#Tableau Quick Start

[technologyblogofmohit]

Tableau Quick Start Package | Growing Businesses

Tableau is a powerful data visualization and business intelligence (BI) tool that enables organizations to convert raw data into intuitive, interactive dashboards and reports. It can be easily integrated with Salesforce and other data sources, allowing users to create a unified platform for actionable analytics.

Read more!

[albamelody]

Quiet Connections

Chapter Two: Seductions

Under the soft hum of afternoon light in her living room, I found myself sitting on the edge of her couch while she moved about, preparing for her six‐year‐old’s birthday party. We chatted about everyday things until the conversation drifted to something more personal—our private moments of self-pleasure. With a half-smile and a playful tone, she shared details of her daily routine, describing with straightforward candor how she took time for herself after her child started kindergarten.

A few days later, my phone buzzed with a message from her. I opened it to find a picture of her in the midst of her self-indulgence. The image stirred something inside me—a longing that felt both familiar and newly charged. I responded in kind. I stripped off my clothes in the privacy of my room and sent her a video where I explored my body, letting my fingers trace along my skin and over the large clit at the top of my wet, aching pussy.

Her reply was immediate and direct: “Next time we need to do this in person together.”

Two days later, I found myself at her doorstep under the guise of helping out with the party. The moment I entered her living room, her eyes sparkled with an invitation. Within minutes, she pulled out her phone and played a video—a scene of two women lying side by side on a bed, taking turns pleasuring themselves. “I want to do this with you,” she said, her voice low and sure.

I watched the video, feeling my body respond with every passing moment. “Damn, that’s hot,” I said, barely above a whisper, as she scrolled through more clips until every new image left me more aroused than the last.

Without further words, I felt her hand on my thigh. Her breath, cool on my neck, sent shivers through me as she murmured, “Let’s cum together.”

Before I knew it, we were in her husbands’ bedroom—a space that had always been just part of our everyday lives. There, in a moment that balanced on the edge of reality and fantasy, she began to undress. I watched as she removed her clothes slowly, her body laid bare for the first time in an entirely new light. I could see curves and soft angles, the familiar anatomy redefined in a way that both comforted and ignited something within me.

I, too, let go. I shed my clothes and let my body be seen. As she took in the view of my bare skin—my exposed breasts, the subtle detail of my pussy lips, and my large clit—I could feel her appreciation. “Yes, girl! I’m going to have no problem cumming to you,” she joked lightly, her tone mixing humor with raw desire.

We began to pleasure ourselves side by side on the bed. I watched as she’s fingers moved rapidly, her rhythm quick and unrestrained—a stark contrast to my more measured, slow caressing. I found a strange beauty in her wild, unabashed method, even as I continued my own deliberate explorations. The room filled with soft moans and whispered acknowledgements of pleasure, and soon her body tensed. She squirted—something new and vivid in the intimate tableau we had created. I gasped, my own climax following quickly as I cried out in response.

Afterwards, we lay there quietly, our bare bodies still in the soft afterglow of our shared release, the sound of our labored breaths mingling in the quiet room. She leaned over, planting a gentle kiss on my neck. “Next time, we're scissoring,” she said with a playful promise.

In that moment, we knew our friendship had transformed into something deeper—a quiet, shared understanding of intimacy that was as honest as it was wild. It was a secret kept in smiles, subtle touches, and whispered plans for the future, a promise of moments yet to come.

___

Part 3 coming soon ... 🤭

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

The Gallery of Us

Pairing: Poly!Buddie x Disabled!Reader Summary: It’s a flare day, but your boys never miss the signs, and while you drift in and out of sleep, Buck, Eddie, and Christopher quietly transform the living room into a makeshift art gallery. Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, lupus flare day, fatigue and joint pain, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, soft!buck, soft!eddie, christopher is the best kid ever written, reader stays in bed all day, love shown through actions, chronic illness tenderness, art as memory, reader is an artist, family built around care, tea lights and sketchbooks, this is about being seen when you're in pain Word count: 1.6k words

The morning seeps in slowly, a soft glow teasing at the edges of the blackout curtains you never quite manage to fully close. Pain is your alarm clock, insistent and deep-rooted, threading its way through every joint, muscle, even your scalp. It's one of those days. A flare day. The kind where even the weight of your eyelashes feels like lead and each breath is a conscious effort.

You don't say anything. Not when Buck leans over to press a gentle kiss to your forehead before padding off to the kitchen. His lips are warm, his hand lingering on yours just a moment longer than usual, as if he already knows. Not when Eddie checks on you from the doorway, his brown eyes filled with concern that mirrors your own.

And not when Christopher limps into your room, a half-finished canvas cradled in his arms—the painting project you both started last week. His face lights up with fresh ideas and the excitement of sharing them with you—until you shift slightly beneath the covers and wince. It's a small movement, a quick intake of breath, but he notices. Of course he notices.

"Is it your lupus?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, already reaching out to clumsily smooth your hair back from your face. You nod, the single movement sending tendrils of pain curling around your skull.

He doesn't ask any more questions, just nods back at you with an understanding that seems too mature for his age. Buck and Eddie sympathise, but Christopher empathises. He knows what it's like to live with a body that betrays you, even at only ten years old. "I'll show you later then," he says, relieving you of the guilt that tries to creep into the edges of your consciousness. "It can wait."

You attempt a smile, wanting him to know that you appreciate his kindness, even if you're not able to express it fully right now. But your muscles refuse to cooperate, and instead of a smile, all you manage is a slight twitch of your lips. It's enough, though. Christopher understands.

The hours of painting come and go, marked only by the shift in light outside. The world beyond your window blurs into a haze of colors as the sun dips low, casting long shadows across your bedroom walls. Christopher doesn't bring up painting again—not to ask for more brushes or muse about skies shaped like dragon wings and dogs made from starlight. He simply lets it languish, unspoken between you. It's not avoidance; it's an act of love, patience wrapped in the silence that settles over the house.

You lie there, eyes half-closed, the steady throb of pain a constant reminder of your own fragility. The house is quiet around you—a tableau of domesticity paused mid-frame. The sound of dishes clinking softly in the sink drifts from the kitchen, punctuated by Eddie's muted footsteps and the low hum of Buck's voice, a comforting undercurrent to the stillness.

Sometimes, you hear the soft thump of crutches against the floorboards as Christopher moves through the house, careful not to disturb your rest.

You drift in and out of consciousness, the edges of reality fraying as exhaustion pulls you under. At one point, you think you hear the hush of voices—Christopher's whisper merging with Buck's low rumble—in the room next door. The rustle of papers follows, along with the rip of tape and the shift of something heavy being moved. You assume it's another project, another way for Christopher to keep busy while you heal, and you let your eyelids flutter closed once more.

It's easier not to think about it, about the worry lines etched deep in their faces or the heaviness that hangs in the air. Easier to let the painkillers lull you back into darkness, where there are no expectations, no disappointments—just oblivion.

"Can you come out to the living room?" Buck's voice is softer than usual, and it pulls you from the edge of sleep.

"I—" You start to sit up, a wince escaping your lips as pain shoots through your back. Your face tightens, and you catch your breath. Eddie is at your side almost immediately, his hand light against your back.

"We'll help you," he says, his tone more certain than you feel. "It's worth it. I promise."

You let them assist you, Eddie supporting you on one side, Buck on the other, their arms steady where yours tremble. Your legs feel like lead, but you will them to move. Each step is a testament to the day's toll on your body, yet with their help, it's bearable. It always is.

You're not sure what to expect.

But it's not this.

The living room is transformed. The overhead lights are off, replaced by the warm glow of small candles scattered across the shelves and coffee table. Sheets hang from the walls, draped like makeshift gallery displays. And on those sheets—your art. It hits you all at once, an affirmation of who you are when your body isn't dictating the terms.

There are watercolors with bleeding blues and vivid bursts of orange, charcoal sketches capturing the mundane—coffee mugs, city windows, the curve of Christopher's hands at rest. And there, a series of silly cartoons you'd forgotten about, half-finished but full of life. Each piece is carefully secured, some with thumbtacks, others with strips of tape. Among them, you see newer creations in crayon and colored pencil, not your style but an attempt to emulate it—a softer sunrise here, a brighter tree there, edges blurred as if glimpsed through a dream.

"Christopher," you say, your voice barely a whisper.

He stands at the center of it all, arms spread wide as if he could encompass the world. "Welcome to the gallery!" His grin is wide, his eyes bright with pride. "This is the 'Our Favorite Artist' exhibit. Featuring: you! And me. And also Buck, who isn't great at shading."

"Hey!" Buck's protest is good-natured, feigning offense. "That was deliberate. It's a style."

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep within, surprising you with its warmth. Eddie's hand tightens around yours, his smile mirrored in the softening of his gaze.

"And I helped hang everything," Eddie adds, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "But it was mostly Christopher's idea. He planned it all."

"But we did it together," Christopher insists quickly, not wanting to take sole credit. "Everyone helped. It was a team effort."

You let your gaze drift back to the walls, taking in the whole scene once more. It's so much more than just artwork; it's a testament of love and dedication, a visual narrative of your journey marked by trials and triumphs, rendered in stark lines and vibrant hues. It's like looking at a reflection of your own soul, pieced together by those who have come to know you even when you became a stranger to yourself.

Then something else catches your eye. A sketch done in pencil and crayon, its simplicity standing out amidst the bolder pieces. Four figures, unmistakable in their familiarity: a boy leaning on red crutches, two men—one with unruly curls, the other with a soft, reassuring smile—and you. All under a warm, radiant sun.

"Is this...?" Your voice wavers, threatening to break under the weight of realization.

Christopher grins, his eyes shining with pride. "That's us. Our family."

Your breath hitches as you trace the words scrawled across the top in large, looping letters: Our Family. The details he's included are endearing—Buck's freckles sprinkled across his cheeks, Eddie's hoodie crumpled casually around his frame, the earrings you always wear dangling from your drawn self's ears. His own figure is propped up by red crutches, flowers blooming at everyone's feet—a symbol of growth, of life persisting amidst adversity.

You blink, a rapid flutter of lashes against cheeks wet with tears that have broken free, warm and slow. Buck is there in an instant, a tissue appearing as if he knew it would be needed. Eddie's hand finds your waist, a grounding point amidst the wash of emotions. Christopher looks at you, his smile fading into something more tentative, as though he's suddenly aware that this moment might be too much.

"I just... I wanted you to know," he says, the words barely more than a whisper, "that it's okay if you can't paint today. You did all this already. And I can paint like you do. So we're still doing it together."

You lower yourself to the floor carefully, your body protesting the movement but your heart yearning for the connection. Opening your arms, you offer him a solace that mirrors the one he's given you. He steps into your embrace without hesitation, his small frame a testament to resilience and love beyond measure.

"I love you, Christopher," you murmur into his hair, the scent of shampoo and crayons filling your senses. "So much."

"We all do," comes Eddie's voice from behind you, laced with the kind of emotion reserved for moments like these.

Buck doesn't speak, but he crouches beside you and Chris, his fingers closing around yours, a reassuring squeeze that says more than words ever could.

In the soft glow of tea lights and surrounded by the artistry of survival and the steadfastness of love, the pain doesn't leave. It never will. But it shifts. It becomes something less sharp, less all-consuming. It feels manageable, as though you're not shouldering it alone.

And perhaps, that's the truth of it. You never really were.

[frostbitebakery]

THERE’S ALWAYS ROOM FOR JUST DES(S)ERTS

a Gooey-Wan story

Sitrep.

Cody stares at the tableau in front of him.

Palpatine’s body has gone cold and kind of more shrivel-y, still in that terror-filled, agonized fetal position.

A mouse droid steadily bumps into the corpse as it cleanses up nightmare sludge residue. The usual wails of eternal torment and stalking mimic of the hunted under the whirring of the little droid are almost a comfort.

The galaxy is saved from a madman’s nightmare visions by his own, custom-tailored nightmares in between a lot of impressive lightsaber acrobatics and surprisingly few dismemberments, considering.

“Huh,” Fox says next to him and takes a sip from his “Second Best Commander in the GAR” mug that Cody had helpfully corrected and improved.

“There were,” Obi-Wan pauses, visibly ruminating on his next words, “a surprising amount of tookas involved in the dreams. And those little… do you recall those little fluffy critters we encountered on Therenx VI?”

“Huh,” Cody echoes. He does remember the small bear-like animals. Mainly because they tended to shoot lightning out of their fuzzy little bellies unprovoked. Perma-banning them from the Negotiator after singed eyebrows and electrocuted equipment had involved a lot of tears and attempts at mutiny secretly sponsored by Cody’s General.

“So,” Fox drawls out, “that’s it?”

General Windu frowns. “With the reveal, there are certainly more issues to be resolved. But for the moment? Yes, it seems so.”

“‘Kay. I’m going on vacation. Toodles.” And with that Cody watches Fox go away with a careless gesture.

Cody waves after him before he realizes what he’s doing. He shakes his head and turns back. “You okay?”

The pulsing, thick smoke is slowly absorbed back into the heavy cloak. Obi-Wan is flickering once in a while, the sclera of his eyes a black hole for the stars in his pupils. He drags a hand through his hair but the stubborn strands just fall back across his forehead. “That was quite the outing,” he says cheerfully. “Never did like Taungsdays very much.”

Cody raises his eyebrows, still waiting for an answer. He doesn’t do anything to suppress or hide the smile tugging insistently on his lips.

“Frankly, I could do with a cup,” Obi-Wan admits and cracks his back with a satisfied groan that does it for Cody very much. “I do feel a bit matte.” He tilts his head back a bit, strange, beautiful eyes seeming to stare into the galaxy’s matter itself. The black tongue laps at his lips, quick and away. “And very full. The Chancellor’s dreams provided indeed.”

The sing-song voice is back and Cody shivers despite himself. It’s…unnerving. The one thing that makes the hair rise on Cody’s arms. That tells his hindbrain that there’s nowhere he can hide, nowhere he can crawl into, nowhere to turn to, because what is looking for him can find him in ways beyond his control.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, black bleeding out of his eyes, and leans forward on his knees with another long groan. “I want a nap.”

General Windu shakes his head with a fond look, and leads him away from the body with a steady hand sinking into a smoky shoulder. “Master Mundi is bringing some trusted Senators here.”

“Very well,” Obi-Wan nods and looks at Cody. “Commander,” he starts and Cody straightens instinctively as he receives the last orders from his General.

.

“Force, this is exactly what I needed,” Cody hears around the entry to the small kitchen. He takes his mug back to the living quarters and drowns in the sofa cushions next to Obi-Wan.

Nightmare sludge is happily sopping into the bowl placed under black clawed hands.

“Feel better?” Cody asks, sipping from freshly brewed caf made from real beans. The luxury feels endless. Smoke gently curls in between his fingers, dancing and playing around when he wiggles his hand.

With a mischievous smile Obi-Wan turns his head to him, burrows into his side. “Hmhm, that shower was rejuvenating.”

Cody has to agree. Feeling the grime and battle and literal nightmares washing off his skin, Obi-Wan’s skin, under hot water and hotter breath, the calming smell of the soap steaming against the tiles - it feels like a happy ending like in the holo movies.

“How are you?” Obi-Wan asks, shaking nightmares off one hand into the bowl.

“You know,” Cody tips his head against ginger hair and closes his eyes, “I feel really good.”

for @deathdovesong

[jules-has-notes]

Hoist the Colours — VoicePlay music video

Dirges aren't generally intended to be entertaining, but the opening scene to the third Pirates movie included a surprisingly compelling one. When VoicePlay got their hands on it, they turned it into an even more dramatic experience, emphasizing the defiance of the moment when the crew have nothing left to lose. Lash yourself to the mast and hang on for an exciting voyage.

