to join the chaos surrounding him, but just close enough that your eyes could meet. Rafe’s gaze flickered over to you, his expression softening into a smile that was just for you. He never offered you drugs, never even tempted you with them. He had always kept that world at a distance from you as if he was protecting you from the same things that consumed him.

Minutes passed, and soon Topper appeared, his face dark and clouded with frustration. You noticed immediately that something was wrong. He didn’t look happy, not like he should have after being with Sarah. Worry twisted in your gut, and you didn’t need to ask to know that things hadn’t gone as Sarah had planned.

Without hesitation, you stood and went to find her. When you finally spotted her outside, she was already heading toward the gate, her face streaked with tears.

“Sarah!” you called out, hurrying to catch up with her.

She turned to face you, and the sight of her tear-streaked cheeks broke your heart. "What happened? Did Topper do something?" you asked gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Sarah shook her head, trying to wipe away the tears. “No, he didn’t do anything. I just… I thought I was ready, but I wasn’t.”

Her voice trembled, and you could see the weight of her decision hanging over her. “It’s okay,” you whispered softly, your hand brushing her arm in comfort. “It’s okay to wait. You don’t have to rush anything.”

Sarah sniffed, her lips quivering. “He wasn’t happy about it,” she admitted her voice small and filled with doubt.

You rolled your eyes at the thought of Topper being upset over something so personal. “Screw him. Guys like that—they only think about one thing,” you told her, a little fire in your words, hoping to make her feel better.

A small, broken laugh escaped Sarah’s lips, and she smiled through her tears. “You’re right.”

You smiled back, relieved to see her spirits lifting. “Do you want to go back to the party?” you offered.

Sarah shook her head, wiping the last of her tears. “No, I think I’ll just head home. I don’t feel like partying anymore.”

“I can come with you,” you said, ready to leave everything behind to make sure she was okay.

But Sarah smiled weakly and shook her head again. “No, stay. Have fun. I’m just going to sleep.”

You nodded in understanding, watching as she walked away. Once she was out of sight, you made your way back inside, your heart still heavy for her. As soon as you entered, your mood shifted sharply when you saw someone you hadn’t expected—your ex-boyfriend. He was standing across the room, eyes locked on you like a predator sizing up his prey, and you felt a wave of discomfort roll through you. The memory of him stung like an old wound. Six months together, and it all crumbled when he cheated on you while on vacation. The betrayal cut deep, and though you had ended things swiftly, only Sarah knew the real reason. Seeing him now, with that familiar smirk on his face, made your skin crawl.

You quickly moved over to where your friends were gathered around Rafe, hoping to avoid any confrontation.

The moment you settled into the group, one of your friends leaned in, her voice full of curiosity. “Hey, isn’t that your ex?”

You barely spared a glance in his direction, rolling your eyes as you nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

“Why did you two break up anyway?” she asked, her voice light, unaware of the storm those words stirred in you.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped from your mouth. “Because he cheated on me.”

The room felt like it froze for a moment. The words hung in the air, and you instantly wished you could take them back. But it was too late.

Rafe, who had been leaning back lazily, suddenly snapped to attention. His eyes shot up from where he sat, his expression darkening as he processed what you’d said. He didn’t like hearing that. The idea of someone hurting you, betraying you like that, made his blood boil. He had sensed something was off when you broke up, and noticed the sadness in your eyes back then, but he never knew it was because your ex had hurt you that badly.

Anger surged through him. How could anyone be so stupid, so careless, to hurt someone like you? Rafe's jaw clenched, the coke in his system amplifying his emotions, making the fury harder to contain.

Before you could even brace yourself, your ex started walking toward you, completely unaware of the conversation he was about to walk into. His casual demeanor made your stomach churn. He had no idea that everyone knew now—everyone knew what he had done to you.

“Can we talk?” His voice was calm, almost pleading, as if nothing had happened between you. As if he hadn’t shattered your trust and left you to pick up the pieces.

Before you could respond, Rafe was already on his feet, moving with a quickness that surprised even you. “She doesn’t wanna talk to you,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

You blinked, stunned by how swiftly Rafe stepped in, the way he positioned himself between you and your ex, like a shield. “Uh, yeah... I don’t,” you stammered, nodding in agreement with Rafe. You couldn’t help but be surprised by his protectiveness, but a part of you felt grateful—like he’d been waiting for this moment, waiting to defend you.

“I just wanted—” your ex began, but Rafe cut him off again, his patience wearing thin.

“Nobody cares what you want,” Rafe snarled, his voice dripping with hostility.

Before you could even process what was happening, Rafe grabbed your hand, his touch firm but careful, and dragged you away from the tension-filled room. Your heart raced, not just from the confrontation but from the way Rafe was holding you—protecting you.

He didn’t stop until he had you pinned gently against the hallway wall, away from the prying eyes of everyone else. His body was close to yours, his blue eyes searching your face with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice a stark contrast to the rage he’d shown moments before.

You nodded, your breath still a little uneven. “I’m fine, Rafe. Thanks for that, you didn’t have to—”

Rafe cut you off, his voice filled with determination. “Of course I did. He’s an idiot.”

You laughed, the tension melting away for just a moment. “Yeah, he is.”

“Biggest one I know, besides myself,” Rafe added, a self-deprecating smirk pulling at his lips.

You shook your head softly. “You’re not an idiot, Rafe,” you said, your voice gentle.

But Rafe’s expression darkened slightly, his eyes flickering with something deeper. “Of course I am,” he corrected you, his voice lowering as he leaned in closer, so close you could feel his breath on your skin. “You wouldn’t even be with him if I tried something with you sooner.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket. Was he saying what you thought he was saying? You weren’t sure how Rafe felt about you before, but now… now you knew. The intensity in his gaze made your heart race, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Do you want to show him that you don’t belong to him anymore?” Rafe’s voice was rough, but his words sent shivers down your spine. There was a rawness to his tone, a need that mirrored your own.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry as you whispered, “How?”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just let me lead the way,” Rafe murmured, his voice almost soothing. He was waiting for your permission, waiting for you to tell him it was okay. “Okay?”

You nodded, unable to form words, your body already reacting to his closeness. Your heart pounded in your chest as you bit your lower lip, feeling the heat of his body radiating against yours. When you felt his fingers brush along your inner thigh, a soft gasp escaped your lips, your knees threatening to buckle beneath you.

“Can I touch you?” Rafe asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, his hand hovering near your covered core.

��Please do,” you whispered, your voice shaky with need.

The moment his fingers made contact with your swimsuit, brushing over the fabric covering your most sensitive spot, you nearly collapsed into him. Rafe’s hand moved slowly, deliberately, teasing you until you were trembling against him.

“Shit… you’re wet already,” Rafe breathed against your ear, his voice filled with lust. His touch was confident, fueled by the coke and years of pent-up desire. Your body reacted on instinct, the alcohol making your inhibitions fade, allowing you to give in to the moment fully.

“I bet you were like this that morning when you were grinding against me,” Rafe’s voice was husky, each word sending goosebumps down your skin.

You couldn’t answer at first, your breath coming out in short gasps as his fingers continued to tease you through your swimsuit. But when you finally found your voice, it was barely a whisper. “I was,” you moaned, the confession slipping out between breaths.

Rafe groaned, the sound deep and primal. His fingers began to rub your clit through the fabric, slow at first, then faster, and it sent your senses spiraling. You clung to him, your arms wrapping around his neck as waves of pleasure coursed through you. You moaned his name softly, the sound of it making him grow even more eager. He was skilled, knowing exactly how to work your body, pushing all the right buttons to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

“Is your ex watching?” Rafe asked, his voice thick with satisfaction.

You managed to rise up on your tiptoes, glancing over his shoulder. There he was—your ex, watching with eyes full of jealousy and frustration. He had never been able to get this close to you, never touched you the way Rafe was touching you now. He had cheated because he couldn’t wait because he thought he could manipulate you into sleeping with him. But now, seeing you with Rafe, he realized just how wrong he had been.

“Yeah, he’s watching,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Good,” Rafe smirked, and in one fluid motion, he moved your bottoms aside, his fingers brushing over your bare clit.

The shock of his touch made you moan louder, your body pressing into his as your legs began to tremble. Rafe’s fingers worked faster, rubbing your clit with expert precision. You clung to his shoulders, unable to hold yourself up as your body buckled under the pleasure.

Once again you stole a glance over Rafe’s shoulder, searching for your ex, wondering if he was still watching. The sight of him seeing you with Rafe had fueled you earlier, a sense of satisfaction curling in your chest. But when you looked now, he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had left, unable to stand the jealousy burning through him, knowing that you had moved on in ways he hadn’t expected.

But you didn’t tell Rafe. You didn’t want him to stop. Not now, when you were so close, your body trembling as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten with each passing second.

Rafe’s breath was hot against your ear as he spoke, his voice dripping with desire. “I knew it,” he whispered, his words making goosebumps rise on your skin. “I knew you wanted this as much as I did.”

You could only moan in response, your legs starting to shake as he increased the pressure, his fingers circling your clit faster.

Your grip on his shoulders tightened, needing something to hold onto as pleasure washed over you, wave after wave. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling as the orgasm crashed over you, more intense than anything you had ever felt before. You moaned Rafe’s name over and over, the sound of it sending waves of satisfaction through him.

Rafe’s arm was quick to wrap around your waist, holding you up as your body shook with the intensity of it all. You buried your face in his chest, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you tried to steady yourself, the overwhelming sensation still coursing through your veins.

Rafe chuckled softly, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You okay?”

You looked up at him, still a little dazed, but a slow smile spread across your lips. “Perfect,” you breathed out, your body still buzzing from the aftermath. The intensity of it all had left you feeling lighter like something had shifted between the two of you, something you could never take back.

Rafe grinned down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of pride and hunger. He had imagined this moment so many times, but having you here in his arms, breathless and flushed because of him, felt better than he ever thought it could.

After a few minutes, the two of you returned to the main room where the party was still in full swing. Your heart pounded in your chest as you scanned the room, hoping your ex wouldn’t try anything else. But there he was, standing near the table, hunched over doing lines of coke with a couple of other guys. The sight of him filled you with satisfaction—he had lost, and he knew it. You clung to Rafe’s arm, feeling his warmth, his presence grounding you.

Your ex looked up, the fury in his eyes was unmistakable, and the look on his face sent a chill down your spine. The rage was clear in his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he saw you cling to Rafe’s arm. He had never been able to handle his jealousy well, and now it was eating him alive. He thought he could guilt-trip you back into being with him, make you think you were naive and innocent, but you weren’t playing into his games anymore.

Your ex sneered, his voice low and venomous as he hissed, “What would Sarah say if she knew her brother fucked you?”

The room seemed to be still at his words. The air grew thick with whispers, people turning to glance at you and Rafe, eyes wide with curiosity and judgment. The accusation lingered in the air, heavy and dangerous, and your stomach twisted at the thought of Sarah finding out. Your best friend—what would she think? How would she react?

You felt the heat rise in your face, panic creeping up your throat. Your wide eyes met Rafe’s, silently pleading for him to do something, anything, to make this go away. But you knew Rafe didn’t care about what his sister thought the way you did. He didn’t care about their whispers or the gossip that was sure to spread like poison through your social circles. But the only thing that seemed to matter to him right now was you.

Rafe’s jaw clenched, the sharpness of his fury clear in his eyes. He didn’t need words to convey the rage simmering inside him. The moment he saw the tears welling in your eyes, something snapped. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous, each word filled with venom.

“Shut the fuck up!” Rafe growled, and before anyone had time to react, his fist flew through the air, connecting squarely with your ex’s face.

The sound of the punch echoed through the room, a brutal, sickening crack that silenced the crowd. Your ex staggered backward, his hand instinctively going to his face as blood gushed from his nose and mouth. He collapsed to the floor, groaning in pain, his hands now stained with red. Rafe stood over him, chest heaving, his expression hard and unforgiving.

Everyone around you stared in shock, too stunned to say anything. It was clear Rafe had broken his nose—the way your ex was gasping for breath, clutching his face in agony, only made it more obvious. And Rafe? He didn’t care. You could see it in the satisfied glint in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell with the adrenaline of the moment. He had been waiting for this, waiting to finally put your ex in his place, to make him pay for what he had done to you.

You couldn’t help but feel a small, wicked smile pull at your lips as you watched your ex whine, blood dripping from his nose and down his chin. He deserved this. He deserved all of it, after everything he had put you through, after trying to come back into your life like he hadn’t betrayed you.

Rafe didn’t give him a second glance. He grabbed your arm with a firm but protective grip, pulling you out of the house and away from the whispers that had started to stir behind you. You barely had time to catch your breath before you were outside, the cool night air washing over your heated skin.

Without saying a word, Rafe grabbed his helmet and placed it over your head, the action so gentle and caring that it sent warmth through your chest. He secured it carefully before helping you onto his bike. Your legs felt shaky, your body still buzzing with adrenaline, but the moment you settled behind Rafe, wrapping your arms around his waist, you felt safe. You felt protected.

He revved the engine, and the roar of the bike drowned out everything else—the noise of the party, the whispers, your ex’s pitiful groaning from inside. As Rafe sped off into the night, the wind whipped past you, carrying with it the weight of everything that had just happened. You held onto him tightly, your face pressed against his back, your heart still pounding.

The ride to your house wasn’t long, but it felt different like time had slowed down. The tension in the air between you both was still palpable, a mixture of emotions swirling in the silence. When the bike finally came to a stop in front of your house, you hesitated, your arms lingering around Rafe for just a moment longer, not ready to let go.

Rafe turned slightly, his eyes searching yours with a softness that wasn’t there before. “If he tries anything else with you, just let me know, okay?” His voice was low, but there was an edge of protectiveness to it, a promise in his words. He was serious—he would handle your ex, no matter what it took.

You nodded, your lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “I will. Thank you, Rafe.”

He returned the smile, but there was something more in his gaze, something that lingered in the space between you. Just as you handed him his helmet, the front door to your house swung open, and your mother stepped outside, her expression surprised to see you.

“I thought you were going to stay at Sarah’s again tonight,” your mother said, her eyes flickering between you and Rafe, taking in the unexpected scene.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound as casual as possible. “She wasn’t feeling good,” you explained quickly. “So Rafe drove me back.”

Your mother smiled warmly at him. “Thank you for driving her back, Rafe,” she said, her voice kind and appreciative.

“Yeah, no problem,” Rafe replied, his voice steady as he gave her a nod.

With that, he revved the engine once more, the sound filling the quiet street as he turned and sped off into the night. You stood there, watching him disappear down the road, the cool night air brushing against your skin. Something had shifted between you two tonight, something undeniable.

As you finally stepped inside your house, closing the door behind you, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of everything that had happened. The confrontation with your ex, the way Rafe had stepped in, protected you and made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. It left a mark, something that would linger long after the night was over.

And as you lay in bed that night, you couldn’t help but wonder what tomorrow would bring, and where things with Rafe would go from here.