Details:

title: Hoist the Colours (feat. Jose Rosario Jr.)

original performers: cast of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007)

written by: lyrics by Ted Elliot & Terry Rossio; music by Hans Zimmer & Gore Verbinski

arranged by: Geoff Castellucci

release date: 17 September 2021

My favorite bits:

passing the opening verse between Jose, Cesar, and Eli with everyone providing soft, mournful harmonies

the dramatic red lighting during moments of silence

the group swaying in unison during the first chorus as though they're on the deck of a ship

that first big subharmonic drop to the seafloor from Geoff, appropriately on ♫ "diiie" ♫

Cesar's unblinking stare into the camera during ♫ "some men have died and some are alive" ♫

Eli putting a little extra grit into ♫ "the devil to pay" ♫ 😈

the vertiginous scene transition of Layne's sword wiping the screen and the camera tilting up from a dutch angle

Layne using gasping sounds and shuffling fricatives in his percussion to evoke the prisoners' procession toward the gallows

shifting into an eerily major key for ♫ "hear its sepulchral tone" ♫

Jose and Cesar's delicate descending riff of ♫ "colours oh" ♫ under Eli's powerful belted ♫ "hiiigh" ♫

the slow layering of the repeated ♫ "Yo ho" ♫ section that then turns into polyphony

Geoff leaping up two octaves to kick off the ♫ "never die" ♫ canon

just the standing trio soaring into the clouds with ♫ "hoist the cooo-ooo-loours" ♫ punctuated by Jose's dramatic sword thrust and the bright flash of cannon fire

Eli's sustained belt of ♫ "diiie" ♫ as everyone else keeps moving

all five voices creating such a lush sound on the last line

the reverberation of that final chord over the silhouetted tableau

Trivia:

Among the scar makeup put on the guys was a raised "VP" on each of their hands / forearms. It reflects a real late 17th-century practice in which captured pirates were branded with a "P". It mostly occured in the Indian Ocean under the auspices of the British East India Company, and was the inspiration for the mark on Jack Sparrow's arm in the Pirates movies.

Jose was not the group's original featured guest for this song. When Anthony Gargiula was unable to fly to Florida due to Covid travel restrictions, the guys reached out to find a local replacement and did some quick re-recording. Eli took on the higher part, and Jose stepped into the tenor 2 spot.

They did eventually record a simpler, more somber version with Anthony as a short four years later.

The guys indulged in some thematically appropriate snacks when they wrapped, and the official Pirates Booty™ social media manager was suitably impressed.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by VoicePlay (@thevoiceplay)

Pirate captain Jose returned a couple years later for a very silly rendition of "Drunken Sailor".

The gold coin medalion around Jose's neck in this was subsequently claimed by Layne for their "Yo Ho (A Pirates Life for Me" short and "Drunken Sailor" video.

The arrangement process for this song likely started in the spring, as evidenced by the excerpt Geoff put on TikTok in late April. The fall release date seems to have been timed to line up with International Talk Like a Pirate Day, and also provided an early start to the group's annual spooky season offerings.

Jose joined the chat for the YouTube premiere and was delighted by everyone's lovely comments.

Several of their musical colleagues have also taken a stab at this song, including The Bass Singers of TikTok, Colm McGuinness, Malinda and friends, and Lauren Paley. Many of those folks appear as collaborators in each other's recordings.

[eksvaized]

[ Previous ┃ Next ] [ All In One ] part 12, MDNI

"Y/N? What are you doing here?"

You pivot when Simon's voice, deep and edged like a well-honed blade, cuts through the silence. His broad frame fills the doorway. His gaze is intense, and bores into you, causing an uncomfortable shudder to ripple down your spine. For a moment that stretches out like a shadow at sunset, he just stands there, observing you, trying to understand why you aren't in bed with him, but instead kneeling outside on the porch. Then, suddenly, Simon lunges forward, his expression a confusing mix of anger and panic.

Taken aback by his sudden movement, you stumble backwards. Your heart pounds in your chest. But before you regain your footing, you feel a chilling touch — cold, lifeless fingers wrapping around your shoulder. The smell hits you immediately after. It's a sickening, rotten odour that makes your stomach churn with unease. Your eyes widen in terror as you realise that a biter is latching onto you. Its dead, hollow eyes stare into yours as it tries to pull you closer, eager to sink its teeth into the soft flesh of your neck. Scream, sharp, and piercing like a shattered mirror, tears through your throat as you struggle to shake the biter off.

Without missing a beat, Simon rushes forward, pulling you away from the dead man. With a quick, forceful movement, he throws you towards the front door, away from the danger. In his hand, he holds a knife. He plunges it into the biter's skull.

"Get inside—Now!" He roars, his voice echoing in the still air after a quick, frantic glance in your direction. His eyes are wild with fear, darting around the front yard. Your screams have attracted more biters, who are now all shambling toward the house. As you stumble inside, you look over your shoulder. You see Simon, his face a mask of indecision as he tries to weigh the odds of taking them out. But the reality of the situation forces him to retreat. He dashes inside too, slamming the door shut.

The biters pile up on the porch, a grotesque tableau of death. You can hear their guttural growling. The clicking of their teeth and scratching of their nails against the door send shivers down your spine as they try to force their way in. Simon drags you from the door, down a dark, narrow hallway. He guides you to the staircase. His hands are firm on your shoulders as he pushes you to sit.

"I—sorry. I never... should have gone d-down there... I should have listened to you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" You start crying. Your words spill out in a jumbled and hurried fashion, leaving little room for clarity.

Simon is perplexed. He finds himself at a loss, struggling to piece together a puzzle of what has transpired. His memory only serves to remind him of the moment he drifted off to sleep, with you securely nestled in his arms. What occurred between now and then to cause you to behave in such a manner? And how on earth did you end up outside?

His concern is palpable as he voices the question that is floating in his mind. "Are you hurt?" Without wasting another moment, he frantically examines your body. His fingers rake across your skin, scouring for any traces of bites or scratches.

He grumbles in exasperation after you shake your head. As his gaze drops to your hands, you can practically see the colour drain from his face. The sight seems to physically impact him, like a punch to the chest. He stumbles, collapsing on his knees at the foot of the stairs, gripping your hands with a desperation that is heart-wrenching.

"You said you aren't hurt," his voice shakes as he speaks. You've never seen him so visibly terrified.

"I-I'm not," you stammer, pulling your hands, which are smeared with fresh blood, into your lap. Your wide eyes dart between the front door and Simon. The ominous, threatening noises outside intensify. They grow louder and more frightening with each passing second. "I killed him," you say, the words barely more than a whisper.

His gaze travels to the end of the hallway, where he can make out the entrance to the kitchen. His eyes land on the open basement door, an unspoken confirmation of your words. Almost instantly, you can feel the tension, the heavy weight of dread, begin to lift from his shoulders. The two of you share a prolonged, silent stare before Simon moves closer. He cups your cheeks with his rough hands.

"I need you to listen to me," he implores, his voice a mixture of urgency and calm. He pulls your face towards him, ensuring you're looking into his eyes. "You need to go back into the basement - he is still tied to the chair, right? - you must stab him in the head." His words hang heavy in the air. Even though it's the last thing you want to do, you nod your head in understanding.

"I will sneak out of the back door and deal with the biters outside." Upon hearing this, you shake your head, a silent plea for him not to leave. But Simon remains steadfast. "I have to do this—they are piling up. I need to lure them away. Otherwise, they'll get in the house," he reasons. The grim determination in his voice leaves no room for argument.

After another agonizing five minutes, Simon insists you retrieve the flashlight from upstairs. When you return, his hand somehow finds its way to the back of your hair. His fingers get tangled in the soft strands. He leans in, pulling your face closer. His breath is warm against your skin before he captures your lips in a tender kiss.

"I promise... I will come back," he murmurs. Then, he presses another sweet, lingering kiss on your forehead, a silent vow, before he disappears from your sight, leaving you alone in the hallway.

As you walk to the basement door, you find yourself grateful for the flashlight in your hand. The candle that used to light the space has long since burnt out. The cold, harsh beam of your flashlight replaces its warm glow. Only the faint, comforting scent of wax lingers in the air. The house is eerily silent. The only sounds are your breathing and the soft creak of the stairs under your weight. When you flash the light at the man, you see that his head hangs low. He isn't breathing. He is dead.

You start hyperventilating. But when you notice the subtle movements of the man's hand, you push the fear away, and the knot in your chest loosens. His fingers twitch, causing a fleeting burst of hope to spark within you. You entertain the thought that perhaps he is still alive, that maybe you haven't killed him. Yet when his eyes flutter open to reveal a vacant stare, the irises a pale, lifeless grey, the horrifying reality sinks in - he has morphed into a biter.

With extreme caution, you inch closer to him. Every muscle in your body tenses and is ready to react at the slightest hint of danger. Your eyes land on a knife. It lays discarded on the floor right by the stranger's feet. The blade is smeared with dried blood. You pick it up. Cold metal bites into your skin. As you lift it, a few droplets of blood slide down the edge of the blade and splash onto your boots.

Without a moment's hesitation, you raise your trembling hand and forcefully drive the knife through the side of his head. The sickening sound of flesh and bone being pierced echoes through the basement. This time, you refuse to avert your gaze and fix your eyes upon the lifeless figure before you.

When Simon finds you, his eyes widen in horror at the scene that unfolds before him. Your mind is engulfed in a state of shock, rendering you unable to hear his frantic attempts to talk with you. Desperate to snap you out of your trance, he tugs at your hand, his grip growing tighter and more urgent. But you remain rooted to the spot. Your body is frozen in a mix of disbelief and terror. Frustration and concern consume Simon, and with no other option left, he musters all his strength to forcefully push you out of the basement, breaking the grip of your immobility.

For the next three days, you confine yourself to your bedroom. The suffocating weight of guilt gnaws at your insides. While a small part of you clings to the belief that your actions were justified. Memories relentlessly haunt you. They invade your thoughts whenever your guard slips. Vivid images flash through your mind like a horror film reel. You rewatch the man's desperate struggle for breath. His blood staining the floor, and you gripping the knife that pierced his heart. Then, you are forced to relive the second time you come back to the basement. The stranger's lifeless eyes lock onto yours as you stab him again. With a sickening finality, your blade pierces his skull, causing his neck to go limp and his head to slump down.

Regret consumes you, as you realise you should have heeded Simon's warnings and stayed away. The mere thought of facing him now fills you with terror. Yet, contrary to your expectations, he shows up at your bedroom door every day. Even if you refuse to unlock it. He brings you breakfast and dinner. And if you don't take it, he settles beside the locked door, leans against the wall, and patiently waits for you to change your mind. He respects your need for time and space, but soon realises that this cannot continue.

So, while you languish in bed, drowned by a sea of regrets and a deep-seated wish to turn back time, Simon is busy crafting a plan of action. He understands the importance of giving you a sense of purpose. A task to occupy your mind, to prevent the shadowy tendrils of your dark thoughts from taking control. And as much as he doesn't want to go looking for your brother, he knows it's what you need.

"Come on—" He bangs on the door with his fist. "Let me in, Y/N."

Simon is irritated. His patience is wearing thin. But this time, he is determined not to let you ignore him. His hand, clenched into a tight fist, continues to pound on the door with increasing urgency. The rhythmic thudding echoes through the silence. Each knock is a testament to his resolve. Yet, after a while, when there's no response, and the door remains closed, he pauses and takes a step back.

He stands there for a moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he takes in deep breaths. Then, with a quick and deliberate change in his posture, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. All muscles in his body tense. Drawing on every ounce of strength and frustration that he possesses, he puts his entire body into action. Like a professional batter swinging at a pitch, he delivers a powerful, calculated blow that sends the door flying off its hinges.

You leap upwards. Your gaze slowly transitions from the splintered remnants of the door to Simon's imposing figure. He stands there, observing you. Your hair, a tangled bird's nest of neglect, and your eyes, puffy and red as overripe cherries, reflect your torment. Clad in the same dirt-streaked clothes that have become a second skin to you over the past three days, you paint a picture of desolation. The sight that meets his eyes is a still-life portrait of despair as if you've been ensnared within a timeless void, devoid of any life or movement, much like a broken clock stuck in an endless loop of the same desolate hour.

"We need to talk," he says, moving closer to the bed.

"I don't want to," you retort and avert your gaze, sinking back onto the mattress. You gather the covers around your body, cocooning yourself beneath the fabric.

"We are leaving tomorrow," Simon states, choosing to ignore your rebuttal, and persists with his narrative. "I've got a plan, and you are going to listen to me if you want to see your brother again."

This particular piece of information kindles a spark of interest in you. Yet you remain unmoved, frozen in your current state. Your lack of immediate response does not deter Simon in the slightest. Unfazed, he continues to elaborate on the ingenious plan he has devised. He reveals to you that he has figured out a way to sneak into the base; a method that surprisingly does not entail walking through the front gates.

Additionally, he claims he knows the precise location where they are holding your brother captive. He has gained this invaluable information, he explains, from having engaged in many in-depth conversations with the now-dead stranger. Unbeknownst to the man himself, throughout their discussions, he had inadvertently provided Simon with all the essential details he needed. These critical pieces of information serve as the missing puzzle pieces, enabling Simon to piece together the entire scenario.

"We need to leave soon. It will take us a few days to make it to the base," he says, reaching for the blanket. With a swift pull, he unveils your face. "But first, you must learn how to use a gun."

In your encounters with the dead, the weapon you've always relied on is your knife. You're aware that Simon possesses a handgun, among other firearms. But he has always kept them shrouded in secrecy. Tucked away in hidden corners. And you've never felt the need to inquire further about them.

Reluctantly, Simon agrees to leave the bedroom when you ask him to give you a few moments alone. But he only walks out after you promise to rise from your bed, freshen up, and change into clean clothes.

TAG LIST: @randointhecloset, @lurkinwbreexy, @breadpitt69 , @browtfyoudoing , @yelenassafeplace, @itsthealice, @naxxsstuff, @lotionlamp If you want to be added, let me know!

[orangeandclover]

OCKISS Week '25 Day 7

reunion- starting phaedra & daphne ingellvar, daphne belongs to @lucaniseyebrowlicker also yes I did another reunion bc I couldn't help myself & I love these two & think about them a lot!

Phaedra had not been expecting to be one of the first Watchers asked to help with the restoration of The Shrouded Halls. Though given things how tense things had been in their last posting, with tempers still high after her and Daphne’s actions in The War of Banners she couldn’t say she minded. She also would never turn up the opportunity to go deeper into the Necropolis and further away from fussy nobles who knew less than they believed they did.

Today she’s cataloguing the different plants in the Memorial Gardens and overseeing some of her novices in the realignment of one of the undead within the tableau. Her eyes wander over to the novices occasionally during her work finding they are still discussing their plans for how they wish to tackle the realignment. Phaedra lets them fade to the background cutting small samples of the moon blossoms, blue creepvine, but specifically the variegated Weeping Widowers their color unlike any other she has catalogued in the Necropolis to date. It is easy to lose herself in her tasks basking the the feeling of calm they only find deep in the necropolis wondering briefly if maybe one day it will be her bones young novices have to realign. She makes her way over to check on the young novices progress when just beyond them in the Vault of the Beloved she sees a familiar shade of hair, red like the sun over the sands above. Without even thinking she takes off dropping her basket of samples and rushing past confused novices as she makes we way out of the gardens. 

“Daphne!” Phaedra’s voice rings out hoping it isn’t just a trick of her mind -a wakening dream playing on missing her friend sister- but the figure quickly turns around to her voice. 

“Phaedra,” a small smile graces her face as she moves to meet their embrace. 

Phaedra is glad to see her, to see that she is alive and with a quick wash of healing magic; healthy. Pulling back just a little to get a real look at her there is a tiredness in her eyes but as always a fierce determination. Phaedra places a quick kiss on both her cheeks which are as rosey as ever. 

“How have you been?”

“I feel I should ask you that, you are the one who went off on an adventure to stop an ancient elven god with Varric Tethras.”

“You can certainly say it has been an adventure,” the tiredness in her eyes also laces her voice, Phaedra gathers her back in her arms projecting warmth towards her. 

“If you need anything, let me know. I will be there no matter what,” Pulling back and taking Daphne’s hands in her, “I mean it even if I have to go to some horrible infested swamp I will be there for you.” 

“I know.”

“Umm Professor Ingel- Phaedra?” Phaedra and Daphne turn noticing the novices standing there to the side shuffling their feet and picking at their nails, “We are ready to try the realignment.” 

“Of course I will be right there,” turning back to Daphne, Phaedra gives her hands a quick squeeze.

“Professor? Now that is certainly new.”

“I will tell you all about it, maybe we can meet for tea.”

“I’ve been drinking a lot more coffee recently,” she shoots one of her companions - the one dressed in dark leathers with a feathered mullet? but definitely possessed- a look; a look Phaedra will be asking about, “but I know just the place. You’ll love it.”

Phaedra gives her hands one last squeeze and placing a kiss on her forehead before making her way back into the gardens listening to the novices plan of action.

…..

Daphne watches Phaedra leave with her students following behind like a gaggle of ducks on The Minanter. She turns to her companions she sees the wisps floating around them drawn by their curiosity.

“You two seem close,” Lucanis watches Phaedra leave, Daphne can hear the very edges of Spite speaking to him asking questions spirits are always curious about Phaedra and herself. 

“That was Phaedra, and its complicated, we are the last of Ingellvars for all that the name is worth.” The name hangs heavy over both of them a defining who they were and are for so long. A name they will burn to nothing but ashes in the wind. 

“So you are family?” 

“As close as Children of the Crypts can get.”

[marrowfrog00]

You Stir My Natural Emotions

A/N: Hi, this is a post I made a while back on my Ao3 and since I'm dragging ass on writing anything new...I thought I'd rest on my barely-there, crusty, dusty ass laurels until inspiration strikes or I put my back into actualizing my idea-rs.

CW: MDNI, Smut (characters are 18+), Mentions of Trauma, Broken Bones, Misunderstandings, Idiots in Love, Quarreling, Canon Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Descriptions of female anatomy, Oral (f receiving), P in V, Protected Sex, Adaptive Sex, Mentions of deceased grandmother, Not formatted b/c fuck that r.n., lmk if I missed anything

wc: 13.9k

Steve’s polo was pasted to his back with the sweat of high Midwestern summer. He glanced back at his Bimmer, parked behind Nancy’s station wagon, more than a little uneasy at the prospect of leaving it on the narrow shoulder of the county road. 

His destination, an unauthorized swimming hole with a somewhat rickety, decommissioned dock, didn’t have a proper parking space. Not like the well kept county-owned lakeside park on the other side of the water. That spot had designated parking but would no doubt be littered with desperate, unadventurous families trying to beat the heat. 

People unlike his friends, who frequented the busted but perfectly functional East shore of the lake. 

He bushwhacked through noxious weeds and nettles, feet seeking out the half-worn path that would take him to the meeting spot. He reached the little bluff, where he had to cut little switchbacks to make it down the hill without breaking his ankle. When he reached the last tree stand he heard the rowdy voices of his friends carry across the shallows of the lake. 

And just in time, too - the polyester and mesh of his swim trunks were chafing him under his Jordache jeans. 

He could see the backs of Robin’s and Eddie’s heads in low seat beach chairs. They were clandestinely passing a flask between them while Nancy and Jon sat on a blanket beside them, Nancy rubbing sunblock on her boyfriend’s shoulders, pausing to push her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. 

She noticed Steve’s approach, head shooting up with a bright smile. “Hey! You made it!”

Eddie, Robin and Jon’s heads shot up in reaction, each of them shooting him a half-enthused greeting.

“What took you so long, dingus?” Robin crowed, clearly half-tipsy.

Steve scoffed, pulling his polo over his head and tossing it by the cooler. 

“Well, someone called out today and I had to stay on an extra hour and a half at the store waiting for coverage,” he sniped back with no heat. Robin blew a raspberry at him.

“Strip down, Big Boy, you’re wasting daylight,” Eddie shot lazily. He stretched out on his beach chair, limbs quaking at full extension like those of a freshly-awakened cat. His chest was on full display, the white cast of badly-applied sunblock streaked across his tummy.

Steve rolled his eyes - there was nothing if not daylight to waste, the sun smiling at them all meanly from high in the sky.

 He shuffled his jeans down his legs before kicking them in Eddie’s face, who expertly dodged the attack with a guffaw.

Over on the dock, Max and El lay shoulder-to-shoulder on their stomachs, giggling over a glossy magazine while Mike and Lucas hollered off the edge, filling their super soakers from the dock’s edge. Will was buried in a sketch pad, toes dipped in the water.

Steve’s hands were planted on his hips as he did a quick headcount. A force of habit these days. He narrowed his eyes in search of the missing two. 

“Where are Dustin and Teenie?” he asked, noting suspicion in his own voice. The very two people he always had eyes on (if he could help it) were missing from this idyllic tableau. Nancy craned her neck to look toward the lake. 

“They’re in the water,” she said as if it were obvious. “They’ve been in there forever.” 

Steve felt his stomach clench uneasily but tried to school his expression into something nonplussed as he started toward the dock. 

“Why is she in the water?” he muttered to no one in particular, noting the worried pitch in his own voice. 

He saw the four heads of his nearly-adult friends turn toward him in unison as he walked past them. 

Robin chimed in then, through a hiccup “Psh, she’s fine Steven. We reinforced her.”

 Steve ignored her.

Max and El glanced up at him, muttering uninterested twin-greetings to him as he stepped gingerly between them. Will let him scooch past.

“Hey!” came your voice. “Do not shoot water in each other's mouths, this water is stagnant,” you barked. “That’s guaranteed dysentery.” 

“Sorry,” Lucas and Mike responded in unison.

Finally, yours and Dustin’s forms bobbing in the water came into view. Dustin was sputtering and rubbing his face with the hand not holding his own super soaker, clearly having been on the receiving end of Lucas and Mike’s attack. 

You were a few feet away from him, straddling a neon orange pool noodle. 

You were wearing that infernal bikini…the spring green one with ditsy white flowers and an underwire that smooshed your bust into a juicy-looking sculpture shaped by the hands of an unfair, horny god.

 Your hair was damp around your face. Even behind your red cat eye sunglasses, you appeared unimpressed until you caught sight of Steve and beamed at him. 

“Stevie!” you squealed. 

He didn’t waste another moment taking in the sight of you before he shoved off the dock and waded the short distance over to you and Dustin. 

“Hey, Steve!” he heard Dustin greet sweetly. Steve ignored it, leveling his gaze at you. 

“Teenie, what the hell are you doing in the lake?”

Your pretty smile fell at his words. You hesitated a moment before you fixed your face into a sardonic expression. 

“You’re looking at it, Stevie.”

“Your arm, Teenie! Your cast!” 

Steve didn’t notice how every head had turned toward the two of you at his little outburst. At that, you pulled your left arm out of the water, where it had been obscured. It looked like Swamp Thing, dark and soggy, water running off of it in rivulets. Steve saw that it was covered in a black rubbish bag, secured with silver duct tape (plus a derelict shoe lace) at your elbow. 

“It’s sorted, Stevie.” Steve heard conciliation in your voice. “The plaster’s bone dry underneath, ya happy?” 

No, he wasn’t happy.

Frankly, Steve didn’t care who had rigged the dry bag around the cast securing your fractured ulna. If he had, his money would have been on the braintrust that was Eddie and Robin, but who knew with this ragtag group? It wasn't as though the lot of them hadn’t crafted a bevy of improvised weapons and structures and clothing in the past.

Steve’s blood was boiling. He shouldn’t have had to tell you to stay out of the water, you should have just known.

 Yeah, lake day had been your idea, but he’d had a very different design for this day in his head when you’d proposed it.

 He thought the kids would splash around in the shallows while you and him (plus the other four sort-of grown ups) lounged at the water’s edge. 

The two of you would lather each other in sunblock (you with your good arm) and share a beer or two, and he would stare discreetly and shamelessly at your half-naked, prone body behind the safety of his Ray-Bans while some sappy love song played over the boombox and he pretended you were his and he wasn’t tap dancing around his feelings that he'd only sort of started realizing were feelings and-

“Steve,” you uttered sharply, snapping him out of his daydream.

Right. He had been busy giving you the business about reckless swimming. 

“You’re a terrible swimmer on a good day,” he scolded. “You really think you can hold your own with one arm?” he reasoned, gesturing at your form.

You pushed your sunglasses to the top of your head and glared at him, unimpressed. 

Dustin chose then to speak up, mildly. Steve almost forgot he was there. 

“We’re touching the bottom, Steve. We’re being safe, we’re touching the bottom,” he tried with a chord of desperation.

Steve looked between the two of you. A nasty little smirk on your face threatened to emerge. 

“Yeah, we’re touching the bottom.” You demonstrated your point by bouncing up and down on your toes a few times. Steve had to ignore how your boobs bounced with the motion. “And I have this, for buoyancy,” you added, smacking the end of your pool noodle into the water and sending a spray of water into Steve’s face.

Dustin cackled suddenly at Steve’s sputtering. Lucas, Mike, El and Max joined the hysterics shortly thereafter. Will hid a snicker behind his sketch pad.

 It should have broken the tension. It should have been the hard reset on the fun that Steve had almost ruined with his poop-pantsery.

“What about Dustin?” Steve tried then. He was feeling outnumbered here. And a little stupid, frankly. But righteous. Like, how the hell was he supposed to feel when he leaves the lot of you alone for one afternoon and the two (arguably) most vulnerable people are just hanging out with no one to stop you drowning?

Dustin’s blue eyes grew big and confused at the mention of his name. You looked at the young curly-haired boy reflexively.

“What about ‘im?” you shot back.

“He doesn’t have collar bones!” Steve barked, gesturing at the boy. 

Dustin looked a little hurt by the observation, true though it may be. Steve winced a little at his own insensitivity and immediately wished he could walk it back. “Sorry, bud,” he offered. 

Dustin seemed immediately appeased at his correction and shrugged as if to say “no problem.”

You weren’t ready to let it go, however. A mean guffaw escaped from the back of your throat before you replied “Dustin is fine. He’s a very capable swimmer,” you spat. Unlike me, Steve heard you mutter snarkily under your breath.

 You flicked Dustin’s nose lightly and winked at him, and he preened under your attention. All the kids did. You had that way about you, is all. 

Sensing the tension on the water, Eddie, Rob, Nance and Jon were stood up on the shore, looking on with mild concern. 

Steve noticed you noticing them and then you shook your head and declared “Know what? I packed sandwiches and nobody has touched them, so…andiamo.” 

With that, you abandoned your pool noodle and lifted yourself out of the water and onto the dock by your good arm. 

I would have helped her, Steve thought to himself bitterly, watching you drop hard on your knees before getting to your feet. 

He sated his need to help by pushing Dustin onto the dock by his butt, much to Dustin’s annoyance.

A bit later, everyone was seated on the shore, the last of the sandwiches having been polished off. 

The tension had waned for everyone else and the ambient murmur of jovial conversation had returned. 

Eddie was seated at Steve’s side, yammering in his ear about a road trip he wanted to take with you all sometime next Spring.

 But Steve’s gaze was trained on you, across the circle, engaged in quiet conversation with Nancy and Robin. 

You had pulled your shorts on, leaving them unbuttoned over your bikini bottoms. Your oxford shirt with the sleeves cut off was unbuttoned, billowing open down to your navel. The trash bag had been removed from your arm carefully with the help of the tiny scissors on Dustin’s swiss army knife. 

You smiled wryly at some joke that Robin had made. Your face was free of makeup, eyes a little tired, but sanguine. 

“Ya listening to me, Stevie boy?” Eddie asked, cutting through Steve’s haze. 

“Sorry dude,” Steve shot back mindlessly, willing himself to pry his gaze away.

Eddie merely sniggered at his friend’s lack of manners. “That was quite a spectacle the two of you put on earlier.”

Steve scowled at him, knowing damn well what he was talking about, but choosing to feign ignorance.

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Eddie was unbothered by Steve’s pretend-game, continuing, “Like, you two guys pitch each other a lot of shit and it's usually good natured, but lately it's been…” Eddie sucked on his teeth as he pondered the right adjective. “Sticky.”

“Ed, man, shut up.”

“Nah,” Eddie said on a deep inhale. “Figure your shit out, Harrington. It’s embarrassing.” Eddie sunk back down into his chair. 

“Teenie Ween’s always been a sweetheart as long as I've known her but lately, you've been bringing out the worst in each other and it's exhausting.”

Steve’s face scrunched up in confusion, pondering Eddie’s cryptic words.

 “I’m sorry,” Steve said absently, though he didn’t know what he was sorry for.

 Eddie just smiled back at him from behind a pair of aviators.

Soon, the sun started to dip and everyone was a little sun drunk and over the day. Belongings were packed and the troupe of you made it up the bluff and through the thicket of overgrown weeds, back to the road. 

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

It was the transportation arrangement that really clinched the awkwardness of the outing. 

Nancy had hauled everyone to the beach earlier that day, sans you. You had been dropped off by a boy called Allen Miles and the mention of his name grated on Steve’s very spine.

Before you and Steve could devolve into another bitching match, Nancy pursed her lips and made a sound declaration that Steve would drive you, Dustin and Robin home.

 Nevermind that her station wagon would still be stuffed to the gills clown-style. And you wouldn’t even have the buffer of El at the ready since she was staying at Max’s house. You fought her on it, too.

“Does dad know you’re staying over with Max?” you asked her, almost pleading with her to give you a reason to pull elder sibling rank on you.

“Yes,” she hissed back at you haughtily. You deflated, knowing that you would be dropped off last. 

Maybe you could pretend to fall asleep during the ride so you didn’t have to deal with Steve alone. 

Looks were exchanged and car doors were slammed before you all set off into the twilight. Robin, who typically called shotty, practically shoved you into the front seat of Steve’s car. You didn’t want to make a scene in light of the day’s events, so you went without quarrel. 

Dustin and Robin droned on in the backseat about…something. You couldn’t have recounted even a smidgen of their conversation with a gun to your head. 

You were focused on Steve next to you, seething. You could feel it coming off of him. 

Your jaw clenched as Robin fixed you and Steve with an exasperated look that you could see in the side view mirror before leaving you with a cheeky adios! 

Dustin took up the mantle of filling the silence but soon enough, you were parked in front of the Henderson residence. 

The boy parried a moment before seemingly deciding he couldn't say or do anything to pop yours and Steve's acidic little bubble. The pair of you watched his mom greet him at the door before pulling away.

The thing was, today hadn’t happened in a vacuum. You and Steve had always gotten along pretty famously as far as your friends and built family were concerned. Certainly enough to make it through a world of unconscionable shit alongside the rest of them. 

But when reality as you all knew it was falling to pieces, nobody had the presence of mind to tune into the frequency that the two of you were on. They didn’t notice the intricacies of the geological formation of your relationship. 