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG X READER

You & König have been chosen as unwilling participants in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

WARNINGS: 18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Protective!König, Virgin!König, Loner!König, 18yo!König, Possessive!König, TouchStarved!König, GentleGiant!König, To You Anyway, König Pines Hard, Fem!Reader, Mentor!JohnPrice, Slow Burn, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Suicidal Ideations, Alcohol Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Dom!König, A Lil’ Sub!König Too, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Nipple Play, Blow Jobs, Fingering, Slight Exhibitionism, Consensual Degradation, Praise Kink, Gentle Sex, Rough Sex, First Time, …And A Second, Perhaps A Third & Forth

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE GAMECHANGER III

First Part Of This Chapter Here

Dallian is the very definition of sleazy. A man with a perfect build and a waft of gelled dark hair, draped in gold jewelry. He’s the kind of guy that’s attractive, and knows it, to the point it’s entirely repulsive. A cloud of arrogance surrounds him and threatens to make you gag.

“Bit annoying I had to buy both of you,” He laughs, “But I won’t be the one paying for it.”

Dallian’s eyes dart to Konig, rubbing his smug grin in Konig’s face.

Now this was what you expected from someone forcing you into being intimate with them.

Dallian passes a glass of wine to you as he settles on the couch next to you.

“I can show you how it’s done,” He says to Konig with a mocking nod of his head, “Teach you how to really please a woman.”

He snickers at the way Konig’s fists clench, how his shoulders tense, how those icy, killer eyes narrow.

How powerful Dallian must feel.

You almost want to laugh at him, for being foolish enough to believe he’s got the upper hand, when you and Konig have been entirely transparent thus far about being an unstoppable team.

And he has the gall to think he’s special. The exception. The one who gets to flash a few coins to humble the biggest, strongest victor in the worst way possible.

You can hardly bite back your excitement.

Your blood is racing through your veins, your heart hammering against your ribcage and its quick beat in your ears.

“What do you say, doll?”

Dallian’s hand reaches out to meld to your hips.

“Want me to show you how an experienced man does it?”

You put on your best flirtatious voice, leaning into his repulsive touch against every instinct to pull away.

“Maybe,” You say with a coy shrug, “But I am a bit shy.”

Dallian shakes his head and scoffs.

“Didn’t get that impression from you.”

“Fan of my work?”

“Very much so,” He purrs, tapering into a low hum.

“I guess it was just my way of saying I like a man who takes control.”

“Now that’s the impression I got from you.”

Dallion laughs, and looks to Konig in the expectation that he’d find it funny too.

He does not.

“Better make yourself comfortable,” He says to Konig, “Might be a bit longer than what you’re used to.”

He winks at Konig, surely a dig at his quick finish in the arena.

You beckon him with a curled finger, a bite in your lip that you’re not sure is genuine or not, because you’re literally shaking with anticipation for the big finish.

Dallian gives a low, sultry laugh that sloshes your lunch as he closes the distance between you.

You have to try really hard not to look over his shoulder and at Konig, sneaking along the border of the room to keep out of Dallian’s peripheral.

His footsteps are silent. It’s impressive, his ability to move without making a disturbance, especially considering his size. You’re reminded of the boy from One, who had no clue Konig was tailing him in that fall forest until he was already trapped in a chokehold.

You purposely expose your neck to keep Dallian from going for your lips, and he follows your whim, burying his head into your neck to leave burning kisses.

You only have to endure three wet, scalding, hum-laced kisses before Konig is towering over you both.

It’s quick.

Konig reaches down, and in one smooth motion, grabs Dallian by the side of his neck and smashes his head on the drink table with a breathtaking thud.

Dallian crashes to the ground, his arms catching on the table and the couch on his descent, falling into the gap between them like a rag doll.

Konig laughs dangerously as he places his feet on either side of Dallian’s body. He lowers himself to a straddle and mercilessly swings his fists down.

You close your eyes to avoid watching Konig do the dirty work. The impacts of his punches are still unpleasant, the images of Titan’s bloody skull shoved down your throat with each hit he lands.

So you open your eyes, and you watch. You watch Konig’s back twist and lurch forward with each of his swings, the pinch and unpinch of his shoulder blades, the twitch of his victim’s legs. Splatters of blood flick along the sofa and coffee table, his fists becoming bloodier with each wind up of his arm.

Trembling fingers tighten around your drink, and you take tiny sips of wine as you observe.

When Konig’s finished, long after Dallian was done for, he lingers on his knees over top of his fresh kill, his eyes closed and his head thrown back.

Konig doesn’t face you even when he stands. From behind, you can see his ribcage expand with each of his huffed breaths, bursts of shaky laughter spilling from his lips, bruised and split knuckles at his sides and dripping with blood.

He whips around with little warning, those dangerous eyes locking onto you. You start and stammer as he reaches those deadly arms in your direction, grabs two fistfuls of your lingerie, and yanks you into a fervorous kiss.

His laughs almost constitute giggles. He’s giddy, smiling into the kisses and bumping his teeth against your lips.

When he pulls away, those eyes are darkened something vicious. He’s looking at you like he wants to ravage you, ruin you, worship you.

It’s equal parts nerve-wracking and thrilling, and you wear a nervous smile to match.

He plops down on the couch, and pulls you into his lap by your waist, forcing you to meet him in a messy, slobbering kiss while you rearrange your limbs to straddle him. His tongue invades your mouth with such intensity, you’d think he’s trying to lick the back of your throat.

He pants through flushed, spit-glistened lips, smearing blood over your stockings as he creeps up your thighs. His eyes wander just as much as his hands, devouring you, all of you.

“I love you,” He breathes.

“I love you, too.”

Your hands trace up his firm core and chest.

“So good for me,” You whisper, “Did such a good job.”

Konig’s brows crease and those dangerous eyes soften in confusion.

“You worked so hard for me.”

One of your hands glides over his firm chest, the other sliding up the groove of his shoulder and his neck. You smooth all the way up to his jaw and stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. His bloody hand rests over yours, almost like it had the mind to pull your touch away, but decided against it.

“So good at protecting me, aren’t you? I think someone who works this hard deserves to be rewarded, yeah?”

You can see the battle in his eyes, does he want to ravish you? Or be ravished by you?

He gives in with a whine and a needy grind of his hips.

“Use your words,” You tease.

“Ja,” He blurts with a frantic nod of his head, “Please.”

A hum of approval crosses your lips as you leisurely undo the buttons on his shirt, brushing your knuckles along his chest.

His hands find your hips with a hold tight enough to leave an ache under his fingertips. He pushes you further into him, and leaves you no choice but to rock back and forth on the bulge in his pants.

You take your time, and find yourself enjoying making him wait. He’s so pretty like this, murmuring pleas and desperately seeking relief from the ache between his legs as you admire every newly revealed inch of his core.

Once the last button has been undone, dainty fingers slide his shirt off his shoulders, bunching the sleeves down to the crook of his elbows and exposing his biceps.

“So pretty,” You whisper.

You lean in to give him a faint kiss, just barely pressing your lips to his, holding his stare and stroking his scratchy cheek underneath your thumb once you pull away. His mouth is open as if to say something, but he’s frozen underneath you, only the quick dart of his glossy eyes as he studies your face.

You duck your head, dragging the tip of your nose along the underside of his jaw to leave light kisses on his neck. The shallow breaths in your ear are intoxicating, tightening the knot of want in your lower core only relieved with each grind he forces you to make against him.

Konig gives you a sad, hurt little look when you wordlessly wriggle from his grip and slide back on his legs. You make up for it, though, your palm melding to the front of his pants, groping him through the fabric of his slacks.

His bottom lip catches between his teeth, mindlessly rutting into you while you eye him with a playful smile.

“You need me to take care of you, Konig? Like you do for me?”

“Please,” He whispers with a nod, “Need you.”

Half his irises disappear behind his fluttering eyelids with every grind into your palm. The whine that leaves him when you remove your hands is hard not to revel in.

“S’okay,” You coo as you undo his slacks, “I’m going to take care of you.”

You slink between the gap of his pants and his underwear, massaging him through the slippery fabric. He lets out a sigh, his head falling back on the cushions.

You apply generous pressure as your hands slowly glide up him and sneak into the waistband of his underwear. His hips buck like he’s already fucking you, desperate for release.

“Brauche dich,” He whines.

“Sh, sh,” You soothe, “I got you.”

You gnaw on your lip when you free him from his waistband, swollen and enraged in your hands. You loosely wrap your fingers around the base of him, and watch with a pinch in your brow as you let him slide through your grip, caressing up his shaft.

A low, addicting moan falls from his flushed lips, encouraging enough to quicken your pace, eager to keep him making those noises that You slide your loose fist up and down his length, running your thumb along the ridge of his tip with each ascend.

Konig’s legs fidget underneath you, bouncing you with his twitches.

“Sch- f- “

Unintelligible mutters and pleas flow freely from him. You watch carefully, the tensing and untensing of his muscles, his lovesick eyes, the clench of his jaw.

“Does that feel good?”

“Hh- Ja!”

He can hardly respond, nodding and carelessly fucking himself into your hand.

When he meets your stare with those pretty drunken eyes and his flushed, parted lips, it steals your breath. It awakens something in you, a drop in your stomach and a craving to completely undo him at your touch. You grip him firmly at the base, quickly jerking him until your hand and his cock are just a blur.

“Sch-”

He tenses beneath you, his fingers digging into your sides and a string of choked moans leaving him. You keep your hands around him even when you awkwardly sling your legs over his thighs until you’re between them. The plush, shaggy carpet is kind to your knees as you lower yourself between Konig’s legs, the soles of your victim’s shoes inches from your calf.

Konig sobers, his eyes snapping open to stare down at you with a worried crease in his brow.

Your pumps idle as you size him up. Maybe you haven’t thought this through well enough, because he’s much more intimidating from down here. You’re not sure you’ll be able to fit him in your mouth without doing damage with your teeth, but it doesn’t deter you from trying.

Konig hesitantly shifts to sit on the edge of the couch to make it easier for you, and you hold his stare until you can’t, burying yourself in his lap to lick a careful stripe from base to tip.

Konig shivers, and his breath cuts off abruptly.

You lap at his tip, short and sweet licks, breaking your pace to occasionally flick your tongue side to side along the ridge.

You use his huffs to coach you through it, doubling down on the pace and the movements that keep his breaths hitched and laced with gravelly moans.

Your lips seal around his tip, tongue swirling in circles around him.

The noises coming from him are making your eyes roll, a thrilling drop in your lower abdomen that flourishes with a flood of arousal in your panties.

You set him on the flat of your tongue, and while unhinging your jaw as wide as it goes, swallow an extra inch or two. He’s so big it’s almost painful to prop your mouth open like this, and you can’t help but feel it’d be easier if he was standing up.

Konig sucks in a sharp breath when you start to bob your head on his tip, his fingers digging into your shoulders as you wet his cock with your inexperienced tongue.

He can’t seem to sit still, his hips twitching beneath you, a symphony of groans and huffs and strained breaths heading fanning the enticing heat in your lower abdomen.

You’re making a mess on him, slobbering, drool dripping down the length of his massive cock, and you can tell he’s struggling to hold himself back from fucking your mouth without restraint.

There’s no way you’ll be able to fit all of him in your mouth, and you’re definitely bumping your teeth along him unintentionally, but he’s not complaining.

“Hh- so pretty-”

You’re surprised at how much this is turning you on. Without even being touched, wet just from listening to him being pleasured. He looks even bigger from down here, sprawled out on the couch while his cock twitches in your mouth. It feels right, you being on your knees like this for him, serving him and unraveling him at the same time. It’s sloppy, amateur work all around, but Konig doesn’t seem to mind, in fact he looks almost betrayed when you give into your sore jaw, but he has no problem forgiving you when you scramble to take off your underwear.

You do an awkward little hop on one foot, almost tripping when you kick them to the side in a rush to straddle him. You meet him in a rough kiss, wasting no time to line him up to your soaked cunt, sinking his spit-coated tip into you.

You both let out a strained moan as you work him into you with gentle bounces.

Once each descent you try to swallow a little more of him, using his strong, tense shoulders for support as you wince and struggle to take a cock that you’re no match for.

“Bitte - Du fühlst dich so gut.”

“S’okay,” You say, “I have you.”

“Bitte - ”

He loses control of his hips with a groan, aching to cram more of himself into you.

“I’m sorry, bitte-”

“S’okay.”

You plant a kiss on his forehead after he corrects himself, the salt of his sweat lingering on your lips. He buries his face into your chest with a needy whine, muffled by your lingerie.

“You want to taste them? Hm?”

His nose scrapes against your sternum when he nods. He gives you space, and watches you with hazy eyes and parted, flushed lips as you strip off your top, freeing your chest with an alluring bounce.

His tongue is on at them at once, quick, wide strokes over the entirety of your nipple. You clench around him at the sensation, writhing at his slick tongue. He’s losing himself to the taste of your chest, struggling to hold back his thrusts as he seals his lips around your nipple with an eager suck.

Intoxicated, he hungrily nurses on you, his nose buried in your plush chest and his brows creased in frustration that he can’t seem to get enough. His tongue furiously flicks at the bud of your nipple, and you can feel his impatient cock twitching inside of you at every squeaky moan and sharp gasp that leaves you.

“You fill me up so well, Konig,” You grit, “Only you could ever please me.”

He whines around your nipple.

“You want to fuck me, Konig?”

He pops off your nipple to catch his breath, nodding desperately.

“Please, please.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek, dropping your voice to just a whisper.

“I’m yours.”

His eyes flutter shut, a moan on his lips and his hips immediately snapping into you with such speed and intensity it throws you off balance and pulls a strangled cry from your lips.

With his firm hold on your hips he keeps you still and hovers you just above his cock so he can thrust up into you.

Your hands shoot out for support, clinging to him as he holds you in the air and desperately fucks you.

He takes you with him when his shoulder blades dig into the back of the couch, keeping your chest in his face so he can latch on to your nipple. Lapping and sucking while he holds you with a firm grip on your underarms, lifting his hips from the couch to mercilessly pound into you.

He pops off your nipple when he can’t hold back his sinful moans.

“Ich liebe dich,” He mutters into your chest, bouncing and brushing along his face with each of his eager thrusts, “Bitte- bitte.”

“Hh- so good, Konig.”

Your praises border on incoherent, your eyes clenched shut at the overwhelming pleasure his desperate pumps into you bring. His unbridled thrusts are inescapable, his bloody, firm grip on your arms unyielding.

The moans he draws from you waver with each thrust. As the flash heat intensifies beneath your stomach, you can’t hold yourself up anymore, falling forward and burying your head into the crook of his shoulder, as useless as a rag doll in his brute hold. His hands find the back of your thighs, needy whimpers and stuttered breaths right in your ear.

Konig’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, his teeth clench, and his muscles tighten.

“Ich- Ich k-kann icht - !”

Konig’s cry tapers into a choppy moan, his hips bucking uncontrollably beneath you as he stuffs you with his finish.

“I’m sorry-” He huffs, “I’m sorry, bitte-”

“It’s okay,” You soothe, “My good boy.”

You plant a kiss on his glistening forehead, keeping him inside you as you take in his rosen cheeks, his heaving chest. You’re careful when you pull off him, slinging your leg over his lap to rest your knees into the side of his thigh. You gently replace his stained underwear, and give him space to cool off and catch his breath, but your fingers do slink through his sweaty hair to scratch your nails over his scalp.