You had materialized - yes! materialized - out of nowhere back in the fall of ‘83. You’d been sucked into the Upside Down from another time and place entirely. The unwitting and unlikely victim of a quantum hiccup twenty years in the future near your home on Nellis Airforce Base in North Las Vegas. 

Your slime-covered, barely animate fifteen-year-old body was discovered and carried out of the Upside Down by Hop. He, in a hazmat suit, you in your ripped, bloodied Catholic school uniform while Joyce stumbled alongside him with Will in her clutches. 

For weeks, you’d been near-catatonic, held in the custody of Dr. Owens while a cadre of shady G-men (plus Hop and Joyce) had tried to piece together your journey.

 You barely registered that you had leapt back in time and ended up somewhere you didn’t know a soul, half a decade before you were even born. 

For you were traumatized and plagued with guilt over the death of another teenage girl. A girl that had desperately wanted to get back to where you found yourself by accident. 

You'd tried pulling Barb off that sticky wall, even though part of you knew she was already dead. Soon, you surrendered to your exhaustion and found yourself glued to the same wall, a grotty vine prodding at your lips, trying to make a home in your esophagus right as Hop and Joyce happened upon you.

Eventually, your body healed and you came out of your stupor. You went to live with Hop. You didn’t have anywhere else to go, and besides which way, the best conclusion that the scientists from the DoE could come up with was that if you were going to go back “home”, it would be the way you came. So you had to stay close by.

 They paid a stipend to keep you fed and kept - you were an investment, afterall. Moreover, you were a liability and a paradox, and this was the best arrangement Owens could come up with. 

Hop got used to having you around, never trying to force the matter of you returning home. In the weeks when you’d lost track of El, you would sometimes stand timidly in front of the towering man until he promised you that you would find her. 

Neither of you could stand the guilt of her being out there on her own. Eventually El showed up and he decided that you would all carry on as though you had both been there the whole time. 

Nobody wanted you to go back home. How would you get there? How would you survive a second time?

You started school in January of ‘84, sticking close to the walls. 

Nancy and Jon felt responsible for you and kept you close. By default, that meant Steve, too. But Steve was suspicious of you. 

You were freaky to him and despite what he’d seen in the Byers house, he couldn’t really comprehend your being there. 

Sometimes, when you were all hanging out, a brand new song would come on the radio - like the DJ would make a big production of stressing the just released single - and then you’d absentmindedly mouth all the words perfectly. 

Other times, you’d say non-sequitur things that would turn out to be quotes from movies that hadn’t been released when you’d uttered them. 

The most unnerving was when Nancy’s father was hemming and hawing at the breakfast table one morning you were all over at the Wheeler house. 

He was pouring over a newspaper article about some sick murderer on the loose, reciting the most sordid details while Karen Wheeler stood at the stove flipping pancakes, scolding her husband for discussing it in front of the kids. 

Suddenly, you paused with your glass of orange juice poised at your lips and muttered the name Alton Coleman with a vacant look in your eyes. Days later, Alton Coleman was apprehended. 

Karen and Ted Wheeler had missed it, luckily. But when Nancy had pressed you on the issue, wondering if you were tapped into some latent psychic ability that you and her could use to fight crime, you'd disappointed the girl by informing her that one of the last things you'd seen on TV before you “leapt” was a documentary about Alton Coleman. And it had only stuck with you because you'd gone over your actions in your last days at Nellis with Owens until you were blue in the face.

Then there was the style stuff. You seemed totally confused about what you referred to as “big, crispy hair,” not to mention your general aversion to spandex and high-waisted jeans. 

You wore your hair with minimal volume, kept your clothes and makeup neutral, toned down, boring. 

Nancy thought it was because you’d been to Catholic school and you were “demure” as she put it.

But Steve had quickly clocked that you thought everything around you was cheesy and dated but you didn’t want to stand out or accidentally make a statement by dressing from your own time. So you dressed like a bland schoolmistress and let Jonathan make you mixtapes because a constant rotation of Top 40 artists eventually set your teeth on edge. 

You stopped telling Steve who the one-hit-wonders were because he was really rooting for Dexy’s Midnight Runners and he got all salty when you told him. 

Nobody tried to meet you where you were at culturally, because all of you were a little worried that if you divulged secrets from the future, it would create some kind of extra rip in the universe. So you kept your trap shut except to say that you didn’t really like your time either and that, really, the ‘80s weren’t so bad in some ways. 

Plus, you practically drooled at the sight of Eddie Van Halen and Mickey Rourke whenever you got the opportunity. They were so hot, you'd lament in a pained wail at the TV, as if you weren't living in the very time in which they were dropping your panties. 

Steve rolled his eyes every time you did this. Little Miss Catholic School swooning over rock stars and greasers. How original. Your crush on Spock from Star Trek…Well that broke up the cliché a little.

Steve slowly started to feel more at ease around you, distracting himself with his romance with Nancy. 

And you started to branch out, making friends outside of the people that knew too much for their own good.

You started wearing acid-washed denim over bolder colors, teasing your hair a bit, adopting high-waisted jeans (which made your ass look delectable, Steve grudgingly noticed - as did Allen Miles, apparently). 

You were still on the shy, mild side, but you weren't such a wallflower. People knew you by face and name now. 

Steve thought being from the future made you naturally more magnetic or something. Like you were always two moves ahead of everyone. That made him kind of nervous, though, so he still watched you in his periphery.

He told himself it was to make sure you didn’t slip up and involve anyone else in your freakish situation. He’d watch you in the cafeteria, the courtyard, laughing with your small circle of casual pals, looking for any indication that you were spilling your guts and making yourself look like a headcase in the process. 

Best case scenario, you’d wind up in an asylum or something. Worst case, you’d end up in a gulag with electrodes inserted in every square inch of visible flesh. Months of his low-key recon suddenly became moot the night of the Halloween party in ‘84. 

Steve had just had his heart crushed by Nancy in a spectacular fashion, when he pulled over on his way home.

He was trying to stave off waves of fresh pain in his chest, sat at the wheel of his car, gulping air, willing the sting of rejection to sink to the depths of his loafers. Toto’s Africa provided the soundtrack to his misery.

He startled at a gentle rapping at his window. He looked up to see you, haloed in the streetlight, wearing a copper lamé dress with a high split in the leg and a dip at the shoulder. Your eyes were smoked out, making your confused glare even more intense. 

Possessed Dana Barrett, you’d explained, offering him a bite of your candy apple. He refused it, so you chucked it out the window into a storm drain, licking your sticky fingers. 

You'd taken Nancy's little brother and his friends trick-or-treating and they'd cajoled you into being Possessed Dana Barrett to round out the Ghostbusters cast. You wanted to be Slimer but you didn't know how to pull it off on such short notice, and Joyce Byers had loaned you this gown from the days of disco, and why was he so long in the face, anyway?

Steve was just desperate enough to ask you to hang out at his, which turned into a request for you to stay over at his. He'd never had his heart broken by someone he’d chosen, and part of him wanted to hide. 

But he knew going home to his empty house and the silence would taunt him. You went along with it easily. You almost didn't even seem confused as to why he was asking you. 

You washed your face and used a spare toothbrush he had. The sleeves of the pajama top he'd long since outgrown still reached past your fingertips. He'd stared at you as you rolled them up your forearms, one leg crossed over the other, hanging off the edge of his bed.

It felt strange but comforting and he allowed himself to wonder if he'd ever get to see a lover or even his wife do those same dainty motions in a bigger bed. In a shared bed, one day. He wondered if he'd remember the sight of you, right now.

You and him were laying in his bed, top and tail - platonic 69’ing, you'd joked, immediately clearing your throat when Steve didn't laugh -, when you broke the silence telling him, “Talk to her. In a couple days. She was drunk, Steve, she didn't know what she was saying.” 

He had to remind himself that you were talking about him and Nance.

“She was hurtfully clear about it,” he retorted. A beat passed before you offered an anecdote about your first time getting drunk at a Christmas party on base. 

You'd snuck a bunch of drinks with some other Air Force brats throughout the night before loudly declaring to a room full of military families that you were going to invent the hoverboard from Back to the Future. 

Steve didn't know what Back to the Future was and you quickly corrected course, telling him to get some sleep. 

That was the night the two of you became something like friends. 

The next day he woke up with the red painted toe nails of one of your feet lodged in the crook of his arm. He didn’t hate it. 

Mere days later, after you'd blocked Lucas Sinclair’s body with your own and gotten Billy Hargrove’s backhand for your trouble, after he'd watched you clutch the Mother Mary medallion around your neck and recite whispered, rushed prayers to a god you scarcely believed in in the back of an abandoned school bus before fighting otherworldly monsters alongside him, and going back into that hell mouth because you'd been down there before and couldn't let the rest go in without knowing what they were up against…

Steve felt ready to let Nancy go. 

He still cared for her, he still didn't like how it ended, but his world felt bigger and less stifling now. And he didn't need to hold onto the last dregs of something that would stay just that…dregs. There were possibilities all around him. He didn't want to cling to someone that didn't want him back.

Yours and Steve's friendship was quietly strengthened over two more reality-rocking apocalypses. One of those included his initiation to the Back to the Future franchise. “Ooooh,” he'd loudly declared in the theater, finally understanding your reference while off his face on Russian truth serum. You’d looked over at him with bleary eyes, shooting him finger guns, grateful for the vindication.

In between, and after the mall fire, there were lots of jokes, cookouts, Midwest adventures and plenty of heretofore platonic 69ing in his bed. Top and tail sleepovers followed by rote, cozy breakfasts at the county’s diners. 

You would mewl a miserable sleep song on those mornings until he reminded you of the very existence of French toast.

 Sometimes it was just the two of you, sometimes your friends joined. But it was almost agonizing in its closeness and familiarity. And it grew out of the impossible.

A shrink could have told Steve that the bitching between the two of you that occasionally oozed to the surface like liquid rock was a trauma response. The shrink would have gone on to explain that Steve was projecting his fears onto you because you were an easy target. You'd experienced it together and he had access to you. And Steve would need to find another shrink because he'd know they were only half-right. 

Yes, you'd become fixtures in each other's lives and had shared experiences out of the ordinary. But the same could be said of Robin or Dustin or Eddie, etc. and yes, he mother-henned them all, but when it came to you, he couldn't be talked out of it. Because as important as Robin or Dustin or Eddie, etc. were to him, it was your ass that he couldn't seem to crawl out of, and it annoyed you as much as anyone else.

You'd been very sweet and mellow about it up to this point, but things were getting confusing between you two. Hence the pool noodle incident and passive aggressive defiance.

You started buttoning your shirt up just for something to do with your good hand and after a prolonged and uncomfortable silence, Steve spoke. “Allen Miles,” he said simply.

You stopped at the top button of your blouse. “Allen Miles,” you parroted back.

You saw the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “Allen…Miles,” he tried again, testing the name on his tongue.

You picked at your cast, tracing the well-wishes in Robin's loopy chicken scratch with your thumb. “Is a person that exists,” you said flaty, as if to staunch whatever shit was about to come out of his mouth next.

“Allen Miles is a douche-dick,” he sing-songed quietly enough that you could have pretended not to hear.

Unbelievable. You sniffed at the insult. “What'd Allen Miles ever do to you?”

“Why'd he give you a ride today?” he asked, dodging the question. “You could have piled in with everyone else.” Ugh. He sounded like Hop.

The simplicity and faux-calmness of the statement took you aback. Was he for real right now? “He works at the rec center on Saturday mornings and I had physio-therapy there today. He offered,” you countered, trying not to sound as defensive as you felt - though the words came out in a rapid stream almost as if they’d been rehearsed (they weren’t). You bit the inside of your cheek. An argument was a-brewin.’

Steve turned off the narrow highway onto the skinny, heavily-wooded trail to the cabin. He was seething and neither of you knew why. “So he waited for you to get done with PT?” 

“No,” you shot back, not fully understanding the anger under his line of questioning. “His shift ended a half hour after I was done. I waited for him.”

A scoff. “He made you wait for him?” He posed the question as if it was the most distasteful thing he could imagine.

“He didn’t make me do anything! He didn't have to drive me in the first place!”

“Well then why didn’t you come to the store! If you were waiting for a ride, you could have waited for me!”

“That would have taken hours! What is your problem?”

“Just-” Steve took a deep breath, flicking his gaze to you briefly as the Bimmer trundled down the beaten path to the cabin. “I just wonder about Miles, ya know? He’s a little sleazy around you, what if he just wants to get in your pants? What if he’d-”

Steve was the Larry Bird of cutting himself off, apparently.

“What if he’d made a move?” you offered.

“Exactly,” Steve said, pointing at you.

“What if he had?” you questioned honestly.

The cabin came into view, mercifully, only a moment later. Your head was swimming. Steve had been acting so short with you the last few weeks. It had ramped up when you’d broken the arm.

It was a stupid accident, really. Max had begged you to take a run on the skateboard, something you’d never done. She’d egged you on and you’d done it and you’d gone flying over a stop skid in the church parking lot. 

She had to run into the church and have the secretary call you an ambulance. In hindsight, you were lucky you hadn’t broken your face open. You knew when to take a W, so you didn’t dwell on the possibilities too much.

Steve had heard you were in the hospital and had a conniption. Granted, he hadn’t stayed on the phone with Max long enough to hear It’s just her arm, she’s fine. 

You’d been hopped up on morphine and called him a fruit loop for getting his panties in such a twist. 

And ever since then, you two had been walking a razor’s edge. Where it had once been easy to diffuse your little tiffs, you seemed to be perpetually living under one another’s skin. 

Steve threw the car in park and whipped over to face you. “What do you mean what if he had?” You did not appreciate the falsetto that his voice had taken on to impersonate you. 

“I mean what I said, Steve! What is your deal?”

“He could be a total dirt bag, Teenie!”

You sighed to yourself and pinched the bridge of your nose. You were suddenly so tired. “He didn’t make a pass at me, Steve. He was very sweet and cordial and I got there in one piece and I really need you to back off right now, please.”

This was it. This was your limit. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. You huffed quietly to yourself before telling Steve “I need you to not talk to me for a while, okay?” And at that, you grabbed your bag from between your feet and got out of the car.

You heard Steve government-name you before you closed the door and skulked toward the cabin. The tears came fast and you were grateful that Steve didn’t follow you. Instead he gripped his steering wheel and internally scolded himself for everything that had just transpired. 

Steve knew he wasn’t always the brightest, but how? How did he always end up shooting himself in the foot? He chanced a look at the cabin and lingered for a moment after he saw the light in the mudroom off the side that served as your sleeping quarters had turned on. 

He gave more than a passing thought to going in after you, but he wasn’t going to fuck it further by pushing you when you’d explicitly asked for space. Plus, he was chastised, but he was still fussy, and he didn’t fully trust himself to not keep digging this hole deeper. 

After a moment, he gathered himself and left the property, turning up the radio and letting Talk to Me by Stevie Nicks rub the salt in as he made his way back to his empty house. 

Inside the cabin, you watched Steve’s headlights disappear as you wrestled your Detroit Red Wings jersey over your cast. It was the only sleep shirt that you could get over your cast at the moment. 

Your tears had subsided, slurped back up into your tear ducts for the sheer fact that you didn’t want to waste anymore tears on Steve Harrington. 

He probably didn’t know it, the beautiful dolt, but over the years that you’d known him, he’d kept pushing on the same bruise, and it had gotten even more difficult for you to cope. 

He'd gone for the throat harping on Allen Miles, whom you were not interested in like that. Steve's over-the-top paternalistic revulsion at the thought of you getting some hurt your feelings and made you feel like he'd only ever see you as a fragile little sister figure that he needed to coddle. Like your having sex was some kind of aberration. 