“Did so good for me, Konig.”

He whines again, and all but throws himself at you, burying himself in your neck. His cheek rests on the front of your shoulder, heavy breaths rolling over your collarbones.

You wrap your arms around him, and rest your chin on his head as your fingers work the back of his hair.

“I love you,” He mumbles.

You give him a gentle kiss on the crown of his sweaty hair.

“I love you, too.”

“It doesn’t feel real,” He breathes.

“What doesn’t?”

You try to get a look at his face, but he stays hidden in your neck. His stubble sands against your shoulder and his voice is just a low hum against your skin.

“That I have you. That you’re mine.”

“Mm. I’m yours.”

“Are we - are you my girlfriend?”

The laugh that leaves you comes from deep within and echoes throughout the suite. Konig’s head whips up, horrified eyes meeting yours.

“No, no - Konig, I just thought it was, y’know, implied.”

“Ach,” He looks to the side, and his brow quirks, “So - you are - ?”

“Yes,” You laugh, “I’m your girlfriend.”

He gives a relieved laugh through a dopey grin, and plants a messy, wet kiss on your lips, holding your stare with those sparkling pretty blue eyes after he pulls away.

“I have to say, though,” You grumble, “Girlfriend seems like too light of a term after all that.”

He looks away, quiet for a moment, stroking over the ribbon knotted around his wrist his thumb.

“Do you want to get married?”

“What?” You ask with a sharp recoil.

“Ach, I don’t know- I thought-”

“Did you just propose to me?”

“Was? No - Maybe. I don’t know. You said-”

Konig cuts off his blurted, disaster of a sentence with a huff, and picks it up with a meek tone.

“I want - I want you to pick. The term.”

His eyes dart to the side, and his lips pull back in a wince. His thumbs circle themselves as fast as his thoughts race.

“I’ve just been using, ‘The Love of My Life,’” You throw away with a shrug, “But yeah, I’ll marry you.”

He blinks twice, his brow creased.

“The love - Marry-” He shakes his head, “Warten! I have to- this isn’t-”

His eyes dart around the room, and his lips pull back when he lands on Dallian’s corpse. He grabs you by the hands and prompts you to stand, urgently tugging you along while you stumble over the shag carpet. He shimmies his button down off the rest of the way, holds it open, and guides it up your arms.

His eyes dart around again as you button up his shirt, and he loses track of his thoughts. He gets stuck for a moment, before he kicks back into gear and finds the button that opens the balcony door and pulls you outside.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“I want you to have a pretty view.”

When he sees your arms crossed over your chest, he turns on the heater, and stands in front of you again. His bloody hands wrap around your biceps and smooth down your arms, clasping both of your hands in his.

He brings the back of your hand to his lips, and leaves a soft, lingering kiss.

“I have always dreamt of this,” He says, “And now that I have you, I never want to let you go.”

He releases one of your hands and lowers himself to one knee, brute fingers trying their best to be gentle as he undoes the ribbon on his wrist.

“It’s not much,” He says, draping the ribbon delicately over both of his blood-crusted palms and extending it to you, “But it means a lot to me.”

You go to speak, but the words get caught in your throat, and the tears well in your eyeline without permission.

“Will you marry me?”

There’s a plea in his eyes and a sheepish smile on his face. You’re so overwhelmed, you can’t even say yes, so you just nod, a sob escaping you when you throw yourself at him.

He catches you in those strong arms, letting you cry into his shoulder, his hands rubbing up and down your stuttering back.

“Oh, mein sieger,” He whispers, “Whatever comes next, we’ll do it together.”

When you finally pull away to wipe away your tears, he holds his hand out to ask for yours. He loosely wraps the ribbon around your wrist and knots it into a careful bow.

“Don’t forget to kiss the bride,” You whisper with a sniff.

He breaks out in a wide smile, and kisses you so fast you smush your noses together.

A nasally laugh breaks the kiss, and you nuzzle into the hand that cups your jaw and the thumb that strokes your cheek.

“Wait,” You say, reaching out to touch his chest with a sudden urgency, “I have to find one for you.”

“Hm?”

“A token,” You say, “For our marriage, or whatever. Wait here.”

You rise to your feet and make a dash into the suite, tearing apart Dallian’s things to search for a gift as quick as you can, eager to spend every last minute you have with Konig at your side.

Lying on a dresser, you find a bracelet. A string of red, spherical beads, tied together with a long sliding knot to adjust the size of the loop. Two of the beads hang off either end of the bracelet, a few extra inches of slack on each.

It reminds you of a handful of stemless cherries strung together with a tight coil of twine. And while it was the first contender you laid eyes on in a race for an impromptu token of an unofficial marriage, and maybe such a thing should be picked more deliberately, you can’t help but feel like it’s the perfect gift.

You practically jog back to the balcony, where Konig waits by the door.

“What about this one?”

He takes the bracelet in his hands, and inspects it in his open palm.

“I love it,” He says.

You share a smile, and he gives you his hand when you wordlessly gesture for it, placing the bracelet on his wrist and tugging the ends to secure it.

He studies your token, giving the beads hanging off the ends a shake.

Those pretty blue eyes find you again, a cozy smile on his face as he leans down to meet you in a kiss. When he pulls away, his thumb makes light side to side strokes over the height of your cheek, and he studies your face like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it.

“I love you,” He whispers.

“I love you, too,” You whisper back.

His hands follow the dip of your neck before slowing on your shoulders. You pull each other into an embrace, the lull of his heart beat against your ear.

“Suppose we ought to honeymoon?” You ask, meeting his face.

“Mm,” He hums.

His lips fold in, his eyes dart away, and his brows pinch as he thinks over something.

You flinch when he snatches up your hands and leans in, a sudden inspired intensity in his eyes and tone.

“Let’s run.”

“What?” You ask through a nervous laugh.

”Let’s run,” He repeats with a flare of his eyes and a shake of your hands.

You unintentionally adopt his urgent tone as your eyes flit between the smile bunching his cheeks and the determined glint in his eyes.

“Run? Run where?”

“Anywhere, everywhere. Du und ich. I will protect you, take care of you, meine braut.”

A nervous laughs bubbles from you.

“But- how do we-“

Konig’s hold on your hands tighten.

“We go, and we don’t look back. You were right.”

“They w- they won’t find us?” You ask.

Konig’s eyes narrow and his lips warp into a mischevious grin.

“What’s the matter?” He says, “Afraid they’ll send you to your death?”

You look down at your shoes, lacking defense.

And you nod.

And he nods too.

He gives your hands one last shake and a quick kiss, and you fumble to find your stride as he drags you back into the suite.

“We have to pack.”

And with little thought, you do. You fill two packs with food and clothes and toiletries, and share a long kiss as you prepare to embark on your escape.

“Together,” He says.

“Together,” You whisper back.

You don’t open the door to Dallian’s suite three inches before you slam it shut at the flashes of brilliant white uniforms.

“Peacekeepers, peacekeepers,” You mutter frantically, futilely trying to shove Konig back into the suite.

Konig’s brows knit, he abandons his pack, and sweeps you away from the door with his arm.

“No, no, what are you doing?!” You squeak with a tug, but trying to hold him back is and always has been a useless effort.

Konig opens the door, and you have no choice but to standby as he steps out into the hall.

You take a step backwards, your fingers shooting up to press to your bottom lip.

You flinch at the sounds of altercation, and just before you get your hands on the edge of the door, Konig lets out a strained cry before crashing into the door and ripping it from your fingers. He hits the ground hard, his shoulder taking the brunt of his fall. “Konig! Konig?! Oh sh-”

His body twitches and shakes at your feet, but a grating, intense buzzing steals your attention, snapping your head in the direction of the peacekeepers. Sparks of electrical blue light emit from the end of a baton aimed square at your chest, its terrifying zaps blinding and deafening you.

Your palms shoot up in surrender as you stumble backwards and trip over your tribute pedestal. You land in a pure white coat of snow, scrambling away from threat as it kicks Konig back into Dallian’s suite.

“Konig! Konig!”

You race to his side after the door slams shut, your knees disrupting petals in the dirt and your hands helplessly flailing just above him.

“Konig? Konig?! Oh, oh f-!”

He groans and rolls over, collapsing onto his back. You trembling hands find his heaving chest while you examine his face.

“Konig! Are you okay?!”

His tear-welled eyes open and he finds you, pushing heavy breaths through grit teeth.

Suddenly there’s a knife in his stomach and his blood is oozing down his sides and coating the ginkgo petals in brilliant crimson.

“Schwein,” He grits, pulling his hands up to his chest.

“Why did you do that?!” You squeak.

You don’t get your answer. Your palms desperately search for reminders that life still resides within him. The reassurance lies just beneath your fingers, firm chest convulsing as he struggles for wheezing breath. His eyes pinch shut as he fights the spasm of his muscles.

“Stop, stop struggling, relax, just - just relax.”

It’s obvious you don’t trust yourself, but he follows your orders anyway, coaxing his shoulder blades to the floor, the rest of him following. You kneel at his head and carefully guide his head into your lap for cushion. Your hands smooth over his shoulders, his chest, his collarbones, his neck, his rough jaw.

“You’re okay,” You say, “You’re okay.”

His eyes flutter shut, and he nuzzles into your touch as he recoups.

“That was really stupid,” You whisper softly.

“Mm,” He agrees.

He rests on your thighs long after his muscles stop twitching from whatever the peacekeepers did to him. You run your fingers through his hair, half to soothe him and half to soothe yourself.

“I love you,” He whispers.

“I love you too,” You say.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

“Don’t be.”

You both sit like this for a while, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath, watching his peaceful face rest in your lap. Occasionally he’ll flutter his lashes and look up to you, just to remind himself that you’re there. He smiles everytime, a warm, dopey grin before those pretty blue eyes close again.

“Sometimes,” He says, “I am afraid I’ll wake up.”

You tilt your head with a furrow of your brow.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid I’ll wake up, and it’ll all have just been a dream. And I won’t have you anymore.”

You give a soft hum as you think on it.

“Tell you what,” You say with a pat of his cheek, “If it is a dream, meet me back in Nine.”

“What if you don’t like me?” He asks.

“Impossible.”

“What should I say?”

“Hmm. You should say - ‘Hey, I think you’re really cute and funny and smart and the most perfect girl ever - I was wondering if you wanted to fool around in front of the entire country, kill ourselves, get married, and maybe incite a rebellion with me?’”

Konig laughs, that hearty laugh that floods your chest with a feeling so wonderful you can’t help but bask in its warmth.

“Will do,” He says.

You sigh, and your face steadily falls.

“Do you think they’re rebelling?”

Konig sighs, and shrugs, as if it hardly matters now.

“Yeah,” You say.

But you do wonder if your speech was enough to boil District Eight’s unrest into something truly catastrophic. Has a full scale rebellion broke out in Eight? Are the people being executed, bombed as you sit here, joking and laughing with the love of your life?

There’s another pause, until Konig speaks.

“Want to snoop?”

“Obviously,” You say.

You squint, and add, “I kinda want to wreck the place, too.”

“I think we could work that in,” He says with a grin, “I was jealous I didn’t get to participate in the last one.”

“Why don’t you have the honors, then.”

“We have to start with the statue,” He says, those mischievous blue eyes staring up at you.

‘The statue’ is a fifteen-foot tall crystal statue in Dallian’s suite that depicts a giant, naked woman in an incredibly explicit pose with breasts that seem to defy the very nature of gravity itself. It sits between two grand, curved staircases that lead to the upper half of Dallian’s penthouse.

“Obviously,” You laugh, “I’d actually be very impressed if you pulled it off.”

“Mm. Watch me.”

And so you do.

You settle yourself on one of the marble staircases, and watch through the gaps of the intricately designed handrails as Konig sizes up the statue.

“Easy with the ogling there, Stud.”

“I’m not ogling,” He says, “I’m thinking.”

“Mhm,” You tease, “Thinking about what?”

“Thinking about how I’m going to destroy this giant woman.”

Your snort turns to a cackle that echoes throughout the massive foyer.

“Ach, no. That came out wrong,” He says with a wince.

“Think of it as, hm, freeing her,” You offer.

Konig loosely gestures in your direction, “Yes, that.”

He tries to tie bed sheets together to wrap around her from the top of the stairs in an attempt to knock her over, but his efforts ultimately prove futile. At some point - you start to feel for this poor woman, on display for some sleaze day in and day out, and now on the chopping block just for existing in the presence of two unruly kids.

So instead, Konig helps you craft a very baggy and ill-fitting dress for her out of the bed sheets.

After, you rifle through the suite, snooping and smashing things as you please.

As Konig inspects Dallian’s book collection, you play with the buttons on Dallian’s drink table. Pressing them just for the satisfaction of seeing what happens. One of them makes the table glow at the edges with a soft light, another makes it play music.

At the press of another button, a small part of the table opens and reveals a hidden compartment.

Inside lies a small crystal tray, and on it rests a silver cube, a matching circular dish, and two cigarettes. Ground up dried leaves wrapped in a thin see-through paper with a sturdy filter on the end.

You pick up one of the cigarettes, give it a pinch, and watch as the razor-thin paper flexes at your fingertips.

“Found some smokes,” You call.

“Oh?”

“You ever had a cigarette before?” You ask.

“No. You?”

“Nope. You wanna?”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but you forge on.

Might as well. You’re not long for this world, anyway. What harm could it do?

You set the cigarette down and fiddle with the little silver cube, trying to figure out what it is.

“He only has erotica,” Konig calls, “And none of it is tasteful.”

“Oh, yeah? Do you read a lot of erotica?”

“Ich- No. I don’t know.”

“You are a terrible liar, you know that?”

“Was auch immer,” He huffs.

You flinch when Konig tosses a book carelessly over his shoulder and it hits the ground with a boom. Your hand tightens around the little metal cube in your brace, and it shifts in your palm.

It’s split in the middle. They’re still stuck together, but the top half slides back, making two rectangular boxes.

The cube clicks when you push the top half as far as it will go. A flame appears in the center and nearly burns the fingerprints from your thumb. You snap it shut, extinguishing the flame, but in your panic you end up fumbling the little cube and nearly toss it from your hand.

“I’ve never seen one with pictures before.”

It takes a moment for you to register Konig’s mumbled words.

“Pictures?” You ask half-heartedly.

You push the top half of the cube back until the flame erupts, watching carefully where you place your fingers. With your other hand you grab the cigarette, and guide the tip of it to the flame.

“Ja,” He mumbles absently.

The pinched paper that seals the cigarette shut catches, at first a small flame, but the razor thin paper catches quickly, and soon the entire tip of the cigarette erupts in a flame big enough to incite panic.

You desperately blow on it to put out the flame that quickly eats up the paper. It extinguishes, and you uselessly wave away the smoke that rises in the flame’s wake. You are left with what you can only assume is a lit cigarette.

“Hah!” You get.

Look at you, figuring out how to light a cigarette all by yourself.

Smells awful. Pungent and musky.

The bright orange ring makes a slow creep up the cigarette, a steady stream of smoke warbling up towards the ceiling.

“Was riecht hier so?”

You put the filter to your lips, brows scrunched and face already braced in a hesitant pinch.