Having him treat you that way with the way you felt about him twisted your heart.

You were tired of having a big and important part of you ignored. A part that you’d never talked with anyone, especially Steve, in great detail. The sexual part. The (gag) sensual part. You were eighteen going on forty-eight, already whinging internally about how you were a woman™ dammit and you had needs™. 

You weren’t seasoned, by any means. You’d had a handful of secret fumbles with secret partners and you’d made discoveries about yourself. 

A of all- and this one you’d suspected since puberty hit - you got turned on easily. Like sloppy, soppy, pushing down on your vulva like you were hiding a boner turned on. And for no reason.

Sometimes it happened when you saw Eddie Van Halen on MTV or Mickey Rourke in Rumble Fish or LeVar Burton on the cover of TV Guide. 

Sometimes it happened when you had to go to a stupid school spirit assembly and had to look at boys in their stupid, short basketball shorts and/or girls in their cheerleading regalia. 

Sometimes it happened when you watched Eddie’s band practice in Gareth’s garage and saw the young Munson trash around all sweaty, handling his guitar expertly.

Once, it had happened when you saw Robin throw a balled up Dixie Cup into a bin at a considerable distance and she’d celebrated excessively and it was cute. 

You knew you didn't want to fuck Eddie or Robin -it would be weird beyond weird. It's just that you could appreciate them.

The same way you appreciated the nasty smacking noises Nancy and Jon made when they were making out in what they thought was a private moment and you knew they were gonna bang later. 

Your friends did sexy things, and sometimes it turned you on.

Mostly, though, it happened with Steve. At least once a day (usually more), he did something that accidentally got you going. A hand on his hip, and hand through his hair, a smirk, a wink, a smile, a whisper in your ear, a casual touch on the small of your back. 

This was to say nothing of how he made you feel emotionally. How unguarded and at peace you felt when he was around. How physical closeness felt as natural as breathing, and you were not hugged enough as a child, so that was saying something. 

Sometimes you'd give each other long lingering hugs and it made you wish you could fuse your flesh to his. You wanted to be his Kuato, always melded to his tummy. And you knew it was weird but so what? Nobody needed to know.

B of all - you liked being touched. And snogged. And railed. And held tight. Which you discovered on your own and in secret, no thanks to Steve. Because Steve usually had a squeeze waiting in the wings somewhere. 

And even when he didn’t, he was preoccupied either with healing from his first great heartbreak or pondering how to rebound from said great heartbreak. Despite your raging hormones, you knew you wanted nothing to do with either of those. So you outsourced your sexual energy.

As soon as you'd gotten over your hangups about the cheesy, neon, teased to high-hell vomit pile that was the 1980s in America, and you'd leaned into it just a little bit, you started getting noticed. And you discovered, thanks to Francis and David and Chelsea (separately), that you did not just enjoy sex in theory, but also in practice. 

The kicker, though, was that while you physically enjoyed the sex that you’d had, you realized when you were coming down from the high that something might be missing. You could have an orgasm that you felt in your very boots, but you wouldn’t ever ask the person that had just rocked your world to drive you to the airport or buy you French toast, much less trust them with your heart. 

Your stupid, stupid heart. It beat for a boy that seemed to think you had the sex life of a castrato.

You flopped down on your bed and stared at your ceiling. You felt kind of bad brushing Steve off like that, even demanding that he not talk to you. 

You hadn't chanced a look back at his face when you'd left his car, but you knew you would have seen that hardened, confused look that he got when he was hurt. That look that always crushed you and made you want to kiss his face and whisper sweet words until he broke out into that cocky grin of his.

You rolled over and closed your eyes, wishing he was next to you, that you could feel his weight and body heat, that you were holding him by the crook of his elbow and pressing your face into his bicep. That you could somehow transmit your thoughts without speaking them out loud and that he would at least be gentler with you and not infer that you were sexless anymore. Even if he didn’t want you like that.

You settled into that lukewarm fantasy, of the memory of him, and let yourself drift to sleep.

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

Steve was sitting on his floor leaned against his bed, holding one of his most prized worldly possessions. It was a candid Polaroid of the two of you.

It was taken at the fair last year. It was a little overexposed with the lights from the rides surrounding you, but the figures of you two were clear as day.

In the photo, Steve was holding your wrist to his chest with a crooked grin, mouth poised near your ear. It looked like he'd just whispered something to you. Your head was crooked to the side and down, like you were trying to worm away from his grasp, your eyes closed with the intensity of your laugh. Your face was glowing with the fair lights and there was a streak of white on your cheek. You both looked sublimely happy.

Steve smiled at the memory. You'd made a game of forcing bits of funnel cake into his mouth when he wasn't paying attention when finally, he'd caught you before your next “attack” and smeared powdered sugar from the pastry onto your cheek as revenge.

His first thought when Jonathan had presented him with the memento at the end of that night was that he was looking at you like a boy in love and he wondered how many times he'd been caught looking at you like that, without photographic evidence.

The bitter memory of you telling him I need you to not talk to me for a while roared back into his consciousness and slapped him in the face. You'd sounded hurt, on top of being pissed. 

Did you really want to date Allen Miles? You said he hadn't made a pass at you. Did it hurt your feelings because he didn't make a pass at you and Steve had just dug the knife in more? He'd throttle Miles if he'd hurt your feelings. Fuck that guy.

Or were you worried about Steve's opinion of your choice in boyfriends? Was Allen your type? What was your type? He knew Eddie Van Halen and Mickey Rourke and LeVar Burton were your type but that weird trinity did not clarify things for him.

Steve tried to recall what, besides his shortness with you, could have triggered you to react the way that you did. By now, he knew that whatever it was, it was his fault. He would love to pawn the blame off on you but you were usually blameless, especially to him. You were sweet and gentle and always seemed to anticipate and prioritize other people’s needs at your own peril. 

He'd given you space like you asked but it had been a couple days now. He was starting to feel like he was jonesing. 

He was hoping you would have come to visit him at the video store by now, jumping on his back and hugging him like a koala, whispering in his ear that all was forgiven and things could go back to normal, like how they were before you'd broken your arm.

But when Steve thought about things going back the way they were, it made his brain itch. He felt like something was totally different and the two of you couldn't go back if you wanted to. Moreover, he didn't know if he did want to. He wanted…

Steve's thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. He slid the Polaroid of you two back into his bedside drawer and hastily picked up the receiver. Please be her, please be her, please be her. 

“Hello?”

“Steve?” 

Nance. “Nance?” Fuck it all. Steve bit back his disappointment. “What's up?”

“Is Teenie over at yours? I tried to call her but El said she's not home but she's not working today, either. I know Robin was scheduled at the store today. I thought she might be with you.”

Steve's jaw clenched involuntarily. Were you with Allen Miles? 

“Um,” Steve said with a little choke. “No, no. She's not here. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's good. It's just that I was emptying the cooler and I found that Mother Mary medallion she always wears? It must have slipped off her neck. It was her grandmother's and I thought she might be bugging out thinking it was lost forever and-”

“I'll come get it,” Steve interrupted. He was already pulling his sneakers on. “You gonna be home for a minute?”

“Oh.” A pause. “It's no big deal, Steve, I'm running Mike to the cabin tomorrow, I can just drop it off then.”

Steve was pacing now, thinking he might be losing his line back to you. You did love that necklace even though you'd abandoned the Church forever ago. Your grandmother was the only person from back “home” that you were sentimental about - and she'd died not long before you'd ended up here. 

That necklace was the only tangible piece of your former life that you really cared about. Maybe you'd be more inclined to listen or even share oxygen with him if he brought it back to you.

“Uh, it's cool. She actually left her uh,” Steve began, looking around the room then down at his feet, “uh, her shoes, yeah. She left them in my car when I dropped her off the other night.” Lie.

He heard Nancy laugh, a little disbelievingly. “She left her shoes in your car.” It came out as a statement.

“Psh, yeah. They were all sandy from the beach and she hates the feeling of leftover sand in between her toes.” Half lie. You had told him that, once. “Anyway, I'll be by in like ten.” 

“Ste-”

Steve dropped the receiver back in the cradle and made a mad dash for Nancy’s. Nancy was waiting for him on the front step when he arrived. When she dropped the necklace in his waiting palm, he held it gingerly and stared at it like a holy relic.

Nancy cleared her throat. Steve met her eyes and he could see something like suspicion dancing behind them, along with a little smirk. “You better go find Teenie. Poor girl’s walking around without shoes, afterall.”

Nancy was always too smart for her own good - or anyone else’s for that matter. He thanked her as if she’d given him the world and went on his merry way. 

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

Steve decided to make a pitstop back at his house instead of going right over to yours. He’d been planning on going to the cabin and waiting for you if you hadn’t gotten home yet. 

But after he left Nancy’s, he thought that this might not be the move. You were really mad at him and he wanted to show you that he could listen and respect your wishes.

He spent a good twenty minutes pacing around his living room trying to come up with a gameplan on how to return your necklace without ruffling your feathers further. 

Maybe he should buy you an obnoxiously large teddy bear? 

No, if you hated it, he would be stuck with an over-large, cutesy reminder of his failure. 

Or maybe he could hire one of those dorky barbershop quartets to show up at work and sing you a song about how he knew he was a dipshit, but you meant so much to him, please take him back?

 No, no. You would die of embarrassment and probably haunt him for the rest of his days. 

He was still holding your necklace, gripping his hair by the roots when he heard the doorbell. 

Maybe it was Dustin or Eddie. Maybe he could bounce some ideas off them, he thought as he jogged toward the door. 

He opened it and felt the air leave his lungs when he saw you standing there. You were staring up at him, eyes wide, swaying your shoulders a little bit the way you did when you were nervous. 

You were wearing his favorite dress of yours. This beige thing with tie straps and red flowers on it. The first time he’d seen you wear it, you’d been all dolled up in a way that was almost salacious. Now you wore your hair down with barely a stitch of makeup on and Steve thought you looked…

“Hi,” you said shyly. 

“Hi,” he said back, his voice sounding small in his ears. He cleared his throat, hoping that if he found his voice again, he wouldn’t sound so broken. “Come in?”

You didn’t hesitate, thankfully. You walked past him, minding your cast and stopped in the foyer before you turned to him. You shrugged one shoulder bashfully. 

“Nancy said you had my necklace.” Your face scrunched up in confusion. “Also, something about shoes?”

Steve pushed the door shut and walked over to you. 

“Uh, yeah, I might have lied to her and said you left your shoes in my car so I’d have an excuse to take custody of your necklace.” 

The confusion on your face deepened. 

Steve held your necklace out to you and you let him drop it into your good hand.

You both stood there for an awkward moment. “I missed you,” you said.

Steve felt his heart soar and opened his mouth to respond but you cut him off. 

“Will you help me?” you asked, holding up the necklace and then your cast to make your point. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, rushing to your back. You handed him the necklace and bunched your hair up in a fist, holding it out of the way. 

Steve took a moment to appreciate the back of your neck, the downy hairs at your hairline, the little birthmark at the junction of your shoulder. He looped the necklace around you and clasped it, checking that the spring in the clasp was still sound.

“All set,” he said. 

You spun around to meet him and he saw you touch the pendant at your decolletage with a little smile. “Thank you.”

“I missed you too,” Steve rushed out, hands shoved in his back pockets.

The look you gave him back was soft and dazed and he felt his heart kick in his chest. You cocked your head at him. “Why were you so upset about Allen, Stevie?”

Steve didn’t detect even a hint of anger in your question. You just kept staring at him softly. Steve walked over to the couch and perched himself against the backrest. His thumbs rubbed dual patterns on the suede upholstery while he thought up a response. The best he could come up with was “Do you like him? Allen, I mean? Like…romantic-wise?”

He glanced up at you bashfully, dreading the answer he was sure would come.

Your eyes narrowed, but not meanly. You walked over to him and planted your hip against the couch next to him. 

“No,” you said, simply.

Steve released a relieved exhale from deep in his chest. You weren’t done, though. “But Stevie, why…I mean why did you get so mad at the thought of Allen and I together?”

Steve felt his eyes bug out but tried to school his expression into something less obvious. He shrugged when he finally met your eyes again. “Teenie, I just.” He wet his bottom lip. You wore the same soft, contemplative expression but he thought he could see your breathing kick up as you waited for him to finish. 

Steve was right. You were trying to stop yourself from hyperventilating. You hadn’t come over here to confront Steve, not really. You really just wanted to see him again and figure out what he was playing at, purloining your necklace from Nancy in an obvious attempt to get back in your good graces. It would have been a cute gesture if you weren’t so worried about what was coming next. 

But two days of feeling like your brain was leaking for its singular fixation on your Stevie and how much you missed him had finally gotten the best of you. You came round the moment you could. You knew it was time to face the music, come what may. 

“I just want…whoever you hang out with or end up being with…I just want them to treat you with respect. And I want you to have fun and feel safe and…”

God, he was beautiful. Didn’t he know? How could he not know?

Steve seemed to be at a loss for words now, so you offered some.

 “I could have those things with you,” you breathed out almost dreamily.

Steve's eyes went wide again and you felt like your heart was going to break because that look could have meant…so many things. Not all of them good.

You backed away from his side slowly, ready to make a break for it, but Steve caught you gently by the upper arms and stood at his full height. He stared at you like you were a brand new lifeform.

“Teenie?” he said in a too-tiny voice.

You were looking right into the void, free-falling into the hinterworld of your own heart.

“Stevie, do you think of me like a little sister?”

Steve's eyebrows shot up with something like horror before he cleared his throat and shook away some thought known only to him. 

“Ew, no, Teen.”

You bit your lip and stamped your foot just a little bit, feeling a little unmoored. You worried suddenly that you wouldn't get the answers you wanted. 

Steve had loosened his grip on you just a smidge. He was absently stroking your arms with his thumbs.

“One of the kids then. Dustin or Max or-”

“No,” he answered immediately, shaking his head decisively. “No.” 

And you knew. You knew he meant it.

You backed away, feeling singed by his sincerity. You paced the length of the runner behind the couch and slid a nail along your cast making little zipzipzip noises to fill the quiet. You turned to him after a moment.

“So what's happening with us. Why are we being so weird with each other?” 

Steve put his hands on his hips. “You broke your ass, Teenie,” he said sternly. “It could have been your head!”

“It wasn't though, it wasn't my head!” Your voice had a desperate edge. “Way crazier stuff has happened to me, to both of us! All our friends…”

He looked at you like you were speaking a different language. He shut his eyes tight like he was willing the memories away. He gathered himself quickly.

“Right, and if things had gone differently, we don't know what could have happened!”

Both of you were breathing hard, tears stinging your eyeballs. It's like you had awoken a sleeping beast by merely mentioning its existence.

Steve gestured into the air and stared into the distance as he continued. He was so fuckin’ pretty, you thought then. Even when he had big fuckin’ feelings that his pretty fuckin’ self couldn't contain in his pretty fuckin' meat prison.

“Every time something happens to you, it's like I can't stop thinking about it.” Steve's tented his fingers at his temples to demonstrate his point, eyes wide and unblinking like there was a movie playing behind his eyes that he couldn't look away from.

You started taking slow, tiny steps toward him, like he was a wounded rabbit and you didn't want to frighten him off. You wanted to hold him. 

“I spin out and I can't stop thinking about you dying.” 

Two more tiny, furtive steps toward him.

“Or being born.”

“Oh, Stevie-” Wait. “Wait, being born? What?”

Steve had pulled at his hair and it was messy in that perfect way. 

“Your birthday, Teenie.” He said it both frantically and like you were dumb for not following. “It's 1986, your birthday is less than two years away and we don't know.” He practically whimpered your name, willing you to understand.

It hit you then. You'd forgotten yourself for a minute, how absurd your life was. The very thing that was whispered among your friends and found family - spoken in a hushed manner for fear of speaking it into reality (or causing you an existential crisis.) You always heard them, though. 

You had almost…almost found it funny how nobody seemed to think that the thought didn't cross your mind at three in the morning most nights.

The question of what would happen when the day of your birth - the one on your original, undoctored birth certificate that you'd left in a banker box back on Nellis AFB - finally rolled around. The day you would find out to what extent you were an actual paradox. If having been evicted from your mother's womb on that day would cause you to be slurped back into the Upside Down…Or if you would blink out of existence.

But the question hadn't woken you up since Spring Break. Because the positive to having a psionic demon vampire picking apart your psyche is that sometimes you got good intel.

You felt so warm all of a sudden, watching Steve watch you with his eyes wide and desperate and his scrumptious lips pushed into a sad pout, looking so young. You'd never been so touched in all your life.

You strode over to him and pulled his collar to encourage him down, closer to your height.

His arms looped around your middle. It was automatic. The half-crazed look on his face dropped away, replaced by an expression that told you he was taken aback but that he didn't hate this.

“I love you,” you declared, firm and resolute, yet quaky with emotion. You hoped he knew that this wasn't like the other times you said it. And that you could table the birthday discussion until after…

You squeezed his face and pushed your mouth into his as you looped your broken arm around his neck.

Steve gathered your hair away from your face and returned the kiss without a moment’s hesitation.

His mouth was warm and soft and a little tacky from how he'd been licking his lips nervously moments before. Your lip balm provided just the right amount of slide for your lips to tangle together perfectly.

Steve stumbled with you in his arms against the nearest wall. You took great care not to accidentally dicknail him in the side of the head with your cast as he hoisted you up, cradling your thighs in his hands.

Through his panting, he managed, “Do you mean it?”

Both of you knew what he meant. Did you mean I love you? Did you mean the kiss? The answer to both was a resounding fucking yes.

“Yes, Stevie. I want this. I want you so bad-”

Steve dive-bombed your mouth with his own, caressing your tongue with his. You opened your mouth wider to let him riff on it. 

You shuddered when you felt his crotch press into yours. The feeling of his hardening cock pressed into the space that was rapidly becoming drenched with your horniness and love for this boy combined with the slipperiness of your tongues moving together was beyond your wildest dreams.

Steve couldn't believe this was happening. He couldn't believe that the only thing standing between you two and your mutual desire to jam yourselves together like you were trying to fuse into a superbeing was that you thought he didn't think you were sexy or mature or whatever the fuck. 

If his blood supply wasn't rushing to his crotchal region right now, he might have done some psychological forensics to figure out how you'd arrived at that conclusion.

And fuck him if you didn't know what you were doing. This clearly wasn't your first heavy make out. Normally, that thought would make him jealous as all hell. But he could feel it. The rightness of this and he knew it didn't matter.

He pulled back from your mouth and let himself stare at you shamelessly. Your mouth was kiss-bitten and -oh - you already had this sexy, flushed glow painted from your cleavage to your cheeks. 

You wore a beautifully profane expression, half-helpless and half-threatening as in I'm going to eat you if you don't eat me first. Your irises looked almost feline.

He stole one more kiss from you before he hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. He expected you to protest but you just grunted slightly at the impact and braced yourself as much as you could for what turned out to be a short commute to Steve's room. You were too turned on to question his method.

Steve deposited you on the bed and you scrambled up to your knees to pull him forcefully into another kiss where he stood. You started nipping and biting sucking at his earlobes, his jaw, his neck, his chest.

Steve felt almost overwhelmed. This the hottest thing that had ever happened to him. You two were feral for each other and probably would have looked completely insane if you’d had an audience. Unlike his previous encounters, nothing about this felt stilted or transactional or lopsided.

In spite of how erotic it was, though, it also felt tender. Like this thread between you had been pulling taut for god knew how long before it had almost snapped. And as soon as you'd stopped resisting it, it pulled you into one another. He needed to be sure that you felt the same, though. He wouldn't risk another communication breakdown.

He pulled your face away from his neck by your hair and you looked startled but not displeased. Your lips curled into a dozy smile at the show of force. Steve was all business, though.

“How far do you want this to go?” You both chose to ignore the way his voice gave a little.

You swallowed as you stroked his chest. “Um, well, I really want you to make love to me but, like…I'll take whatever you give me.”

Steve closed his eyes in quiet supplication to whatever force was allowing this.

He smiled at you with his tongue poking at the back of his teeth. You returned it with a goofy giggle. God, you two were idiots.

“Game on then, baby,” Steve said.

Steve insisted on going down on you. You didn't strictly need it. You were so turned on that you could already feel that ache inside where you'd opened up to receive him.

You were almost worried that you might end up accidentally waterboarding him with your cunt for how wet you were already, but you needn’t have worried.

After he'd fluffed the pillows behind your shoulders and pulled your soaked panties off of you, he didn't waste a minute exploring down there with little kisses and bites to your thighs before he finally dove in and got to work. 

Within minutes he had you shivering and moaning, letting nonsense fuck language spill from your lips as you scratched his scalp in little circles. 

Steve was painfully hard in his shorts but he would have stayed down here for millenia if you'd let him.

Soon, you were gripping his wrist and writhing. Your legs were bent and rigid like a Barbie doll's but quaking with the intensity of your orgasm.

You let a sharp cry escape from your chest. It was high-pitched and wild and unguarded and it was the most beautiful sound Steve had ever heard.

He looked up at you. Your head was resting at an angle like it was too heavy for you to hold up. He let himself enjoy the sight. 

With your eyes still closed, as though you were in a deep trance, you started groping with your good hand, uncoordinated at your shoulders until you found the tie straps on your dress and undid them.

Without communicating it out loud, Steve pinched the fabric of your dress's bodice while you lifted up on your elbows so he could pull it down.

God, you were beautiful. Not just your tits. Yes, your tits were insane, but it was just you. Every inch of you, every plane on your body and, outside of your physical form, your gravity and orbit. He would never escape them and he didn't want to.

Steve crawled up your body, leaving smooches up your tummy and along your breasts and neck until he got to your mouth. You pulled him into you, kissing him stupid.

“Off,” you said bossily, breaking the kiss. Tugging at his collar. “These, too,” you insisted, pinching the cuff of his jeans between your toes.

Steve chuckled and pulled the shirt over his head. He got to work on his belt, kissing the tip of your nose.

“You want it like this?” he asked, indicating the missionary position you were in.

He got his belt free and shimmied his jeans away and down the bed, not wanting to leave you.

You bit your lip, eyes cast down lustfully, and Steve noticed you were checking out the tent in his boxers. 

He snickered. “My eyes are up here.”

You giggled at him, flicking his nose.

You two settled into a cozy silence and just stared at each other. You cleared your throat. “My favorite is being on top, usually,” you began. “But it might be hard with this.” You lifted your casted arm.

Steve deliberated for a moment. You could have told him you liked it upside down on a hammock and he would have found a way to make it so. But the thought of you riding him was making his dick weep. He would make that so, no problem.

“Teenie-on-top it is.” He gave your naked thigh a couple of light slaps. “Up,” he instructed.

You pushed up onto your knees as he leaned over to his nightstand, extracting a loose condom packet. He stood up and pulled his boxers down. 

When he looked at you, you were sitting on your haunches, knees splayed wide. Your arms were limp at your sides, hair a fucked out mess. You stared at his cock with what looked to him like reverence, mouth agape. 

“Oh, Marone,” you whispered to yourself with a gulp, fisting your hair at the scalp.

Steve snorted. You were so cute it made his chest hurt. He explained his plan as he ripped the condom foil open and rolled it over his cock.

“I'm going to hold you up so you don't put weight on the arm. I've got you, just trust me, ‘kay?”

He didn't know if you'd been paying attention to what he said. You sprung up on your knees and collapsed into him and gave him a searing kiss on the mouth. “‘Kay.”

Steve slid into bed and guided you by your hips to straddle him. You held your casted arm off to the side, balancing like you were getting into a rowboat as you braced your good hand on his forearm.

“Good?” he asked.

You hummed as you began moving yourself over his cock. Steve's breath hitched, but he kept his grip on your hips firm as you acquainted your bits with his. 

Your slickness and his spit had cooled a little but soon he could feel a pool of warmth. He was at your entrance. Your skirt was ruched around your waist, the straps of it hanging limply. His favorite dress.

You locked eyes with him as you reached between you and guided him inside. You sheathed him in inside you completely, pretty much immediately. No adjustment period needed. Your body had waited long enough. 

Both of you had done so much waiting.

You rocked your pelvis against him, getting used to the sensations. It felt like coming home, it felt so right.

Steve’s cock was like a pleasure-seeking missile. It found enclaves in your body that you'd never have discovered on your own. 

Your cunt hugged him, letting you and him both know how rich the landscape of your body was. You could feel everything and everything felt so good. 

Steve was still holding onto your hips but he was squeezing his eyes shut and writhing and moaning. You really fucking knew what you were doing. Or maybe this was just a long time coming. Maybe it was destined.

The sounds of his moans were like a cool drink of water on the hottest day of the year. You wanted the sound bottled. You wanted to bathe in it.

You braced your good hand on his chest and gripped his elbow with the other as you changed up the angle and pace. He was caressing your g-spot now and when you moaned loudly at the sensation, he gripped you tighter, encouraging you to devour that feeling. Your clit found his mons and pretty soon, playtime was over.

You were both panting and moaning and before you knew it, you were right there. Your pussy was fluttering. Steve's stomach was taut, his upper body having gone rigid. His face was red and the veins in his forehead were prominent with his exertion. He was trying to delay his own orgasm until you were ready.

You folded over then, collapsing forward and cradling his head between your upper arms. Electric bubbles of happiness fizzed in every part of your cunt, sending effervescent kisses up your spine and down to your toes. You thought your broken arm might have healed, even.

“FuckStevieBaby,” you whined, pressing your forehead into the dip of his shoulder.

Steve was a goner. He moaned your name pathetically as he pistoned his hips up into you, helped by the wetness of your cum. Heat lightning overtook his body as he felt himself spill inside the condom and he saw sparkles.

Your skin was pasted to his with sweat.

You shakily made yourself up to a seated position and looked down at him like you were getting to see the Northern Lights for the first time. 

He returned the gaze. Except to him, you were the Northern Lights and the Milky Way and a lofty angel with wings of purple fire. Jesus, when did he get so poetic?

He sat up and wrapped you in his arms, kissing you and pulling you into a hug. It wasn't unlike the ones you'd shared before, nudity notwithstanding. 

It was a hug that said hi, I'm here, I've got you, always. 

You let your heart rates ramp down before he lifted you off his softening member, but keeping you in his lap. He drew circles on your sweaty back.

“I love you,” he said into your collarbone.

Your heart did a little dance in your naked chest.

“I love you, too. More than anything.”

Steve pulled you both down and situated it so you were both laying on your sides, facing the other. He clasped your hand in his.

“No, I mean I love you.” It was emphatic despite the sleepiness in his voice. “I'm in love with you and I want to keep you. I want us to do this. I want people to know we belong to each other.” 

If anyone else on planet earth had said those words to you after you'd just fucked, it would have sounded like cro magnon-freshly-emptied-balls possessiveness.

But not with him. It's like you could see tomorrow in his beautiful brown eyes. You two were finally, blessedly on the same page.

“I've belonged to you since…” you rolled your eyes upward like you were thinking, when really you actually knew… “Halloween ‘84.”

Steve smiled at your confirmation. But also in bemusement.

“The night me and Nancy-”

“It was when I was on your bed,” you interrupted. “Right here in this spot. I was rolling up the sleeves of that stripey old man PJ shirt you loaned me.”

“I remember,” he whispered, swallowing the emotions bubbling up.

“I saw you looking at me and for just a second, I let myself think…”

You had let yourself think, this feels so easy. I'm about to spend the night in a boy's bed for the first time and it feels so easy. What if he wasn't heartbroken? What if he didn't think you were a freak? What if you'd done this a before in a thousand and one lifetimes? That's how easy it felt.

“I never stopped being yours, Stevie.”

He scooched closer, ran his index finger down the bridge of your nose, kissing you one more time.

“I hope you never do.”

“I never will.”

Steve got a faraway look in his eye as he looked past your shoulder. 

He didn't want to burst this bubble, but if he felt this way now, what would it be like less than two years from now. Less than two years away.

You clocked it immediately, you little mind-reader. 

You couldn't let him stew in his fear anymore. You hadn't meant to drop the subject before, but you had the pressing matter of showing him how much you loved him to attend to.

“I'm not going back, you know.” 

His eyes shot to you, suddenly way more alert.

“How-”

“Creel.”

Steve propped himself up on his elbow and studied you. You never brought this up. In fact, if any of your family's little misadventures ever came up in conversation, even briefly, you would excuse yourself from the room. Everyone learned to keep that talk to a minimum around you.

Besides that, Steve didn't like talking about when you'd been Vecna’d. It had been in the same manner as Nancy had been. Not meant to destroy you but to show you things. When the group had asked you what you saw, you simply told them “me.”

At the time, you had made the executive decision that what you had been shown wasn't valuable to any fact-finding that would help you defeat your foe. And when you were pressed for more, when Dustin had accused you of a party infraction by withholding, you'd leveled him with a deadly glare and stated “Not this, Dustin. Not now.” You had been so uncharacteristically severe that everyone silently agreed to leave it.

You turned over on your back and stared at the ceiling. 

“Before Spring Break, I was having a really hard time.”

Steve remembered. The recesses of his memory held images of you looking off into the distance, refrains of sorry, what? whenever you got caught out. 

You'd buried yourself in schoolwork, picking up extra shifts at the bowling alley, packing your calendar with babysitting gigs. Like you were trying to erase every moment of idle time, pulling away from everyone.

Steve had worried but when he talked about it with Robin, she'd dismissed it as paranoia. Think about it, Steve, what's she's been through. It catches up. 

He figured Robin might know something he didn't, hurtful though it was. He'd dropped it.

“You were dating around and Nancy was missing Jon. El was gone, Hop was gone. Max was totally checked out. And I started wondering, like..”

Your eyes were wet, now, voice a little choked. Steve brushed your cheek and that seemed to give you the resolve to keep going.

“I started to worry that I would never find someone that could really know me. That I couldn't ever really move on and grow up because the people that did know me were all…” 

You gestured vaguely into the air.

“I felt so out of place all of a sudden. And for the first time since I got here I just wanted to go back. I wanted to go back to where I made sense. Even though I didn't like my life before…”

Steve's heart broke at the thought that you'd felt so abandoned. He could kick himself for being so flip about it back then.

Your story took you over then. It was so cemented in your mind, it might have been inscribed on tablets.

You'd blinked. One minute you were at the mouth of the gate. The next minute you were in some sort of cathedral. But it was in ruins. The exposed sky was red. The air was stale..lightning flashed a deeper crimson across the sky.

There were pews made of shaley stone. What would have once served as a wall was crumbled around the arrangement.

He stood at the pulpit, a stone monument, cracked with angry looking clefts glowing with smoldering fire. He clutched each side of it, staring you down.  

He breathed your name in a dulcet huff. 

“You don't belong. You belong nowhere. You're a reprobate. Abominable. An orphan in time.”

He was hideous. And massive. You hadn't seen him until now. You'd only heard conjecture on what his visage might look like.