“Wait, wait!”

Konig drops a book and rushes to you, but he’s far too late, you’ve already taken an inhale. Your chest tightens beyond comfort and your throat and lungs erupt in a trail of flames.

The coughing is violent and uncontrollable, each one stutters your entire body. There’s no possible way to hold them back, you have no choice but to hack with an open mouth, tongue curled - you can practically feel the blood vessels popping in your face.

“Oh - oh, that burns-”

Your wheezed complaints ends with another loud and violent coughing fit.

“Are you okay?!” Konig asks, grabbing the cigarette from your hand and putting it out on the table, “Why did you do that?!”

You turn your head to keep from coughing in his face.

“Water,” You choke.

Konig scrambles to your aid, racing off to get you a glass. You can hardly get the water down your scorched throat, your teeth knock against the glass with each convulse of your chest.

“Why would anyone do this to themselves?!” You cry between coughs.

“Are you okay?!”

“It burns.”

The water only helps a little, gulping it down to the bottom of the glass.

“I’ll get more!”

You get down three entire glasses of water before you can inhale and exhale without choking.

“Guh,” You croak, “That hurt.”

“Are you- Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Dizzy.”

“Dizzy? D- Does it hurt?”

“Just my throat,” You say, “And my chest.”

“Lie down,” He says with a firm guiding hand, “Do you think it’s poisonous?”

You follow his whim, lying back on the thick, plush carpet.

“Maybe,” You say.

You smile and add, “Probably. Probably not.”

“What do I do?” He asks.

“Dunno,” You say with a shrug.

You give a weak pat on the carpet next to you.

“Lay with me.”

“Lay with you?”

“Lay with me.”

“Äh,” He hesitates, “Okay.”

He lies flat next to you, and accepts your hand when you rest it on his. He engulfs you with his hold, intertwining his fingers with yours, and lets your locked hands rest on the floor between you.

Your body is so warm and toasty, it’s like you’ve been wrapped in a soft, fuzzy blanket.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” You say, “But my mouth feels weird.”

“Your mouth?” He says, propping himself up on his elbows, “It hurts?”

“No, I can just- feel it. Too much.”

Your explorative dry tongue runs along the bottom of your teeth.

“You want more water?”

You hum affirmative, and gulp away, but it does little to quench your never-ending thirst.

You let the carpet swallow you once more, and get lost in the chandelier that illuminates the room, fascinated by the shimmering light passing through the crystal droplets.

You raise your arms up to the ceiling and open your palms. Your fingers spread and close, and you watch mesmerized as the light shining off the crystals disappear and reappear between the gaps of your fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know. It just feels right.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes!” You proclaim through a laugh, “I’m okay.”

“I wish you would have let me try it first,” He says.

“What?”

“To - To test it,” He says, “Just in case.”

Your hands drop to your stomach.

“In case what?”

“In case it’s poisonous.”

You hush him gently, blindly swatting the table to retrieve the smushed, crumpled cigarette, “You can still test it now.”

“Was?” He says as he sits up, “You said it hurts?”

You shake your head, “So worth it.”

He looks to the side, considering it.

“What’s it like?”

“It’s like- ah, hmm. Warm. And I feel so light. Like I’m floating, but also wobbling? I don’t know. I’m not - it’s hard to do words right now.”

“‘Hard to do words?’” He laughs.

You give him a lazy swat.

“Yes,” You say with a giggle, “Don’t laugh at me.”

“You look really cute for having been poisoned,” He says with a squint of his eyes, “Sleepy.”

You hold the cigarette in his direction and give it a lazy wave in the air.

“Your turn,” You say, “Unless you’re afraid.”

“Puh,” He spits, snatching the cigarette from your hand, “Fine.”

You thread your fingers together over your waist with a hum and let your eyelids flutter shut.

“Water,” You remind him.

“Water,” He repeats.

He disappears into the kitchen with the little silver cube and the cigarette, and after a bout of silence you hear his distant hacks and coughs, some swears you can’t quite make out.

Your foot rocks side to side on your ankle, but otherwise you’re still aside from the occasional drink. Your mouth is perpetually dry, a thirst you can’t seem to quench.

Once he’s done with his fit, Konig returns to the living room with a pitcher of water for you to share, and lays down on the carpet next to you.

“Oh mein Gott.”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, mein Gott.”

“Mhm.”

“It’s odd,” He says, “I feel like I’m moving really fast? But I’m not.”

“What?” You laugh.

“I’m not moving,” He says, “But I’m going so fast.”

“Not so easy to do words now, is it?”

“Puh,” He dismisses.

You giggle, as your hands make wide strokes over the deep, plush hairs of the carpet.

“This carpet feels amazing,” You say, “I kinda want to live in it?”

You laugh after hearing how silly the words sound once spoken out loud.

Konig pinches a space of air smaller than an inch between his thumb and his forefinger.

“Would you shrink down teeny tiny?” He asks.

“Mhm. Just promise not to step on me.”

“Never,” He says, “I’d keep you nice and safe in my pocket.”

And while there is no pocket there, he still gives his pec a pat.

“Would you feed me crumbs?”

He gives that inaudible laugh that bounces his shoulders, and squeezes your sweaty hand.

“Only the finest.”

He turns his head to look at you with a wide grin on his face, but his face falls when he meets your stare.

“Your eyes are red,” He says, suddenly alarmed.

“Yours too,” You say, “Do yours hurt?”

“They’re kinda dry,” He says, “But not really.”

“Mine too. S’Probably fine.”

He studies you for a minute before he eases himself down on the carpet once again.

Your heart is beating unusually fast in your chest, and while it’s probably cause for concern, you decide not to share this side effect with Konig.

Best not to worry him.

“Oh,” You draw, “You know what else would feel amazing right now?”

“A snack?” He asks.

“I was going to say a shower, but I like yours better.”

When you try to stand, you find you have to manually move your limbs, it’s no longer second nature. You’re so aware of your body, which is weird, because you’ve been nothing but distant from your body since the games. But now, every nerve seems hyper aware, and every movement requires more thought than usual.

There is no kitchen.

Only a grand dining table and a wall of sleek appliances. You have to work together, but with trial and error, you figure out the right combination of buttons and screen-poking to have food appear hot and ready to eat right before your eyes.

You both stuff your faces with extravagant foods. The highlights are a dish of candied sweet potatoes, a creamy, rich cake with a blackberry glaze, and perfectly ripened green grapes, each one its own sweet, refreshing burst on your dry tongue.

“Everything tastes so good,” You groan, “I’m so full but I just want to keep - tasting.”

Konig hum is muffled through a far-too-big mouthful of sweet potatoes.

Once you’re both stuffed and looking a bit green, your shower idea makes a reappearance. The place is so big you have to wander around the suite for quite a while to find it, and a few times you forget what you were even doing. Lost to never-ending halls and countless doors, getting distracted by poking around in someone else’s life.

The shower is on the second floor, apparently, and you make a point to wave hello to the giant dressed woman on your way to the shower.

As Konig strips, you get lost in his form. Admiring him, watching his muscles work beneath his skin as he undoes his pants.

He’s impossible. And yet, here he stands. Towering over you with his perfect form, made of nothing but power and strength.

“You’re so… big.”

You regret your words almost instantly, but Konig doesn’t seem to mind.

He grins, and gives a mischievous hum.

“The perfect size to protect a troublesome girl like you.”

He tests the temperature of the water, his eyes darting away and his smile fading as he thinks on something.

“I think that is why I was made so big,” He says, “I always asked why. But now I know. It’s for you.”

“Psh.”

“I’m sure of it,” He insists.

“Was it written in the stars?” You tease.

“Yes. I was made for you, and you were made for me. I was made to protect you. It’s my purpose.”

It doesn’t sound like he’s joking anymore. The way he’s saying it now, serious and determined and not at all playful - it’s like he actually believes it.

It’s not the first time he’s said something like this, but the last time was in the midst of intimacy in the form of filthy nothings. This time, it’s spoken in the same way he did when he snatched up your arms and asked you to run away with him - there’s a true, eccentric passion behind his words that you may have found troublesome if your execution wasn’t right around the corner.

Maybe for Konig it is easier to digest the lifelong ostracization and the games and the aftermath if he frames it as a means to get to you. Quite the hoops he had to jump through, but maybe it’s worth it, for him, if it assigns the taunting and the games and the aftermath a purpose. Making it easier for him to compartmentalize what you’ve both been forced into by thinking of it as fate or an obstacle or some predetermined grand plan.

And maybe you believe it too?

At least, you’re having trouble discrediting the statement in this moment. You know it’s not logical. Maybe it’s the cigarette, but after everything that has happened - this industrial-strength bond you have formed in the presence of hellish life and gruesome death, the unquestionable dependence on one another, the twenty-two tributes who sacrificed their lives, the relationship special enough to become the exceptions to the games themselves - how are you supposed to attribute all of it to simple chance? How are you supposed to believe it’s not fate that you two were chosen together, that you made it to the end together - that you are anything but destined for each other?

It’s much neater to think of it that way, rather than it being for nothing aside for riches, hollow fame, and a sparkly crown.

In reality, you must know it was for nothing. The games are simply the cruelty of man. Inflicted pointlessly by those who decided they were better than the rest. There is no reason for the games other than to intimidate the districts. A punishment for the rebellion and a reminder of just how pointless it would be to try and fight against the Capitol’s iron grip. You know that you and Konig are victims. The circumstances turned what should have been simple young love into a bond where you are so toxically dependent on each other you are willing to overlook just about anything.

If every second didn’t bring you closer to your imminent death, you might worry. Because even if his statement wasn’t a delusion - that is a lot of pressure to put on one girl’s shoulders. To be the reason that justifies all of it. Relentless torment and games and kills and suicides and twenty-two dead tributes. His statement implies lack of freewill, a lack of reason, and an unhealthy possessiveness that’s equal parts disconcerting and thrilling - all wrapped up in one statement.

The pedestal you stand on keeps rising and rising, and you are afraid that you will not survive the inevitable fall.

But again, execution is right around the corner. And what is the point of worrying about how healthy your relationship with Konig is when your expiration date is near? Why would you worry about breaking your leg jumping from a waterfall when you have what could be as little as minutes left?

So for now, you will be his prize.

And you will accept him as yours.

“Yes,” You say, “My big strong protector.”

He gives you a wide smile - and for a moment his eyes flare in a way only thickens that unease swirling in your guts. It fades quickly - but the effect of that glint in his eye lingers with you.

It wasn’t quite right. Unstable, hungry.

You swallow, and offer a weak smile with a nod.

He reaches out to rest his hand on your jaw with a gentle caress.

“I love you,” He says, “Meine braut.”

You reach up and rest your hand on his wrist.

“I love you too, Konig.”

You soak for what feels like hours. The hot water feels amazing on your skin, euphoric, even, and you find you’re having a hard time parting this steamy heaven.

The thought of wearing any of Dallian’s clothes disgusts you more than bloody lingerie, but after you’ve found the will to leave the shower, Konig graciously offers you his button down once more. As you roll the sleeves up to keep them from dangling over your hands, Konig’s nose crinkles and his shoulders pull up.

“So small,” He says, “So cute.”

You roll your eyes and huff, but your smile is telling.

“Oh, whatever.”

He lingers his stare on your for a few moments before he steps over to you and gently places his hands on your shoulders. Looking you over with a pleased grin and those shimmering blue eyes that make the warmth in your chest radiate at full heat once more.

His hand slides up your face to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He meets your eyes again, and his grin turns roguish.

“I want to try something,” He says.

“Oh?”

He snatches you up by your sides and picks you up like you are weightless, ignoring your gasp. He sits down on the bed, and for a moment you’re flailing over his lap before he lays back, his firm grip leaving little choice on straddling his face.

“Konig!” You squeak.

The only warning you get is a warm breath between your thighs before the flat of his tongue slowly but thoroughly swipes the entire length of your slit.

He groans at your taste, and his hands tighten around your thighs to combat your squirms.

“Hh- ah!”

You’re still sensitive from the finish he gave you earlier, even the faintest of touches would have you twitching, and Konig is by no means shy when it comes to eating you out. Once he’s gotten a taste, his tongue dives into you, licking short, furious stripes along your slit.

Sly, bloodshot eyes stare up at you from between your spread thighs as his avid tongue works at you. He raises a brow, and you can tell by the way the height of his cheek bunches that he’s reveling in your pleasure, the shock and embarrassment of his brazenness.

“Dir schmeckt so gut.”

He pulls away just long enough to breathe his praise before he’s back to dragging the flat of his tongue along you.

The cigarette has made your body so receptive to touch, you can feel every little movement he makes with his tongue. Slick and warm between your thighs, flicking back and forth over your clit.

You nearly topple over, palms searching for support on the mattress, but his hands snatch up your underarms to keep you propped up while he works at you.

Your head falls forward in defeat, your thighs squeezing the sides of his head. Sloppy and fervorous, slobbering over you, licking at you like he’s cleaning the plate of his first meal in days. He closes his drowsy eyes, and you can feel his satisfied hum between your thighs.

“F-“

You cut yourself off with a wavered moan.

With his hold on you he begins to rock you, forcing you to grind on his face. He lets out a moan into your cunt when your hand threads through his hair and tightens for leverage.

Your brow creases, and after a moment you give a hesitant tug on his hair. His grip on you tightens, his eyes flutter, and he lets out another moan, this one needy and whined.

His tongue quickens, and his hips begin to grind into nothingness behind you.

You hesitantly push the fistful of his hair into the mattress, forcing his head to tilt back and his jaw to jut further into you.

You take over grinding your face down into him, keeping the grip on his hair taut and sinking your other hand into the mattress to keep you steady.

His moans and whines are unrestrained now, unabashed and muffled by your drooling cunt. His cheeks are flushed and the eyes peeking out between your thighs drowsy and crossed.

You get lost in the continuous pleasure his smooth and relentless tongue gifts you, straightening out your core and leaning back, the sound of your unrestrained moans filling the bedroom. Your hand smushes the covers next to his hips, never giving up the grinds on his face.

His fingertips indent the plush flesh of your thighs, keeping you spread while he grunts into you.

“F- Ko-”

Ripples of warmth flow throughout your body, blood rushes to your cheeks and pools in your lower abdomen as his slick tongue circles your finish. When he pushes you over the edge, you don’t see stars, but the whole galaxy as his eager tongue coaxes wave after wave of pleasure. The cigarette seems to intensify the finish, because all you can manage is holding on for dear life as the euphoria tears through you.

It may just be the longest finish you’ve ever had. It never seems to taper out, just as unrelenting as Konig’s tongue. It doesn’t flourish, it peeters out gracefully and without overstimulation. Konig’s whining and moaning into your cunt, and it takes you too long to realize you’re yanking on his hair with everything you have.

You do have to pry Konig’s hands from your thighs to get off his face. You all but collapse on the bed, clit pulsing and legs twitching.

“Fuck,” You breathe.

Konig wipes away the puddle you left on his face with the back of his arm and crawls up the sheets. He rests his head on your chest and a light hand on your stomach. The mess between your thighs cools uncomfortably in the air, but Konig anticipates your need, stripping a case off a pillow and offering it to you.

You give Konig a kiss on the crown of his head as he settles back onto your chest.

“Thank you,” You breathe.

“Ich würde jederzei.”

Your nails scratch at his scalp while he holds you tight at the waist. Occasionally you’ll give a teasing tug on his hair and revel in the sharp inhales he makes, the way he buries his burning face further into your chest.

“I love you,” He mumbles.

“I love you too,” You say.

“Meine braut,” He hums.

“What are you saying down there?”

“My bride,” He says with a warm, glowing smile that won’t seem to go away.

“Mm.”

“What’s that other thing you call me. Si-?“

“Mein sieger?”

“Yes, that.”

He hesitates before he gets his sheepish translation out.

“My victor.”

“Sneaky boy.”

He watches his own forefinger trace light circles on your thigh.

“Sorry,” He says.

“Were your parents not from here?” You ask.

Konig is quiet long enough for you to wonder if you shouldn’t have asked.

“Äh, no, my grandparents,” He says, “They were just supposed to be here for a visit, but got stuck here when the äh-”

“Yeah,” You say.

That tricky rebellion.

“What were they doing here?” You ask carefully, twirling a lock of his hair around your finger.

You don’t want to say the wrong thing. Gently coaxing him open with the hopes he doesn’t close you out.

“Where they were from - you can only grow crops in certain places? Too rocky. And the wildfires only made it worse. My Opa was trying to set up a trade to get grain for steel before they closed the ports and fenced Nine.”

“I can’t imagine that,” You say, “To know you can never go home again.”

Well. Maybe you can.

“I can,” He says with a huff and an eye roll, “It’s all they talked about.”

“That must have been really hard.”

Konig shrugs.

You let the silence ride out, hoping he’ll reveal more, but he stays quiet.

“What should I call you?” You say after enough time has passed.

“Hm?”

“Like, I don’t know. A stupid little nickname. Or something.”

He thinks on it for a moment.

“You don’t want to pick it?” He asks.

“All the ones I can think of don’t feel right. Like, fit?”

He hums.

“Bärchen?” He offers.

“Oh, wow. B- Biya-“

He laughs.

“Bärchen.”

He has to repeat it a few times for you to get the ‘sch’ sound right.

“What does that mean?”

He squeezes your thigh, and hums.

“Little bear. It’s a common nickname for a boyfriend.”

His eyes dart to the side.

“Or husband,” He adds.

“Little?” You ask doubtfully.

He laughs, “Okay, okay.”

“Knuddelbär?”

“What does that one mean?”

“Äh, cuddle bear? It sounds stupider when you translate it. It’s ‘cause I’m so big and strong and lovable.”

He gives a little flex of his bicep with a matter-of-fact nod of his head.

“Alright,” You get through a laugh, “I like that.”

“Or Hübscher?”

“What’s that one mean?”

“Handsome,” He lifts his head from your chest to wiggle his eyebrows at you, “Fitting, no?”

You give him a light swat.

“Stop that, Hübscher.”

He laughs at your shaky pronunciation.

“Easy,” You say, “‘S’a learning curve.”

“What am I supposed to stop?” He asks.

“Being - cute.”

“You think I’m cute?”

“Ja, Knuddelbär.”

He laughs again, and cozies his cheek into your chest. His eyes close, but his fingers still trace circles along your skin, the cool beads of his bracelet brushing along you.

“I love you,” He mutters.

“I love you, too,” You whisper.

“How long do you think we have?” You ask after a lull.

He gives a weighty sigh, staring off, and shrugs.

Neither of you have much to add on the subject of your imminent executions.

Nothing to do about it now.

“Hey, uh, before we, uhm-” You let out a nervous laugh, and your stare finds the ceiling, “You can say no, if you want, I just- I’ve always wanted to-”

Konig looks up at you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet those piercing blue eyes.

“What?” He goads.

“Okay,” You say, “Okay. Do you - you know the rugby boys back home?”

Konig pauses before he hums in both affirmation and hesitance.

“Well, you know how like, to show off, sometimes, they’d uh - hah-”

Konig’s brow tents, and his head picks off your chest to watch you as you succumb to fluster.

“They’d…” Konig encourages.

“It’s so dumb,” You groan, rubbing out your scorching face, “But they’d uh, sometimes they’d, uhm, put their girlfriends on their backs, and - and do push-ups? To show off how strong they are, or whatever?”

“You like the rugby boys?”

“No- no,” You blurt, “I didn’t - I don’t. I just- well y’know, I just liked that part. I always imagined once I had a boyfriend, maybe we could do that. Make me feel all teeny tiny and show off how big and strong he is.”

You wince at Konig’s low laugh, eyes narrowing into a teasing squint and his grin growing into something devious.

“Is that - is that so bad?” You ask cautiously.

“I think we can arrange that.”

“You don’t have too,” You mumble, “If you don’t want to.”

He slowly rises on the bed until he’s looming over you, keeping his hands planted on either side of your waist. His jaw tilts down and he squints at you.

“I will show you,” He warns, “How strong I am.”

You suck in a breath, more warmth rising to your cheeks and a nervous laugh bubbling from you.

He rolls his shoulders once he’s stood and offers his hand to help you off the bed.

He keeps eye contact with you as he lowers himself to his knees. You can tell he’s enjoying this, wordlessly teasing you with a smug grin and a prideful twitch in his brow. It’s not helping how silly you feel about the request, but it only encourages the enticing flutter of your stomach.

He assumes position, and you can’t stop giggling as you climb onto him, carefully settling on his upper back and crossing your legs.

“Ready, little one?”

“Heh, yeah.”

Your teeth dig into your lower lip, holding onto his shoulders for balance as he lowers and raises himself without so much as a grunt of resistance.

There’s no holding back your pure glee, laughing and squealing as Konig effortlessly raises you up and down.

“Okay, okay,” You squeak, “I think you've proven your point.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, “I could do this all night.”

“It’s official,” You say with a pat on his shoulder, “You’re the biggest strongest husband I have ever had.”

He hums in consideration with a few more push-ups before he stills and waits for you to dismount.

“So,” He draws as he rises to a stand, “Am I better than the rugby boys?”

“Oh, no,” You say through a laugh, “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“No,” He forces a nonchalant shrug as his eyes dart away, “Just, making sure.”

“Of course you’re better,” You say, “You always were.”

His eyes dart to the side, cheeks bunching as he bites back a smile.

“I know,” He says with a tone that undermines his attempt to play it casual.

“C’mere, Knuddelbär.”

You pull him back to the bed with you, and he follows your whim.

He lays on his front between your legs, his cheek nestled into your stomach and the light pressure of his threaded hands resting over your ribcage.

“I love you,” He says softly.

“I love you, too,” You whisper.

You stay cuddled up like this, wearing him like a blanket on your lower half and playing with his hair. Precious time has slipped through the gaps of your fingers just as easily as the locks of his hair, and when the doorbell rings, you are entirely unprepared.

Your nerves return at full force, a pile of bricks crashing on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. The effect of the cigarette only intensifies the sudden shake in your fingers and the alarm blaring at full volume.

Konig comforts you to the door, and when he notices the way your wobbly legs fail you, he carries you to the door.

Braced for the worst, to be handcuffed and executed and marched to your deaths.

But once again, nothing happens.

You find that a good chunk of your nerves dissipates once back in the tribute tower. The intimidating peacekeepers leave you in Price’s hands, and the relieved sigh you make could convince anyone that you held your breath the entire trip back to the suite.

Price sends you both to get changed and cleaned up, and on your return, he does another check to make sure neither of you are in pain. You and Konig are both eager to get back to the balcony to be alone again, but Price stops you before you can scurry off.

“Can we have a chat?”

You don’t have the sense to stifle your wince.

Price and his chats never end well for you. Just the request has your chest tight and your blood pumping in your ears once more.

He knows.

He must know.

You glance at Konig, who offers nothing more than a shrug before you hesitantly take a seat at the dining table.

Price sighs, rubs out his face, and sits back in his chair.

“Look, I know you kids are having a hard time, and I - I - ”

He groans.

“Maybe I’ve said and done some things I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have yelled at you both. It’s uh- it’s a hard time of year for me, you know? But it’s not fair for me to take that out on you. And just know I only want what’s best for you both, and I-I’m always here. If you need me.”

You blink, and it takes you far too long to respond.

“Uh,” You scoff, “It’s all good.”

An uncomfortable giggle slips out.

“Water in the fields, or whatever,” You add.

“Ja,” Konig adds.

Price’s brow scrunches, and he makes eye contact with you for the first time in days. He studies you both wordlessly.

You must have said the wrong thing.

What was the right thing to say?

Should you have told him to go fuck himself?

Is that something you would say?

Probably.

Why can’t you remember how you normally talk?

Your expression has mellowed with your train of thought. You briefly get distracted by the hypnotic roll of Konig’s thumbs on his loosely intertwined hands. When you find Price, he’s still staring at you, and you lock up again.

“Are you two alright?” He asks.

There’s a pause, and Konig snorts.

And somehow you just know the one-word joke he made in his mind. You can even hear it as clear as day, in his voice.

‘Very.’

His telepathic joke wasn’t even that funny, but you are powerless to the snort and the following fit of laughter that leaves you.

Price knocks his fist twice on the table and clicks his tongue.

“Okay - what-”

You can’t stop, and your stomach hurts. You and Konig curl into each other, leaning on each other for support as you gasp and snort. Tears are rolling down your eyes.

“Are you two high?”

High.

That is the perfect word to describe what is happening to you. At the top of an unsteady pole far up in the clouds, wobbling back and forth in the sky, unstable but elevated.

Yes, you are high.

“No,” You squeak.

Konig fails his role of alibi, leaning forward on the table to uselessly hide his laughter. His entire body jitters as he buries his face into his forearm.

You can’t hold it back, trying to keep your laughs from escaping your puffed cheeks, but failing spectacularly.

Price’s hands unfurl.

“Okay. Wow, alright. Did they make you do this?”

You and Konig share a look, trying to figure out what the right answer is. It’s clear you’re both relying on the other at this moment, and neither of you scrounge up a response.

Price releases a breath, staring down at the table with raised brows as he thinks on it.

You’ve pinned Price. Stumped the man who always has an answer. You can see him buffering, trying to decide how he should feel about it, and he’s drawn a blank.

“Can I?” You ask with a limp hand gesture - permission to interject his thoughts without waiting for his blessing - “If you want my opinion, I think we maybe, ah, maybe we earned it, yeah?”

Konig nods in agreement, his posture suddenly intact and his hands clasped politely in front of him. His lips fold in, and you can tell he’s trying to hold back another round of laughter.

When you meet Price’s face again, you do a double take, his forehead scrunched and his mouth parted as he stares down at the table. The gears are turning now.

You can tell he got a whiff that something’s up. Something that’s not the cigarette.

It occurs to you in this moment that you and Konig have not been acting like two people who were not only forced into that arena - but forced to be intimate against your will as recently as a couple hours ago. In hindsight, you and Konig probably should have pretended to be more traumatized.

But what fun is that on your last -

No -

No -

It’s not how you’ve been acting.

Price’s squint eyes aren’t staring at the table, they’re locked onto the hand you gestured at him with, now resting flat in front of you. More specifically, the ribbon on your wrist, returned to its original owner and its fabric still splattered with rust-colored stains.

It’s too late to hide it from him, but you still pull your hand into your lap and uselessly try to shield your ribbon from the world.

You can see the progression of his thoughts, they’re written all over his hardened features. Time slows, and all you can do is watch with blown eyes and frozen breaths as Price comes to the conclusion you’d prayed he’d never cast light on.

A gallon of fuel is dumped on the embers of his suspicion when his stare flits to Konig’s fresh, bloody and bruised knuckles, but he won’t let himself believe it - not yet.

And then he finds your stare, bloodshot eyes open as far as they go, a nervous swallow rippling your throat, guilt oozing from every pore and distorting the air around you.

Price’s head tilts to the other side without breaking his boring stare. His brow raises, his eye twitches, and the flames of his suspicion erupt at full strength with a flare of his nostrils.

Every word is brought to a sharp, deadly point, an icy warning before he releases the full heat of his wrath.

“What did you do?”

Busted.

You don’t get a chance to answer, and he doesn’t get a chance to burn you with a scolding.

The elevator dings, and before your head whips around, you already know the sight waiting for you.

Peacekeepers, a band of them, barreling straight for you. You instinctively leap up from your chair, already holding your arms out in a brace. Konig grabs you by the arm and yanks you behind him, priming himself for a fight.

“Stop!” Price yells, “What’s going on?!”

“Price! Price!” You gasp as the uniforms close in, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“What did you do?!” He shouts.

He, once again, doesn’t get his answer, because a small but mighty needle drags you from consciousness in seconds, and you’re out before you’ve even hit the ground.

You sleep in the spring quadrant.

The sun is warm and inviting on your skin, and the plush grass soothing as you stroke the soft blades between the gaps of your fingers.

“Did you think you could get away with it?”

“What?” You ask through a laugh.

Konig raises to a sit on his jacket.

“Did you think you could get away with it?”

Your smile is falling, brows tight as you prop yourself up on your own jacket with your elbows.

“Away with what?”

When you meet his eyes, you suck in a breath. They’re not his eyes, they’re Eleven’s, clouded over with death and plastered on Konig’s intimidating form.

Konig’s hands shoot out, but his fingers are made of bone and his arms are only bloody, exposed muscle. The deafening sound of your bones snapping at his brute, flayed hands is the last thing you hear.

You wake with a hiss, limbs flailing as you find a sit.

Your lips stay parted as your sensitive, squint eyes dart around, your pulse beating throughout your body, breaths tight and wheezed.

There is no transition between unconsciousness and wake.

The dread is instantaneous. Your stomach drops, sweat oozes from every pore, and your heart hammers against your ribcage.

You spring to a stand much faster than your wobbly legs can handle, stumbling forward, breathy, desperate, and useless prayers on your lips. Your voice goes from quiet pleas to a shout so loud and powerful it tears your throat raw.

“No!”

Your head whips around, trying to find an exit, but you’re trapped, of course you’re trapped.

Your feet are stumbling through a field of perfect, plush grass, and you are surrounded by a large square pen of all too familiar and deadly hedge walls.

“No! No, no, no, no!”

As soon as you see him, weakly rising from his sprawled out position on the grass, your wobbly legs work up to a sprint.

“Konig! Konig!”

His head whips around, worried eyes locking onto you. He shouts your name and stumbles over himself as he works up to a run.

Your face takes the full brunt of the impact. You hear an unnerving, cringe-worthy crunch as the rest of your body slams against something solid and unforgiving, stopping you in your tracks. Stunned by a bright white light that explodes from the center of your vision outwards, the sharp pain echoes throughout your face in powerful, intense waves. Your hand shoots up to your nose, screaming under the touch of your hand and the instinctual pinch of your face.

Your grunts are pushed through grit teeth, eyes screwed shut and doubling over as you succumb to the pain.

Konig shouts your name, catching himself on an invisible force field that separates you, and he’s banging on it with the sides of his fists at once.

“Are you okay?!” He shouts, “What’s going on?!”

Your hand cups in the air just under your chin to catch the trickle of blood dripping from your nose as you meet his stare.