He was slimy and twisted and hairless. The sinews of his skin were a swampy gray, eyes ringed with red. For his florid yet cruel indictment of you, he was foul. You could taste him just by looking at him.

You were paralyzed with revulsion and fear. You were worried that you might actually pee your pants.

“You have nowhere to return to. You absconded from your problems, as you've always done. But I have nothing but good news for you.” 

You glanced around, not daring to move your head. You only saw more waste, more nothingness, more anger and despair scratched into the landscape that surrounded you. You wanted to go home.

Suddenly you knew where home was. It had never been so clear. It was with the people that had held and kept you since you'd been sucked through a leak in space-time.

“You can make a home here. You can join my menagerie. You'll never suf-”

“Don't listen to him, Ladybug,” came a sharp, familiar voice behind you, coated in the accent of her mother country.

You spun to meet her eyes...Your grandmother was sitting on one of the rock pews. She looked as elegant and warm as ever. She was wearing the satin wrap dress she wore to Easter mass the last year she was alive.

You stumbled over to her. She stood and opened her arms as you fell into her.

Suddenly you forgot that you were in a red-tinged hell scape with a slimy vampire at your back. Wherever this was, wherever she was, was a sort of paradise.

You held her tight. You could smell her familiar shalimar perfume over the fetid ozone stink of this place. The wings of her upper arms were soft in the crooks of your elbows. She shushed your crying and stroked your hair.

It was her. You knew, beyond what it was to know, that it was her.

You heard Creel growl behind you, startling you out of your grandmother's arms. She held fast to you and tilted your chin to look at her. You heard the air around you twist like warped steel, Creel’s voice laced through it, muddled and distorted to something imperceptible.

“He is a liar. He will lie to deceive you.” Her accent made it sound like “day-seef.” 

You missed her. You missed the way she talked. You missed how severe she was when she wanted to make a point.

She'd found you. Outside of time and space and a living vessel, she'd found you in this hopeless place.

Her eyes burned into yours. “Your father is fine. He knows you are fine. He doesn't know how he knows, but I've seen to it.”

You could hear that desperate argumentative groaning trying to pierce through. Your head was hurting. You had pressure in your ears.

“Your place is with your friends. Never stop thinking of them and you will never lose.”

The world around you started to crumble and fall away. You saw those big spires of rock around you crash into the ground.

You gripped her hands that held your face. “I love you,” you sobbed.

She smiled at you as everything caved in. You closed your eyes and felt her kiss your forehead. 

When you opened them again, you saw Steve. He was cradling you and hyperventilating. He seemed to register that you were back. Relief washed over his face and his breathing returned to normal.

“Did I pee my pants?” 

Steve had the courtesy to glance down to your upper-thigh region.

“If you did, it must not have been a lot.”

You broke into a sob and let him hug you while your friends rallied to get you away from the gate.

From then on out, you heeded your grandmother’s advice. You never stopped thinking of your friends and you didn't fail…You got Hop and El back. 

You had your friends.

You had Steve.

You had shut your eyes while telling Steve the story but you opened them now. You turned your head to face him.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” you told him through tears. “I didn't know how.”

Steve didn't know what to say. He stared at you with gentle eyes. He didn't want you to cry anymore. 

He kissed you lightly and stroked your side. “It's okay. I get it.”

He did get it. He understood all at once why you couldn't tell them back then. You didn't want to make it about you. 

Max was still in danger. The world was still in danger. You'd been gifted a secret weapon that you had to wield and you didn't want anyone to hear what you'd seen and tell you that you'd been bamboozled by Creel and blunt your weapon with doubt. 

You'd known in your heart that it was real. Steve knew now because you knew. 

You were tired then. Well and truly sleepy. Steve accepted you into his arms.

You two fell into silence, breathing in tandem, stroking each other.

You felt Steve's chin wag on the top of your head when he asked “What do you think will happen on your 20th birthday?”

You smiled into his chest. You loved that Steve-flavored curiosity whenever it showed itself.

“I dunno, Stevie. Maybe nothing. But if anything does, you'll be there to find out with me, right?”

He scratched lines up your back as he answered.

“Can’t wait.”

(⁠/⁠^⁠-⁠^⁠(⁠^⁠ ⁠^⁠*⁠)⁠/

[delimeful]

mere monstrosity (4)

warnings: misunderstandings/assumptions, dehumanization, threats, janus being kind of a prick, fearplay, mentions of head injuries/brain damage, lmk if i forgot any

-

Roman reeled back as the hand slammed down in front of him.

Like a campfire doused by a bucket of icewater, his fury was entirely flattened by the bone-chilling realization that he was facing not one, but two humans, far away from the walls, any possible escape, or his brother.

Oh, god. Remus.

He might have still been alive back there, there might have been something that could have been done to help him, and Roman would never know because he’d let his anger overtake his sense. Now, dead or alive, he wouldn’t ever get to see his brother again.

A spark of his earlier fury rose from the ashes at the thought, and he raised his pin in the general direction of the two humans towering over him.

“I’d take on any number of opponents if it meant striking down that monster,” he spat, pretending that the tremble running down his arm was due to rage alone. “Willing or not, justice must be dealt!”

The humans exchanged a glance, neither looking remotely threatened, and then the one with the mismatched eyes leaned forward, still wearing that smile that looked more like a flashing of teeth.

“I think you and I must have very different ideas of what constitutes ‘justice’,” he said, and then moved, quick and sharp like a snake striking.

Roman jerked back, but the length of his pin remained held firmly in place by the human’s two pinched fingers.

“For one, most courts aren’t allowed to rule a defendant guilty and have them executed by needlepoint.”

Too occupied trying to wrest his only weapon free, he didn’t even see the human’s other hand sweeping in until gloved fingers were already wrapping around him.

He was plucked off the ground as easily as a hawk catching a mouse, and the instant his grasp loosened, his pin was pulled right out of his hands. “No!”

There wasn’t even time to mourn the loss of a blade that had been by his side for years. He had bigger problems. Literally.

“If you’re truly a proponent of vigilante justice performed by the powerful, though, I’m sure you won’t mind me stepping in,” one of the problems in question said. “After all, if you can pick and choose an opponent to murder at will, why can’t I?”

The words were accompanied by a slight, pointed tightening of the hand around him, and Roman’s gasping breaths started to sound a lot more like squeaks of alarm.

“Janus, cut it out. You’re gonna give him a heart attack,” a relatively small voice cut in.

He followed the sound to see it was the monster, now carefully cradled in the hand of the nerd-looking human. It was rubbing wearily at its eye in a surprisingly humanlike gesture.

“As opposed to the vital organ stabbing he tried to give you?” Janus replied, but his grip returned to firm instead of constricting. “What if we hadn’t been here? You’re lucky Logan is so predictable.”

Finding no success in his attempts to wriggle free, Roman paused and tried to wrap his head around the arrangement before him. The humans were listening to it, even chatting with it like a friend.

“What is all this supposed to be?” he asked incredulously, gesturing to the entire tableau. “That’s a spider monster! Humans don’t even like regular spiders in their homes!”

The spider-creature flattened itself slightly against the human’s hand, fiddling with the edges of its tiny cloak with a scowl on its face.

“To the contrary,” the human with glasses started, “most non-aggressive spider species are considered harmless and even beneficial to a household, due to the bugs they catch and their general avoidance of human contact.”

Roman stared pointedly at where the spider was literally being held by a human nerd at that very moment.

It shrugged, the motion barely visibly with how hunched its shoulders already were. “Extenuating circumstances. I wanted to not get stabbed more than I wanted to avoid contact.”

“Careful, Virgil. It almost sounds like you like us or something,” Janus teased, his smile softening into something less sharp and more wry when he was looking at the creature.

“You got me, I like you guys more than being stabbed,” it replied dryly, gaze still flickering over to Roman every few seconds. “Congrats.”

The nerd human cleared his throat, speaking over the smug, over-exaggerated ‘awww’ sound Janus was making.

“While I’m normally happy to take time to affirm our friendship, I feel like maybe we should focus on the matter at hand,” he said, turning the phrase literal by lifting the hand he was carrying the monster in and then inclining his head at the hand Janus had Roman trapped in.

“Ah, right,” Janus gave Roman a look normally reserved for gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. “What are we going to do about this one.”

He tilted his hand back and let his fingers go loose, giving Roman more breathing room but also leaving him feeling like a tipped over beetle with its legs flailing in the air.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Roman twisted and managed to flip himself over and get all the way to his hands and knees before a thumb was pressed against his back, pinning him back in place idly.

“He had a point earlier,” the words were accompanied by a slight increase of pressure along his spine, “we humans really don’t like household pests.”

“Janus, enough already.” Shockingly, the monster came to his defense again. “It’s not even his fault, it was just a stupid misunderstanding.”

“You were almost murdered over a misunderstanding?” Janus replied, disbelieving. “Okay, but that’s worse. You do see how that’s worse, right?”

Roman was almost with the human on this one, though his disagreement was far more furious than bewildered.

“There was no misunderstanding,” he hissed, his voice coming out slightly wheezing from all the air that had just gotten squashed out of his lungs. “You killed my brother, you monster! You were going to eat him!”

There was a long beat of silence after his accusation rang out. Then, all at once:

“I was under the impression that your diet primarily consisted of insects? Would you even be capable of envenomating a creature of this size?”

“If you killed a guy and went to Logan instead of me for help with hiding the body, I will literally never forgive you—,”

“Oh, that is so not true, I didn’t even touch him until he’d already knocked himself out! He’s not even dead, but if he was, it would not be on me, okay?!”

Even amidst the overlapping chatter, Roman’s mind locked on to the only statement that mattered.

“He’s alive?” he asked, his voice cracking painfully mid-word.

Everyone went quiet, and Janus’s grip pulled away, allowing him to push himself back up to a sitting position without a word. Roman didn’t try to flee, only watched the monster and waited for the rug to be yanked out from under his feet, for the cackling laughter and glee that he had fallen for it.

“Yeah, man, I’m pretty sure,” the monster— Virgil said, scuffing a hand through his hair exhaustedly. “He was still breathing okay when I pulled him up, at least, he’s just got an awful knot on the back of his head. Probably has a concussion or something?”

Above him, Logan frowned in concern. “In that case, he certainly shouldn’t be left alone out there. I’ll go get out the first aid kit, if you can retrieve him?”

Roman felt a brand new wave of fear wash through him, urgent and sharp after the dull ache of grief.

So, that was why the humans were so fond of the monster, so accommodating to him. A spider-sized monster was no match for a human, but if he got on their good side by bringing them gifts, the rare, valuable kind that they had no reliable way of getting themselves… That was a different story.

There weren’t any other borrowers here, despite the signs in the walls of some living there before. Roman thought he knew why, now.

And like an idiot, he’d walked himself and Remus right into the lion’s den.

Except Remus was out of reach, and there was only one being here who could change that.

Roman stared at Virgil imploringly, a silent plea for mercy for his brother.

Virgil swallowed and averted his gaze, hunching over in something like guilt or shame. “Yeah, I’ll, uh. Yeah. Be back in a few.”

He scurried over to the wall without looking back once, and Roman curled in on himself, despair heavy on his shoulders.

—

Virgil was trying really hard to hate the guy who had almost skewered him an hour ago, but it was turning out to be more difficult than expected.

The moment he’d learned that his brother was still alive, the borrower’s demeanor had taken a full heel-turn. He’d stopped struggling, looked somehow even paler than before, and kept casting these desperate, almost pained glances at Virgil.

Look, he got it, okay. Nobody liked being abruptly under the gaze of a couple of humans, especially not when those humans had been actively antagonistic to them for their entire first meeting. He wasn’t happy about the situation either!

Still, he wasn’t the one who had made the decision to follow someone out into the open and keep trying to stab them to death where anyone could see.

He’d groused about it to himself the entire way through the walls, where he found the guy’s brother exactly where he’d left him, thankfully still breathing.

It hadn’t taken him long to drag the borrower to an exit, and he’d entrusted the stranger to Logan’s exceedingly gentle care immediately.

Janus had raised an amused eyebrow at the sight of how much webbing was tangled around the guy’s body. “Suddenly, I see where the ‘eating him’ assumption must have come from.”

“Ha ha,” Virgil replied flatly. “He tripped.”

Still sitting in Janus’s hand, the borrower didn’t say anything, just wrapped his arms around himself miserably, eyes locked on Logan’s back.

He continued not to say anything until the two of them were left relatively alone— Logan was entirely preoccupied with crafting a sterile wound pad into tiny bandages, and after the excitement had died down, Janus had reluctantly returned to his room and the assignment he’d abandoned.

(He’d given Virgil a look that meant there would be questions later, as though Logan hadn’t already been all but buzzing with curiosity from the start. Virgil decided he’d stress about that bridge when he got to it.)

Both of them were on the counter, but where Virgil was pacing back and forth directly on the marble, the stranger had been set in a wide-brim glass bowl to prevent any further surprise murder attempts.

Virgil didn’t feel great about it, especially not with how the guy had folded in on himself mere moments after taking in his surroundings, but he felt worse about the very real possibility that he’d be attacked again.

The tense silence was growing to almost painful levels of awkward, though.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Virgil finally said, because Logan looked intent but not scary laser-focused, which meant the head injury wasn’t lethal.

The borrower shot him a truly scathing glare, and Virgil skittered back a few steps automatically before returning the look twofold.

“What?” he snapped, keeping his voice low. “I told you I’m not the one who hurt him, okay?! I had no part in his quest for brain damage!”

“I know that! You’re just the one who brought him here,” the stranger whispered back viciously. “To humans.”

It was probably a reasonable reaction, especially given that Janus had been giving him the cat-who-just-caught-the-canary treatment, but it still wasn’t fair to blame Virgil. He hadn’t orchestrated the nightmarish situation, for goodness’s sake!

“It’s not like I meant for this to happen!” He dragged his hood up, trying to hide the agitated flush of his ears. “I thought it was just your brother, okay? I didn’t know there were two of you.”

If he’d known, he would have at least consulted with the guy before dragging his concussed brother out of the walls to get treatment from someone who was, by all appearances, a borrower’s worst nightmare. Even if it made his stomach twist to imagine them rejecting any help when it was partially thanks to him that the idiot had been so distracted in the first place, that was still their right to refuse.

Hell, he could have even feigned a minor head injury and asked Logan for supplies or advice! The three of them could have treated the injury without exposing the brothers to inquisitive, overprotective humans at all.

“Two of us?” the borrower echoed, his scowl abruptly lessening. “You thought it was just Remus?”

“Yeah, and you gave me basically zero time to explain before getting all stabby, so.” Virgil shrugged once. “It’s not like I wanted to bring him here, but he’s injured. I wasn’t going to just leave him to croak in the walls.”

The borrower was just staring at him now, his face creased with a complicated expression.

“You being here is your own fault,” he said, a tad defensively.

He got another dirty look for that, but it quickly faded into something almost contemplative.

There was another long stretch of silence, before Logan stepped over to let them know he was going to check the closet for more supplies. He looked to Virgil in silent question: will you be okay, left unattended?

The stranger shuffled back in the bowl, apprehensive, but Virgil only nodded.

It was hard to feel afraid of the guy when Virgil was 80% sure he was currently trying to work out the logistics of a tiny icepack for Remus.

A few seconds later, they were alone. The stranger turned to Virgil immediately, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally speaking.

“Remus is injured,” he started, speaking slowly as though carefully choosing each word. “He probably won’t be able to endure for long if he’s under a lot of stress.”

That… wasn’t really the impression Virgil had gotten from the few minutes of interaction they’d had, but whatever.