Horror pools in the eyes behind his menacing hood, because your expression says it all.

It confirms his suspicion, just before the announcer broadcasts over the speakers and seals your fate.

“Ladies and gentlemen - welcome to the first ever - Hunger Games Tiebreaker!”

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! <3 Thank you for all your lovely comments so far - they mean the world to me! They make my day and I always reread them on days I lose momentum (•̀ᴗ-)✧

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[mistakenot4892]

Disclaimer that this is a post mostly motivated by frustration at a cultural trend, not at any individual people/posters. Vagueing to avoid it seeming like a callout but I know how Tumblr is so we'll see I guess. Putting it after a read-more because I think it's going to spiral out of control.

Recent discourse around obnoxious Linux shills chiming in on posts about how difficult it can be to pick up computer literacy these days has made me feel old and tired. I get that people just want computers to Work and they don't want to have to put any extra effort into getting it to Do The Thing, that's not unreasonable, I want the same!

(I also want obnoxious Linux shills to not chip in on my posts (unless I am posting because my Linux has exploded and I need help) so I sympathise with that angle too, 'just use Linux' is not the catch-all solution you think it is my friend.)

But I keep seeing this broad sense of learned helplessness around having to learn about what the computer is actually doing without having your hand held by a massive faceless corporation, and I just feel like it isn't a healthy relationship to have with your tech.

The industry is getting worse and worse in their lack of respect to the consumer every quarter. Microsoft is comfortable pivoting their entire business to push AI on every part of their infrastructure and in every service, in part because their customers aren't going anywhere and won't push back in the numbers that might make a difference. Windows 11 has hidden even more functionality behind layers of streamlining and obfuscation and integrated even more spyware and telemetry that won't tell you shit about what it's doing and that you can't turn off without violating the EULA. They're going to keep pursuing this kind of shit in more and more obvious ways because that's all they can do in the quest for endless year on year growth.

Unfortunately, switching to Linux will force you to learn how to use it. That sucks when it's being pushed as an immediate solution to a specific problem you're having! Not going to deny that. FOSS folks need to realise that 'just pivot your entire day to day workflow to a new suite of tools designed by hobby engineers with really specific chips on their shoulders' does not work as a method of evangelism. But if you approach it more like learning to understand and control your tech, I think maybe it could be a bit more palatable? It's more like a set of techniques and strategies than learning a specific workflow. Once you pick up the basic patterns, you can apply them to the novel problems that inevitably crop up. It's still painful, particularly if you're messing around with audio or graphics drivers, but importantly, you are always the one in control. You might not know how to drive, and the engine might be on fire, but you're not locked in a burning Tesla.

Now that I write this it sounds more like a set of coping mechanisms, but to be honest I do not have a healthy relationship with xorg.conf and probably should seek therapy.

It's a bit of a stretch but I almost feel like a bit of friction with tech is necessary to develop a good relationship with it? Growing up on MS-DOS and earlier versions of Windows has given me a healthy suspicion of any time my computer does something without me telling it to, and if I can't then see what it did, something's very off. If I can't get at the setting and properties panel for something, my immediate inclination is to uninstall it and do without.

And like yeah as a final note, I too find it frustrating when Linux decides to shit itself and the latest relevant thread I can find on the matter is from 2006 and every participant has been Raptured since, but at least threads exist. At least they're not Microsoft Community hellscapes where every second response is a sales rep telling them to open a support ticket. At least there's some transparency and openness around how the operating system is made and how it works. At least you have alternatives if one doesn't do the job for you.

This is long and meandering and probably misses the point of the discourse I'm dragging but I felt obligated to make it. Ubuntu Noble Numbat is pretty good and I haven't had any issues with it out of the box (compared to EndeavourOS becoming a hellscape whenever I wanted my computer to make a sound or render a graphic) so I recommend it. Yay FOSS.

[augustjustice]

That Healing Touch

AO3 Link

They stand in the Mayfield’s darkened living room, all looking at each other like they can’t quite conjure up the words for their next move. Eddie rubs a hand over his head, eyes darting away from the gazes of the others, just barely managing to bite off another Jesus Christ by digging his teeth into his bottom lip. 

They can’t be certain where Mrs. Mayfield is. Maybe she’s been cleared out because of the hellscape currently seeping through Eddie’s trailer ceiling, like he assumes Uncle Wayne has. Maybe–she’s out for some other reason. The pinched expression on Little Red’s face suggests that wouldn’t be all too uncommon, for her mother not to come home in the night. 

Eddie knows that song and dance well enough from his own youth.  

All they can do is hope for the best–that she doesn’t show up. Eddie isn’t sure what they’ll do then, but he’s gotten pretty damn good at this whole running thing, bitter as he is about it. 

“We should try to get some sleep,” Nancy finally breaks the silence, clipped and authoritative, like she hadn't just been dragged through a landscape of nightmares by Vecna’s own design. 

After Chrissy, and then Patrick, Nancy makes the third time Eddie’s seen it, a pair of eyes glazing over, ghostly white. As shaken up as it’s left him every time just to see it from the outside looking in, he can barely understand how Wheeler is still on her feet, isn’t just a quivering mess in the corner somewhere, like he imagines he would be. Full of surprises is a fucking understatement, at this point. 

“Nance–” Steve starts, one arm stretching out towards her, the worry on his face transparent. 

“I’ll be okay, Steve,” she takes a step away from him, putting distance between them.

From the thin line of her mouth, Eddie gets the sense that any comfort offered might make her reach her breaking point. Steve must feel it too, because he drops his hands as though in surrender. 

“Just…” Nancy sighs, steadying herself, “we won’t be any help at all if we’re all too exhausted to function.”

“You heard the lady,” Robin gives a wobbly, uncertain smile, “she’s in charge, after all.” 

She pulls out that old adage, like it’s a well worn joke. Eddie has the good grace not to call her out on it, doesn’t quite drawl out a sarcastic That’s not what you said in the boat, but it’s a close call. 

Steve’s eyes dart back and forth between them, lingering on Robin, the pair of them managing some kind of silent communication through nothing but frowns and eyebrow twitches. 

“Alright, alright,” he finally agrees, however reluctantly, giving a defeated nod. “I mean, you’re not wrong on the sleep thing. Not like we can play our best game when we’re totally out of it, after all.” 

There’s something in his tone, the way his gaze flits briefly to the kids and then catches Eddie’s own, that reminds him of that moment right before launching off the bank out into Lover’s Lake. Steve’s being glib, casual, the way Eddie had been when he’d refused to let Dustin get on the boat with them, the four older teens all playing along with an unspoken plan. He’s trying so desperately to seem perfectly normal for the four munchkins currently in the room with them. 

Eddie barely understands how any of the kids are holding their shit together as well as they already are, especially when he feels like he’s about to shake apart himself at any second. But behind the brave faces, he can see it, the exhaustion beginning to settle, making them look older than they have any right to.

The least he can do is play along. 

“Not the sports metaphors, Harrington,” Eddie sighs, long and loud, as he sways into Steve’s space, grin too bright. “Please, be merciful, there are nerds present.”

“Yeah, well, when aren’t there?” Steve asks, low and dry. He bumps his shoulder against Eddie’s, gratitude obvious.

“I am not a nerd!” Erica protests loudly.

“You’re joking, right?” Dustin rolls his eyes. “We’ve been over this, Erica Sinclair. You are as nerdy as they come.” 

It’s a little uncanny, because the amused but fond look Dustin pins her with almost perfectly mirrors the way Eddie has seen Steve look at Dustin himself, the way Eddie suspects he also sometimes looks at the kid.

“Plus, some of us? Are jocks and nerds, thank you very much,” Lucas says, swiveling around to Erica’s other side and shooting her a pointed look. 

“Yeah, turns out Lucas isn’t too cool for the rest of us,” Max teases, eyes crinkling at the corners as she knocks her shoulder into his. 

“That’s true,” Erica agrees, hands on her hips in a way that reminds Eddie, hysterically enough, of Harrington. “You’ve always been the one who’s way too cool for my brother, not the other way around.”

As their bickering continues, Steve catches Eddie’s eyes again, mouthing a quick Thank you while they’re all too distracted to see. 

Nancy and Robin both look a little heartened, too, by the familiar sounds of the kids arguing, their rigid edges softening.

“Nine has long since past, so you know what that means–time for bed, kiddos!” Robin interrupts the petty squabbling before it gets entirely out of their control, starting to corral them back on track. 

Several groans ring out, but Steve cuts them off with a quick clap of his hands, jumping in right where she left off, their rhythm as fluid as a well-oiled machine. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he makes a motioning gesture with one hand, the other firmly planted on his hip, “Come on, you knuckleheads, and get a move on.”

The combined force of Robin and Steve seems, miraculously, to be enough, the younger four members of their little monster-fighting brigade getting into gear to set up their various sleeping arrangements, even as they grumble about it. 

“Robin, you’re with me,” Nancy declares simply before turning on her heel and marching from the living room.

Eddie catches the subtle look Steve and Robin share again.

“Better somebody stick close by Nance after…everything,” Steve says quietly, the tightness of his voice making it clear he’s still a bit shaken up.

“I’ve got her,” Robin assures him, giving Steve’s arm a quick squeeze at his grateful nod. 

Max clears her throat, then, drawing Eddie’s attention away from the pair as they hunch their heads together and head out of the room, still talking in soft voices.

“Erica can stay in my room. There are sheets and shit in the hall closet for the rest of you,” she directs.

Eddie nods, following her and ignoring the heated game of rock-paper-scissors that’s broken out between Dustin and Lucas to determine which of them is going to claim the couch. As they make their way down the hall, they pass what must be Mrs. Mayfield’s room, catching a quick glimpse of Nancy and Robin beginning to quietly settle in for the night.

Max stops in front of a wooden door, shorter in width than the rest, and yanks it open roughly.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she gestures at the contents inside for Eddie to see. 

“Whatever you guys need, take it.” The words are brusque, a cover for the generosity of her statement, the ease with which she’s letting them all into her space, into her home. He’s noticed it to varying degrees with all of them–it feels transparent how much they know and trust each other, the way they’re willing to give up nearly anything to help the others, to help with this entire life-risking hero’s quest they’ve put themselves on.

But Eddie’s the outsider, here, not a member of their little party, the odd man out. So it still feels like he should be especially grateful, every time they extend that willingness to give whatever they’ve got to try and help him.   

“Sure thing. Thanks, Red.”

“Night, Eddie,” she murmurs, back already to him, quiet enough he almost doesn’t catch it.  

He’s turning to retreat back to the living room, blankets piled up in his arms, when a voice behind him stops him in his tracks.

"Psst! Eddie! Hey, Eddie!" Steve calls at a stage whisper from down the hall, reminiscent of the way he'd called after him in the Upside Down. When Eddie catches his eye, Steve motions with one hand for him to follow. "C'mere."

Eddie drops the stack back in the closet for now and dutifully makes his way towards Steve. 

“Yeah, dude. What’s going on?”

Grabbing onto a loose fistful of Eddie’s leather jacket, Steve tugs him into the bathroom in one quick motion, and then shuts the door behind him with a click.

Eddie tries fervently to ignore the thrill that goes up his spine at being manhandled by Harrington. 

It shouldn’t come as all that much of a surprise, really, that Steve’s capable of it. Eddie might not know shit about sports, but he did know that Steve was on, like, pretty much every team known to Hawkins back when he was in school. So, of course he can tug Eddie around like a floppy-armed ragdoll. 

That said–Steve seems winded from the exertion, after he does it, leaning back to basically slump against the bathroom door. The move serves as a reminder that he’s a little worse for wear, at the moment, despite the fact that he definitely hadn’t showed it earlier. Not while he was busy running around the world hidden beneath their feet. 

“Harrington, seriously, man–you doing okay?” Eddie asks, wincing slightly in sympathy pains even as he tries to keep his tone light, conversational. 

“Just–give me like…one second here,” Steve holds up a finger for emphasis, the fact that his breathing is still clearly labored not doing much to soothe Eddie’s nerves. 

But he does as Steve asks, taking a moment to drink in the sight of him–a check in with absolutely no subconscious ulterior motive, thank you very much. 

And, well–Steve is a far cry from the pristine, preppy visage Eddie had gotten used to seeing swaggering around the halls of Hawkins High in his perfectly pressed jeans and popped collar polos. Here, in the lowlighting of the Mayfields’ bathroom, he’s bare-chested–apart from Eddie’s battle vest still slung over his shoulders–skin smudged with Upside Down soot, his sides mottled with angry crimson gashes where the bats had dragged him across rocky ground. 

That famous hair of his is still somehow swooping perfectly into place, though. Annoyingly enough, and as fucked up as it probably is…Eddie thinks he manages to be mouth-wateringly hot regardless, whether he’s totally polished under the high school’s harsh fluorescents or mussed and panting beneath the dim orange glow of the single working lightbulb currently flickering above the sink.

He’s gotta admit, though, in his fantasies of Steve Harrington cornering him alone in a bathroom–of which there had been none, obviously, because that would be ridiculous, not to mention colossally stupid–approximately zero of them had panned out like this.

Especially when the next words out of Steve’s mouth are a hurried, “Eddie, man, you, uh–think you can change this bandage for me?”

Eddie's eyes dart down to the scrap of Wheeler’s shirt wrapped around Harrington’s middle, the darkened stain of rust colored blood coating it–and, yeah, shit. Definitely makes sense now, why Steve dragged him in here.

“I’d ask Robin,” Steve is saying, “but, dude, you saw how she got about the rabies, and I really don’t wanna freak her out more than she already is. And Nance–well, after the shit she already went through tonight, I’m not gonna put this on her too. There’s Henderson or Sinclair, I guess, but–”

Steve bites at his bottom lip. And, sure, Eddie’s never been great in school, but he likes to think he can read people pretty well. It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientis to put the pieces together, especially after the little show they’d put on in the living room–Steve doesn’t want the kids to realize just how badly he’s hurt, and clearly he doesn’t want to burden the girls, either. 

Eddie wonders exactly how he should feel about the fact that Harrington’s singled him out as the one he’s willing to let carry some of the responsibility currently weighing on his own broad, more than capable shoulders…and decides to take it as a compliment. 

“Harrington,” Eddie cuts him off by clapping a hand gently to his arm, meant to be reassuring, “you don’t have to sell me on it, man. I’ll do it. Happy to help.”

“Oh, okay…good,” Steve’s shoulders slump, like he was expecting to have to put up some kind of a fight. He catches Eddie’s eyes, giving him a quick, almost uncertain half-smile. “That’s–thanks, man.” 

Steve moves around him, then, allowing himself to collapse into a sitting position atop the closed toilet with a pained wince. 

“Don’t mention it. Uh,” Eddie spins around once in the small space of the bathroom, searching, “has Little Red got…alcohol pads, gauze, shit like that?”

“Under the sink,” Steve pants, one hand clasped against his side, “second door.”

That one simple sentence from Steve is enough to paint a picture in full. Steve’s been in the Mayfields’ trailer. He’s been in it enough times he knows where things like the first aid kit are kept. 

Eddie squats down, ducking his head below the counter–and spots it immediately, the slender first aid kit, exactly where Steve had said it would be.

And, sure, Eddie had at least been aware that Steve knew his mouthy little red-headed neighbor. Dustin and the other boys had often regaled him, disbelieving as he might have been, with tales of their incredibly cool babysitter, the former King of Hawkins High. Eddie had even seen Harrington’s infamous BMW parked over here a few times, a sight so surreal he couldn’t help but register it. 

But, still–there’s a difference in knowing abstractly and actually seeing the familiarity between Steve and the kids in words and gestures, his importance in their lives taking concrete, undeniable shape. 

Like Eddie had told him while they trekked across the woods in the Upside Down–the Steve Harrington of reality? Is nothing like the one he’d pictured all those years they’d shared space in the same halls and classes. 

“Seems like you know the lay of the land pretty well,” he can’t help but comment as he tilts his head toward the cabinet.

“Yeah, well, Mayfield wipes out on her skateboard a lot.” Eyes widening, as though he just realized what he said, Steve points in Eddie’s direction. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

Eddie shoots Steve a toothy grin. “You scared of a fourteen year old girl, Harrington?”

“Absolutely,” the corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up into a half smile, “and if you know what’s good for you, you will be, too.”

“Trust me, man–I’ve got a healthy respect for Red’s fearsomeness. Even if I think she’s totally a lot softer than she lets on.”

Steve shakes his head, giving him a rueful smile. “You’re not wrong there.”

Popping open the kit, Eddie surveys their supplies. There’s an assortment of things inside, including an array of bandages in a variety of sizes alongside gauze, scissors, and hospital tape. 

“Jackpot.” 

Eddie holds up an alcohol wipe, shaking the little white package triumphantly.

“Great,” Steve agrees, though he sounds ragged, eyelids fluttering shut for a brief moment as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“You need me to,” Eddie tilts his chin towards the scrap of fabric wrapped around Steve’s middle, “undo that for you?”

“...Could you?” Steve asks, a flash of hesitance and uncertainty crossing his face. 

Eddie isn’t sure if Steve really thinks he might refuse, that he’s overstepping some kind of boundary by asking, or if it’s just costing him immensely to admit he needs the help. 

“‘Course I will, man. Absolutely. Said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Steve nods, then stands up, reaching out and gripping the bathroom sink briefly in order to steady himself. 

Once he’s up, Steve shrugs out of Eddie’s battle vest. The move puts himself–and that thick pelt of his chest hair over firm pecs, the hard planes of his stomach just above Nancy’s makeshift bandage–on full display…revealing the very physique Eddie had been desperately trying to get him to cover up by tossing him the vest in the first place. 

Eddie tries his damnedest not to ogle Harrington’s body too obviously, reminding himself of Steve’s wounds, of the task at hand. The task in which he’ll have to get up close and personal with Steve’s bare stomach. 

Jesus Christ. Maybe he’s still in Hell, and climbing out of that impossible, gravity-defying hole in the trailer’s ceiling had actually all been part of some elaborate fantasy. 

Eddie squats down in front of Steve, putting himself on eye level with his stomach. He shouldn’t be glad for the stain coating that strip of white fabric, the reminder of blood–he’s not, really, obviously he’s not–but he’s not mad about the fact that the sight is helping his boner just…calm the fuck down. Because now is absolutely not the time, but the wires in his brain can’t help crossing, taking very interested note of the fact that he’s all but kneeling in front of Steve fucking Harrington on a dingy bathroom floor. 

As Eddie reaches out for the makeshift bandage, he braces one hand on Steve’s hip to steady himself, his fingers grazing against the unmarred skin just below his wound. That initial brush is enough to have Steve sucking in a sharp breath.

“That hurt?” Eddie asks, spooked as he blinks up at Steve worriedly.

“All good, dude,” Steve shakes his head in answer before tilting it up to the ceiling, hands settling on top of his head.

He grips at his own hair tightly, mussing those luscious waves with the force of his tugs. The move is enough to have Eddie seriously doubting the truth of his denial. He’s got a feeling trying to argue the point, however, would get him absolutely nowhere. 

“Just keep going.” 

So Eddie does, unwinding the fabric in slow, careful movements, tongue poking unconsciously out from between his lips as he pours all his focus into the task at hand. 

He’s just managed to get off the first layer when Steve’s body gives a subtle shift, the only warning Eddie gets before the other boy sways on his feet. 

The pair of them let out an alarmed Shit! in unison just before Eddie catches Steve around the waist, careful not to press against his injuries.

“Dude! Holy shit, be careful!” he chides sternly. “You’re not gonna be a damn bit of good to any of us if you collapse on the floor and conk your head on the side of the tub or some shit.” 

Steve lets out a humorless laugh.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do about that, Eddie?” he asks, sarcasm on full blast as he gestures weakly to his belly, body still pressed close in Eddie’s arms. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not, like…exactly at full fighting shape here.”

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, man. Look around,” he thrusts out his free hand in exasperation at the empty bathroom. “It’s just you and me in here. So you can give up the heroic, stiff upper lip shtick for a minute, and just–I don’t know, hold onto my shoulder, or something. Jesus Christ, Harrington, scare a guy to death, why don’t you.”

Steve lets out a huff, but Eddie’s pleased to feel his body loosening beneath his touch, the line of his shoulders no longer so taut and rigid like he’s a warrior who’s about to be called right back onto the battlefield. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, you’re right, you’re right.”

“No shit I am, Harrington,” Eddie reaches over and bops him lightly on the end of the nose, “and don’t you forget it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Uh-huh. No one likes a smart ass, Eds.”

But Eddie can see the way the corner of his mouth quirks up into a private half smile. 

They untangle themselves then, resuming their prior positions. Miraculously, Steve does as instructed, settling a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, large palm warm enough Eddie can feel the heat radiating even through his leather jacket. He really hopes that’s not a sign Steve’s running some kind of infection induced fever. 

So Eddie returns to the task at hand, peeling back the last scraps of Wheeler’s shirt, he and Steve grimacing in unison at the way it tries to stick steadfast to his skin. 

With the wound finally free, Eddie hisses in sympathy as his eyes dart all over the bite marks beginning to scab across Steve’s stomach. They look raw and angry, bright red where all the skin has been scraped off or gnawed through. He’s seen his fair share of cuts and bruises, from brawls at the Hideout to scuffles at school, but nothing quite like this. 

"Shit, man. We could really use a Healer right about now."

Steve lets out a wry little noise of agreement, understanding enough.

“Guess that’s gotta be you, Munson,” he says, giving Eddie a jocular, almost apologetic pat on the shoulder. 

Eddie can’t stop himself from shaking his head, because Christ, this guy–all heroic, death-defying stunts and sarcastic comebacks one minute, and then big, sympathetic puppy dog eyes the next. He kinda can’t believe he’s even real, let alone that this is what the Steve Harrington is like.

Scrambling to cover up how awe-stricken he’s suddenly feeling, Eddie shoots Steve a smirk as he quips, "Admit it, Harrington. You just wanna see how I'd look in the skirt."

Idiot, Eddie mentally berates himself, posture stiffening the second the words leave his mouth. Just because you’re a sixth year senior, that’s no excuse to be a fucking moron, do not flirt with the former jock King of Hawkins High. 

After all, just because he's hurt…that doesn't mean he couldn't break Eddie clean in half if he wanted to, and flirting with a straight guy is practically a one-way ticket to just that.

So shock hits Eddie with all the force of an ice cold bucket of water dumped over his head when Steve simply huffs out a laugh, good-natured.

"You caught me," he sticks up his hands, like he's surrendering in a hold-up. "That's been my real plan all along."

For once, Eddie’s too flustered to speak, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he feels the distinct heat from a blush spreading up his neck, splotching his face and ears. 

There’s a playful glint in Steve’s eyes, then, like he smells blood in the water. It’s nice, after everything that’s happened this evening, to see them shine with something other than the foggy glaze of pain. 

“Oh, seriously, did I catch you off guard with that one for a change?” Steve leans a little closer into Eddie’s space, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smirk. “What is it, Munson, cat got your tongue?”

Eddie finally recovers enough to shake his head and quip, “Can’t turn off that infamous Harrington charm for even a second, can you, Stevie? Bleeding all over the place, and you’ve still got it.” 

“Well, how do you think I get all the nurses at Hawkins General to take such good care of me when I end up there?” Steve shoots him a wink, being distressingly glib, in Eddie’s humble opinion, about the multiple trips to the ER he’s apparently got under his belt. “A little charm goes a long way, Eds.”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, so they tell me.”

“Come on, man,” Steve waves a dismissive hand at him. “You’d know all about it.”

Embarrassingly enough, the mere suggestion that Steve Harrington finds him charming makes Eddie’s cheeks go even pinker.

He clears his throat, soldiering on quite valiantly, if you ask him. 

“Well, uh…Nurse Munson’s on duty tonight, and, in my totally accurate medical opinion, we need to get those scrapes cleaned up asap, big boy. No more dalliances,” Eddie wags a finger in his face, “and then I’ll think about letting you earn back your lollipop at the end.”

Steve laughs again. “Yeah, well, no way in hell I’m gonna miss out on that.”

But he stills dutifully, like he really is serious about being the model patient, earning back his treat. 

As he starts tearing open the alcohol pad, prepping for the next part, Eddie can’t help but shoot him a sympathetic look.

“Harrington–sorry, dude. This is probably gonna sting like a bitch.”

Steve’s grip, where his hand has settled back on Eddie’s shoulder, tightens, but Eddie refuses to shrug him away. As Steve nods his head, Eddie can see the way he’s clenching his teeth. 

“Just…try to make it quick, yeah? Lickety split.”

Eddie’s lips twitch in amusement from the dorky turn of phrase, yet another layer to Steve Harrington he finds irresistibly endearing. 

But he promises just the same. “You got it. Fast as lighting, that’s me.” 

Keeping his swipes gentle, Eddie begins to clean the wounds gouged into his sides. Almost instantly, he can see sweat beading on Steve’s brow. 

It feels kind of like a parody, of the handful of times Eddie had attended gym class, found his eyes lingering despite himself on Harrington’s glistening, Adonis-like form. Something inside him stirs, deep into caretaking mode, compelled to wipe the dampness away.  

He resists the urge, but just barely. And since there’s not much else he can do for the pain, Eddie figures conversation makes as good a distraction as any. 

“You know, I thought Dustin was full of shit before, but–you’re, uh. Totally babysitter extraordinaire, aren’t ya, Harrington?” 

“For all the good it does me,” Steve lets out a huff that’s at once amused and exasperated, and the sound is music to Eddie’s ears, breaking up the short, pained breaths from before. “Those little shitheads are total pains in my ass–but, I mean, somebody’s gotta keep ‘em alive, you know?”

“And that’s gonna be you, huh?” Eddie quirks an eyebrow up at him as he continues rubbing circles into his skin, doing his best to clean the gore and muck from the stretches that remain uninjured. 

Talking is helping distract him, too. Sure, he had patched up his dad as a kid, after a few jobs gone wrong, but, still–nothing that really held a candle to this. The less he thinks about the raw wounds spread out in front of him, the ones Steve is trusting him to help with, the better.

In honor of that, Eddie lets out a whistle. “Steeeeeve Harrington, big damn hero. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Shut up, man,” Steve complains, and even though the lighting is low, Eddie would swear there’s a pink tinge staining his cheeks, “it’s not that big a deal.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear Steven. It absolutely is. Total paladin behavior, in fact.”

The little confused furrow that appears between Steve's eyebrows is ridiculously cute. Eddie isn't sure how disgusted he should be with himself for what a lovesick thought that is.

"...Pala-what?"

“They’re like knights, basically. The D&D version. Championing a cause, protecting the weak and defending the innocent, restoring good to the lands. That sorta thing.”

Steve gives a short nod of understanding, his mouth forming a perfectly shaped oh. 

“I’d say the shoe–or, you know, armor, whatever–fits.” Still meticulous in his strokes with the pad, Eddie finds himself rambling. “Diving into that lake to protect the rest of us? That’s paladin 101, man. True heroic shit.” 

“I mean…it’s really not.” Steve shrugs ever so slightly, his lips tugging down into a small frown. “It’s what I’m good for, you know? Nance and Robin–hell, even the kids–they’ve got the brains part of this operation covered. They need somebody around to just…take the risks so they don’t have to.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up immediately at the implications of Steve’s words. 

“Well, well, will you look at that? Now who needs to cut himself a break?” Eddie asks, echoing what Steve said to him back in the Upside Down.

“Just the facts,” Steve says with a wan smile–parroting the phrase Eddie’s heard the youngest Sinclair use on the boys after she’s thrown out a particularly cutting remark, and not even having the decency to look bitter about it.

Eddie shakes his head, vehement. “That sounds like a crock of bullshit to me, Harrington. Don’t sell yourself short, not like that. You’re a badass, sure, no two ways about it–but those kids, out there? They’d be fucking…lost without you, man. Hell, when Buckley realized you’d gotten hurt? Looked like she was hanging on by a thread. They need you.” 

I need you, Eddie thinks, but can’t quite say it, his throat constricting anxiously around the words. Still, he catches Steve’s eyes deliberately, willing him to catch his full meaning. 

Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth to chew at it, Steve ducks his face for a second, dodging Eddie’s look. When he speaks again, it’s quiet but no less sincere.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Eddie answers immediately, a smile breaking out across his face. “I mean, what’re friends for? You’d do the same for me–already have, even.”

“Oh, so you’re saying we’re friends now, Munson?” Steve crinkles his nose in amusement, inviting Eddie in on the joke.

“Well, I mean…hell pretty much has frozen over,” Eddie replies, playing along easily. “Besides, who else but us is there to band together, give Dustin a hard time so his head doesn’t get any bigger than it already has?”

Steve inclines his head, smile amused, soft. It’s a beautiful sight, one Eddie could get used to seeing. 

“Can’t argue with that.”

As Eddie finally finishes up cleaning the last of the scrapes and bite marks, he can feel Steve’s eyes on him, following his movements. 

“You know, you’re not half bad at this,” Steve observes thoughtfully.

Discarding the last of the alcohol pads, Eddie gives Steve a cordial half bow. “Why thank you, my liege. That’s high praise indeed coming from the king himself.”

“Never mind, I take it back. Your bedside manner sucks,” Steve says, deadpan, rolling his eyes. Then, he jabs a finger in Eddie’s direction, “And don’t call me that.”

“Guess you’re just gonna have to report me to the doctor on the floor, then…your royal highness.”

As Steve reaches out to shove his shoulder, Eddie lets out a delighted cackle, dancing just beyond his reach. 

“Strike what I said earlier, too. There’s no friendship bracelet in your future, dude, not with that attitude.”

Eddie lays a palm over his heart, gasping like he’s been hit. 

“Not the friendship bracelets, Stevie! What have I done to deserve such a cruel and unusual punishment? And after I helped heal your wounds, too.”

“Yeah, well, the job’s only half done on that front, Nurse Eddie. Better get back to it, and then I’ll think about letting you earn back your friendship bracelet. Maybe,” Steve says, mimicking Eddie’s ultimatum from earlier. “And you’d be missing out, too, dude. Just ask Robin, I come up with the absolute coolest designs.”

“Challenge accepted, Stevie boy. Prepare to witness the best bandaging you’ve seen since Boris Karloff’s The Mummy.” 

Steve’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to bite back his smile. “Thought you were trying to keep me alive, Munson, not turn me into a Halloween decoration.”

Eddie clucks his tongue. “Such limited imagination, Harrington. I assure you–I can do both.”

Gauze from the first kit at the ready, he gets right to work unspooling it, giving himself a suitable enough length to get started with ease. 

Now that they’ve managed to jump over that first major hurdle and Steve’s injuries have been thoroughly cleaned, the full magnitude of the situation hits Eddie all at once. A wave of tiredness, bone deep, rolls over him as he presses that first layer of gauze against Steve’s side, and he can’t help but say, “This whole thing is–completely and utterly batshit insane. You realize that, right?”

Steve’s got his arms raised over his head, now, but the slight tilt of his eyebrow might as well be a shrug as he looks down at Eddie, the quirk of his lips apologetic. 

“You kinda get used to it, after a while.”

“Get used to it? Jesus Christ–” Eddie groans in disbelief even while he keeps his fingers steady, holding the gauze carefully in place as he continues wrapping it around Steve’s stomach. “Don’t say that kinda shit to me, man.” 

“Sorry.” Steve has the decency to look chastened, though not nearly as apologetic as Eddie thinks he should.

“Like, sure, okay–dark wizards and magic, that’s great for D&D. But in real life? Kinda prefer that the evil alternate dimensions didn’t eat a hole in the ceiling of my uncle’s trailer, you know? Some of us need a place to live.” 

Eddie’s practically hugging Steve around the waist by the time he’s stopped talking, ready to secure his handiwork. There’s a bizarre kind of intimacy to it, Steve warm and solid in his hold, and Eddie wonders if Steve can feel it too when he glances up at him, silent communication passing between them that has Steve ripping off a long strip of medical tape and handing it down without having to be asked. 

So, needless to say, Eddie’s a bit distracted, finishing off the job and giving everything one final assessment, when Steve breaks the silence with two totally nonsensical words. 

“...the pool.”

Eddie blinks, startled enough he straightens up and gives Steve a full once over, wondering for a moment if the bats had gone for his head, too, without them being any the wiser.

“Wait–what?”

“The pool, at my place,” Steve trucks on, that determined clench to his jaw. Not from pain, this time, but something else. “That’s what it was–well, is–for me. The place, where the demogorgon attacked. It took Barbara–Holland? Nancy’s best friend. The first night that we…”

He trails off with a shake of his head. 

“Well, anyway. It doesn’t matter. I’m just saying, I get it. Maybe not to the level of, you know, having your whole goddamn ceiling ripped out, but–the Upside Down, all this shit. It takes things from us. All of us. And I’m sorry it happened to you, too, but…at least you’re not alone?”

Eddie gnaws on his bottom lip as he looks at Steve, watching the other teen wince. Like he just knows it’s not enough.

But the thing is…it is. Steve has to know that it is.

“To be honest, I think that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from just, I don’t know–shattering into a million little pieces, or something,” Eddie admits. “The fact that you guys–” 

Embarrassingly enough, his throat constricts, for a second, choking off his words. 

“...that you’re here. With me. Especially Buckley and Wheeler and Little Red–even Lucas, after I was such a shit to him…and you. I mean, you don’t even know me, not really, and the whole rest of the town is practically lined up outside with Carver, holding pitchforks…but not you. Pretty damn sure I’d never have even made it this far without that.” 

Steve clasps his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“We’re not going anywhere, man,” he promises, gaze steady, hazel eyes so serious Eddie doesn’t dare doubt him. “We’ve got this. We’ve got you.”

Eddie takes a chance, settles his hand on top of Steve’s, gives it a squeeze in return. 

“I’ve got you, too. You know?”

Steve gives a little nod, his smile warm enough to light up his entire face. 

“I know you do, man. I know.”

And, for a second, looking back at Steve, the hope floods in, and Eddie lets himself believe it. That, with this merry band of misfit monster hunters standing behind him, there’s no choice–it’ll all turn out alright, in the end.  

—

By the time they make it back to the living room–“decent” again, Steve having immediately shrugged Eddie’s battle jacket back on over his now freshly wrapped bandages, the sight of which had made something in Eddie’s chest immediately flutter–Lucas is settling down on the couch with a patchwork quilt while Dustin bemoans his fate, loudly, as he piles blankets onto the floor in something that’s steadily resembling a nest. Eddie guesses, when he didn’t immediately come back, the pair of them must have gone on their own journey to raid the Mayfield’s linen closet.

“We said best of ten,” Lucas is saying with a sigh, the picture of put-upon patience, “not my fault you suck at rock-paper-scissors.” 

“It’s a game of chance!” Dustin squawks in protest. “There’s absolutely no skill involved. How can I ‘suck’ at some bullshit game that requires no strategy.”

Lucas shrugs, unperturbed. “You tell me.”

The noise Dustin lets out makes it clear he’s gearing up for a continued argument–when Steve drops a hand on his head, distracting him with a noogie. 

“No one likes a sore loser, Henderson.” 

“I am not a sore loser!” Dustin huffs, arms crossed over his chest and lip jutting out in something that dangerously resembles a pout. 

“Au contraire, my dear friend. You’re right about that, you’re not a sore loser. You are, in fact…” Eddie holds up a single finger, Dustin’s face brightening in that moment’s worth of anticipation, “the sorest of losers.”

The blue streak Dustin swears up is worth it for both Lucas and Steve’s guffawing laugh. 

He continues muttering to himself, low-voiced and difficult to make out apart from something that sounds distinctly like traitors in my midst, as he somewhat viciously tosses more quilts onto the ground.

“Gimme that,” Steve says without heat, taking several blankets from Dustin’s hands and spreading them out, laying a solid foundation for a pallet that he quickly uses the others to build upon. “Now, come on, man, quit complaining and just…lie down.”

Given the fuss Dustin’s been kicking up, Eddie can’t help but be impressed that Steve’s instruction is enough to actually get him to comply. The powers of babysitter persuasion strike yet again, it seems. 

Or, at least…half as he’s told, since settling onto the pallet still offers plenty of back talk on Dustin’s part. 

“I can’t believe this. My theories turn out to be correct all damn night, and still I get relegated to sleeping on the carpet. How is that fair?!” Dustin huffs. 

From his position on the couch, Lucas’s only answer is to snort, shaking his head. 

Hand on his hip, Steve cocks a single eyebrow, shooting Dustin the driest of looks. There’s something deeply wrong with Eddie, he’s pretty sure, that he finds the whole thing painfully attractive. 

"Dustin, man, it’s not a competition. Besides…beats the floor of a Russian elevator," he comments, and Eddie has no idea what the hell that is supposed to mean.

Dustin tilts his head from side to side, as though considering. Reluctantly, he says, "...Agreed."

Nodding, seemingly satisfied, Steve lays down on one side of Dustin. Eddie does the same, following suit until they’re bracketing him like a pair of parentheses. A warmth settles over Eddie, pleasant and bone-deep, as he tilts his face to catch Steve’s eyes, staring back at him from over the top of Dustin’s head. 

"Scoot over, dude. Eddie doesn't want your pointy ass elbows digging into him." Steve nudges Dustin in the side, causing the younger teen to readjust with a minimal amount of grumbling. To Eddie he says, sotto, "Trust me, man, I know. Those things are like daggers or something, I swear."

“Are not,” Dustin protests, though the words sound drowsy, his eyes having already drifted shut despite all the protests about how uncomfortable he’d been.

“Are too,” Steve volley backs effortlessly. Eddie catches the look he’s giving the kid, though, and it can only be described as fond amusement.

“Thanks for the warning, kind sir,” Eddie gives Steve a mock salute, eyes sparkling mischievously. “I’ll be on the lookout for those deadly weapons being brandished in the night.”

“Can’t believe…ganging up on me…” Dustin murmurs, the last word trailing off as his breathing begins to even out. 

“You’re the one who wanted to introduce us, dude,” Steve argues softly, though it’s clear his words have fallen on sleeping ears. To Eddie he says, voice a whisper, “You believe this kid? The arguing never stops, man, even in his sleep.”

“I know,” Eddie whispers back, parroting back Steve’s own words in the Upside Down, and the pair of them share a pleased, knowing grin.

And it’s comforting, the thought that sweeps through Eddie’s mind once he’s settled enough to start drifting off, Dustin’s snoring soft between them, Steve only an arm’s length away.

They’ve got Henderson. And as for Eddie himself?

Well…Harrington’s got him.

[ughgoaway]

casual

It's hard being casual                                                                                                                               When my favourite bra lives in your dresser

a fic inspired by Chappell Roan's casual; snippet below the cut. 18+, 1.5k.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・.・.

Hot bodies press against you as you weave through the house, spilt beer making your skin sticky as more and more people carelessly dance with drinks sloshing in their hands. A playlist you don't recognise fills the air, and whilst Matty might be hosting, you can tell the playlist is completely out of his control. The vaguely rhythmic pumping drum and bass overwhelming your senses isn't something you can see him listening to, but maybe you just don't know him as well as you hoped.

Your eyes dart around the hoard of people looking for him and then back to your phone, desperate to see those three dots pop up and for him to finally respond. He never does, though, and when you scroll back, you see message after message go unanswered, unless they're about hooking up, of course. Those always get a response within minutes, which should be flattering, but seeing it laid out in front of you instead leaves a hollowed ache in your chest.

You know what you were signing up for the very first time his crisp white sheets got wrapped up between your thighs, sleeping with Matty Healy was a path well worn by girls before you, and not one of them had got a meaningful relationship out of it. More people have seen every inch of his skin than have ever seen his true personality, or maybe the faux rockstar cool guy act is who he really is, but you're not so convinced.

But that facade was all you needed. It's exactly why you started this in the first place. Misplaced anger towards your ex suddenly became you ripping a condom open with your teeth and sinking down on the dick of a man you'd spoken to maybe 5 times.

But that next morning, after he raised his eyebrows and asked if he wanted to go again, you ignored that screaming head in your voice to stay away and instead slid into his lap and put your lips on his.

Here you are now 4 months later, and your relationship is… something.  Matty would say it's completely casual. it's fun, low-commitment sex and nothing more. And when he says that, you nod and agree, immediately going for his belt to try and get those words out of your mind. And usually, within 30 seconds, with his hand in your hair and his dick in your mouth, it's pretty easy to forget. But it's times like this you're rudely reminded. When he invites you to a party knowing you don't know anyone and leaves you stranded, the truth comes crashing back into your head, impossible to ignore.

Some faces that glide past you feel familiar, but when a body crashes into yours and you look up at their face, it's the first one you really recognise. 

“George! Thank god, where’s Matty? he won’t answer my text” You try to sound blasé when you ask, acting how you think you should, running the gone girl “cool girl” monologue in your head. When George scrunches his face in confusion, you think he's seen right through your act, but what comes out of his mouth is worse than any transparent ploy he could've seen through.

“Sorry, do I know you?” George asked, nervously running his hand over his neck and looking down at you with squinted eyes. Suddenly, it feels like you've been shot in the chest, blood covering your clothes and hands. If you looked down right now, you swear they'd be stained red. But that's not very chill girl of you, so you giggle nervously and try and hide the crimson that covers you.

“Oh, sorry. I’m y/n. Has Matty ever mentioned me?” You giggle awkwardly as you speak, silently crushing the plastic cup of cheap beer that was forced into your hands as soon as you passed the threshold. 

Finally, after time dragged on for about 10 seconds longer than you'd like, a flicker of realisation fills George's eyes, and you expect an explanation. Maybe he's pissed, or high, or just not that good with faces. You convince yourself that there are a thousand reasons why Matty’s closest friend wouldn't know your face, but none of them match what falls from his lips.

“Oh yeahhhh. You're the girl Matty’s messing around with, right? The girl he fucked on the sofa at a party one time?” he drunkenly giggles, hiccupping halfway through his sentence.

Bang. The sound of a second gunshot fills your ears, and you swear you can feel the blood pouring again. He doesn't know it, he doesn't even know your name, but George's words felt like the eulogy at your funeral, as if he had just killed you and now he was sending you away. “The girl Matty is messing around with” not “Matty’s girlfriend”, or “Matty’s partner”, not even “Matty’s friend”, just the latest girl in his never-ending rotation.

Still, you smile even if you do feel yourself dying as you stand on the liquor-sodden carpet. “Yup. That's me… I guess. any idea where he is?” Even if you do speak through gritted teeth, George seems oblivious, quite easily directing you to Matty without a second thought.

“Uh last time I saw him was on the sofa in the front room, check there, maybe?” he shrugs, casting his eyes over your shoulder and smiling at someone. Well, it's nice to know he is capable of smiling, maybe he only does it with people who he actually knows, not people who he only kind of recognises for fucking his best friend.

“Yeah thanks, bye Geor-” Before you can even say a proper goodbye, he weaves through the crowd and shouts someone's name before tackling them in a hug. You wonder how he’d treat you if you were really Matty’s girlfriend. Would he cast you a smile and wrap you in a hug? Maybe you could have double dates with him as his girlfriend, then you'd know all Matty’s friends, the funny stories about him from childhood. 

You know the most intimate parts of Matty's body, the places that only your fingers brush, that you press kisses to. You know the tattoos that hide from everyone else. You've traced them with your tongue. But you don't know him. His favourite colour or movie, you don't know how his brain ticks, what his first kiss was, his first love, or if he's ever been in love.

He doesn't know anything about you either, but you think that's a blessing in disguise. If he asked if you'd ever been in love, you don't think you could lie. he'd see the lie in your eyes, swirling and fighting to leave your mouth in a way that sounded anyway believable. hed know that you are in love, right now. with him. No matter how thick you lay on the denial, there's only so much you can do to hide from your own thoughts.

So when you slip into the living room and see another girl on his lap with his hand around her waist, the third bullet of the night hits you, and this time you can't bring yourself to smile awkwardly and brush it off.

The blood won't stop. Each time his fingers stroke over her skin like they do on yours, you feel like you're dying. That any breath could be your last. The thump of the bass in your ears is replaced by your thumping heart, each beat permeating your skull. 

Thump. His hand pushes up her shirt, and his fingertips dance on her bare stomach. Thump. He throws his head back, laughing at something she says. Thump. He grips her hip and winks at her, pulling her deeper into his lap. Thump. She turns to face him. Thump. Her hand grips his cheek. Thump. He's kissing her. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your heart won't stop racing, growing faster with each second. You watch his hand move from her waist to her neck, pressing his fingers into her skin the same way he does to you. Subconsciously, your hand goes up to your neck, brushing over the very places where you're sure those same fingertips left bruises two nights before. Slowly, her hand slides up to his hair, gripping his curls the way you know he loves. You watch his hips jump at the feeling. It makes you sick to your stomach, that once empty space fulling with dread and jealousy over a man who barely spared a thought for you.

Someone bumps your shoulder and suddenly the world comes back into colour, and you can hear the familiar beat of the shitty music, the shouting of some teenage boys as a random girl takes her top off, and the chatter of the people around you. You can breathe again. But he's still there, her tongue in his mouth and his hand cupping her cheek.

Fuck. you need a cigarette.