“Logan’s really good with boundaries,” he offered. “I can make sure he doesn’t overstep. I know I’m… me, but your brother seemed surprisingly willing to give me a chance, so.”

“Of course he did,” the stranger muttered under his breath. “Look, if you only meant to bring one, you’re going to want the one that will… will last longer, right? That’s me.”

Virgil blinked several times, trying to connect the dots of that particular statement. “...What?”

The borrower turned to face him fully, scooting as close as the curved glass would allow, his gaze locked on Virgil.

“Get Remus out of here. I’ll stay, and the humans can do whatever they want to me, okay? Just let Remus go.” The stranger pressed a hand against the glass of the bowl. “I’m begging you. On my honor, I’ll do whatever you want, just–!”

“They’re not keeping you,” Virgil interrupted, feeling a little nauseated as the full implications of the plea sunk in. “Do you really think I’d be willing to stay here if they did that? Did you really think I would have brought you both here if they did that?!”

“I– I don’t know!” the stranger spluttered, recoiling slightly. “I don’t know you, maybe! You said you only meant to bring one borrower, what else would that mean if not–,”

“I meant if I’d known you were there, I would have dragged your idiot brother to you first, instead of going and getting help from the humans because I know literally nothing about medicine!” Virgil was clutching at his hair, now, astounded at the turn this had taken.

“Just waltzing out of the walls to hang out with humans goes against like every borrower rule ever, how was I supposed to know–,” the stranger cut off sharply as Logan walked back into the room, body going stiff as the human’s eyes flicked over to them briefly. Virgil released his hair and stuck his hands back in his pocket with faux casualness.

He took a few deeps breaths, and waited until Logan had returned to his tinkering to resume their conversation, now in a mutter.

“The humans do actually want to help, and I personally don’t want to watch your concussed brother fall off another beam and actually die this time, so would you at least give it a chance?” He studied the stranger’s unconvinced face and sighed. “If you really don’t feel safe after a day or two, I’ll help you and Remus sneak out myself, okay? On my honor, or whatever.”

“... Fine.”

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. Victorian johnlock.

Concealed hearts

I was taken by surprise when I walked home from my practise to Baker Street. The ambush was well coordinated, and the cloth dipped in ether efficiently stopped me from crying out and fight back. 

Sharing quarters with Sherlock Holmes, and accompanying him on criminal cases, are not without danger. There are many villains out there holding a grudge against my friend, but this is the first time I’ve been abducted. 

My head throbs and aches when I wake, and I find myself handcuffed to a chair in a library. I blink to get my eyes to focus properly and look around the room. It’s spacious with a fireplace, comfortable chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, a desk and bookshelves from floor to ceiling. There’s a large window behind me and a locked door in front of me. 

I’m alone, and I feel the absence of my dear friend in every part of my body. The odds of him finding me here, wherever here is, are not in my favour. Unless they’ve taken me to blackmail Holmes and have sent him a ransom demand. If that is the case, I might have a chance of survival. 

The door opens and an impeccably dressed man enters the library. He’s about my height, but slim. His hair is black, just like his eyes, and the look in them is both gleeful and dangerous. A man Holmes would call a weasel. 

“So, this is Sherlock Holmes’ pet,” the man sneers in an Irish accent. 

I don’t answer and refuse to give him the satisfaction of me contradicting him with fervour as he most likely predicts I will. His eyes narrow when he gets no response. 

“He will come for you. Soon. But he doesn’t know who he’s up against. When the knowledge dawns on him, it’ll be too late. I’ve finally found his weak spot; you, Doctor Watson! I told him once before that I’ll burn the heart out of him. Do you know what he answered, Doctor?” 

I just stare blankly at the man, who’s started to pace frantically in front of me. At the moment, I’m less Doctor and more Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I school my face into a stony mask, which, for some reason, irks the man immensely. 

“I’ll tell you, then. He said that it was well-known that he didn’t possess a heart. But he does, doesn’t he, Doctor? Or should I rephrase myself. You have his heart, don’t you?”

The man stares me down, and I must use all my willpower to not give myself away. I honestly don’t know what he means by any of this. Holmes has never given me any sign that I’m the holder of his heart. That he’s the holder of mine, is something I’ve only lingered on in my private room. 

There’s a knock on the door, and the black-haired man shouts out “come”, without turning his back to see who enters. I quickly realise that’s a mistake. A tall man hovers in the doorway taking in the tableau. He’s dressed in black, a slim moustache graces his upper lip, the cap on his head is pulled deep down over his forehead to cover his eyes. I, however, get a glimpse of them when he casts me a quick glance. 

My jailor seems none the wiser, clearly thinking the man in question is one of his confederates.

“Do your worst with him, Bates,” the Irish man demands.

“I think not, Jim,” the man with the cap retorts with emphasis.

“Are you disobeying orders, Bates?”

The smaller man turns away from me with a vicious look in his eyes but freezes on the spot when he realises that Bates is Sherlock Holmes. With a swift movement, this Jim retrieves a pistol from his inner jacket pocket, aiming it at Holmes. Carefully I get to my feet, which is quite awkward being cuffed to the underside of the chair, but somehow, I manage and throws myself at Jim’s back with force. He cries out in surprise and anger. He dropped his pistol to catch himself when he fell forwards, and it’s now secure in Gregory Lestrade’s hand, who’s appeared with two bobbies.

“You’re coming with us,” Lestrade says sternly. 

The two bobbies take my previous jailor between them and walks him firmly out of the room. Holmes picks the handcuffs around my wrists with ease and helps me to my feet. He holds my hands carefully and examines my abrasions, stroking his thumbs over the reddened skin.

“Are you alright, my boy,” he murmurs in a strained voice I’ve never heard him use before.

I just nod, unable to speak when a lump in my throat threatens to give my emotions away.

On our way back home, Holmes explains that Mycroft’s underlings had witnessed my abduction, and alerted Holmes, who was able to follow the landau which had taken me to this house.

When we’re back in the sanctuary of our home, I ask Holmes about his previous encounter with this Jim fellow. He blushes furiously when I ask him if it’s true what the Irish man said about Holmes’ heart.

“Yes, John. It’s true,” Holmes murmurs almost inaudibly.

I inhale sharply when I hear him use my Christian name. When I answer him, calling him by his first name, he looks at me with awe. It’s like the veil that has clouded our visions is ripped apart, to show us our true feelings for each other.

As our lips meet, a whimper escapes his throat, and I pull the beloved man closer to comfort and reassure him that my heart will always belong to Sherlock Holmes.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @helloliriels

[arwenlalaith]

Love You 'til Tomorrow (Ch. 1/7)

Ship: Bertha Russell/George Russell

Summary: One of their bitterest fights had been over Charlotte's headstone - back when there still had been hope she might one day return. Now that she's buried beneath it, it doesn't seem to matter much. Nothing does anymore.

Day 1: "Let the circus begin"

Word Count: 600

Author's Note: This was written for the @gildedagecreatorscotillion, but real life kinda got in the way of my intention to write the whole thing in advance... It's what I'll call an 'off-shoot' of my fic Save Some Forgiveness for Me - basically, I'm going to keep writing the original following the path of the show, this will be sort of an alternate universe which breaks off following S2.

George was surprisingly devoid of fight over the next week.

Bertha knew he’d already intuited the deal she’d made, had anticipated a knock-down, drag-out fight following the opera and, when none had ensued, she’d simply assumed he was allowing her one night in which to languish in her victory.

The expected argument never came, though, and it was starting to grate on her...

She knew she should be grateful, as things between them most certainly could have gotten very rocky, very quickly, but there was a fight hanging in the air and she craved the release of having said fight. (That’s not to say that things had necessarily been peaceable, per se...afterall, neither of them was particularly known for keeping their tempers �� and tongues – in check.)

She burst into George’s study, hackles raised, only to find a strange tableau laid out before her: George, their lawyer, and the Pinkerton man they’d bought and paid for, all hunched over the desk looking grave. None of the men seemed to notice her presence, in spite of the dramatic flourish with which she’d entered.

“I don’t see that we have any choice,” George said at last, thumping his fist down on the desk. In spite of the emphatic gesture, he sounded...weary, perhaps even desolate. Like all the fight had gone out of him, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion. “We’ll have to give them what they want.”

“A-are you quite certain?” the lawyer stammered, which surprised Bertha as he’d always been an unflappable, if downright stony man, so if he seemed unsure to the point of stuttering, this must truly be a risky venture.

George said nothing at first. He sank down into his chair as if he could suddenly feel the weight of the world on his shoulders and remained gravely silent for a long time. (It wasn’t news to Bertha that he carried an immense burden – perhaps even more than he’d ever let on – but there’s something about seeing him look so utterly encumbered by this latest development that shakes her to her very core...) Then, with all the gravity of a man headed to the gallows, he vowed, “If there’s even the slightest chance it’s the real Charlotte, I’m bringing her home.”

“What?” Bertha breathlessly choked out before she even knew she was going to speak. She stood rooted to the spot, struggling to breathe – this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. She refused to believe that someone might take advantage of their grief in this way...the alternative, though, was to believe that, against all odds, they’d buried an imposter.

Immediately, she had the three men’s attention...and none of them seemed entirely prepared for her to have found out the truth this way. George was quick to move to her side, instinctively seeking out her hand (in spite of how far apart they may have been emotionally, he can’t help his instinct to protect her from all life’s cruelties), but she’s loathe to let him reassure her. “Tell me the truth,” she demanded in a tone that very much reminded him that he was still on thin ice after the fallout from Turner’s revelation, “Have they found her?”

“I believe so,” he answered.

She studied him intently, searching for any kind of tell. “But they want something?” she asked, when she found nothing in his expression that might lead her to believe him to be lying.

He nodded.

“Money?”

He nodded again.

And, though she felt very much like Isaac Van Amburgh about to enter the lions’ cage, she had no choice but to hold her head high and face the oncoming circus.

[damnmmmmmmmmmm]

Well, considering that wasn't the first time they kissed, this observation is wrong. The first public kiss was at cannes. GG was the second, lol. I do agree with everything else. However, minus keeping out opinion to ourselves lol I'm not gonna shut up to stroke a rich privileged woman's insecure feelings and ego. /

See, I don’t count Cannes. That was not supposed to be a kiss on the lips. He went to kiss her cheek because it would’ve looked real bad if he didn’t acknowledge her at all. He went to kiss her cheek, she turned and grabbed his lips, which crossed a boundary judging by both of their reactions. She showed up to the after party looking like she’d been crying and then POOF! there was no sign of her after that night. Something went down. He barely wanted her there to begin with, and then she crossed the line. And I believe that more than ever after she publicly groped him twice in 24 hours leading up to the Oscars.

Also, I’m not really sure why everyone has been so quick to assume that I’m telling everyone to shut up and never mention her name again (though that would be a great way to get rid of her). I simply pointed out that there are certain things that, if we don’t want to see them, maybe we shouldn’t even bring them up. We can still talk about her being psychotic and plastic. Believe me when I say that I love to shit on her. It’s warranted. She fucks around, she should find out. She’s insufferable and sets herself up to be spoken about as such. But I’m saying that individually, knowing what we know about her and her patterns, if there’s something you don’t want to see out of this shit show, maybe don’t bring it up on a public platform that is clearly being tracked by someone, whether it’s her, her team, his team or, shit, even him. That’s been my philosophy in all of this since 2023.

We’d be naive to think they don’t come to tumblr. Nearly everything we said on these blogs leading up to and during awards was addressed in some capacity by him/the shit show. Bitterly/spitefully, may I add. Whether he was saying something petty in an interview or they exhibited a certain behavior or set up a specific tableau on a red carpet. So yeah, she’s here and has been here since at least early 2023, if not earlier. There are some asks from way back when that were sent to littlemissidontcare that read like the succubus’ insta captions. She’s been a loon from the start, and will carry this behavior into her next contract with her next mark.

[angellayercake]

The Diary of Cardinal Terzo Three

Cardinal Terzo x Assorted Characters | NSFW | AO3 | Intro | Two

Based on this funny little article we start to read about some of Terzo's creampie adventures in his diary. I am still accepting prompts for this so just let me know!

disclaimer I know this is the farthest thing from safe sex but let’s pretend in this universe there is a special secret satanic sti and pregnancy protection just for fun

17/09 There is no real requirement for a Sibling to join the church formally but for some the act of swearing themselves to Satan is an important part of their  spiritual journey so when a Sibling reaches the age of 21 they are able to take part in an Unholy Baptism and performing these on consenting Siblings was one of my many duties. Which was why today I found myself waist deep in the lukewarm pool inside the chapel. Sister Mary was stood before me dressed in a pure white robe, the water was wicking it's way up the gown slowly turning translucent and revealing her body to me.She blushed prettily under my gaze but I felt no guilt looking my fill as she had already stammeringly requested her baptism follow the old way. She wanted me to fuck her as she swore swore her soul to Satan and I was happy to oblige. As we spoke the words I peeled the sodden gown off her leaving her bare before me. I fucked into her torturously slow as she recited her vows, maybe cruely, timing my thrusts with her words. Her stutters and moans just spurred me on and when she finally finished I had to ask.'How does it feel being filled with your Cardinals cock?' She couldn't tell me so lost in her pleasure and her vows so I hit her sweet spot over and over until her perfect cunt couldn't take anymore! Creampie count: 484

31/10 Halloween was an important night in any good satanists diary but sometimes it is nice to enjoy the more frivolous side of this particular holiday. So although I had my role to play in the rituals later on in the evening I had leave to make an appearance at the local bar's fancy dress event as long asI allowed Omega to come with me to bring me back on time. My fondness for that ghoul  comes back to bite me again, though I could hardly complain about my handsome companion. Naturally I dressed as an angel, a scantily clad angel, the sash only partially covering my chest and the skirt skimming the top of my thighs. A generous sprinkle of body glitter adorned all the visible skin and I noticed I had caught the eye of a similarly scantily clad devil. We locked eyes and she gestured towards a secluded corner of the bar. I had to follow Omega rolling his eyes but trailing behind me all the same. We didn't even exchange words as she pulled me into the dark corner. Our lips found each other at the same time as she spread her legs for me. She pulled out my already hard cock while shooting glances at Omega who was keeping watch. 'Your friend is welcome to join in' she whispered and with some quick manoeuvring, well that was that. We did make it back in time. Just. Creampie count:560

01/11 When we did return well I was in for a treat. My partner for this ritual had already been prepared for me and it was someone who I recognised from my trip into town.'Fancy seeing you here Kitten' I said as I took in the tableau that was set up just for me.She gasped but couldn't say anything more around the gag in her mouth.She was bent over the altar he limbs spread to the four corners while the soft black rope criss crossed over her body. I had changed by now back into my ceremonial cassock so I could trace the shapes on her skin with the cold sharp nails of my gloves and watch her shiver. ‘I don't think you had permission to be in town, did you Kitten?' She gave another wet gasp as she started to drool in anticipation I think you must be punished before we begin. 'I picked up one of the many candles nearby holding it over her and let the heated wax drip down onto the expanse of skin before me. I grabbed a handful of her hair tipping her head to side and allowing me to drip more wax to the sensitive area where shoulder meets neck as she shivered below me.She was a writhing mess for me, limited as she was by the restraints, by the time I stopped to survey the splashes of dark wax. Setting the candle aside I finally sunk into her as we performed our sacred duty to the Dark One on this special night, at last. Creampie count: 562

23/12  Birthdays I have always found very important. A day to celebrate the existence of someone special, so to see a Sister so dejected on her birthday well something had to be done. 'Happy Birthday Sister,' I spoke loudly as I sat intending to draw the attention of others nearby who were neglecting their friends' day for the sake of their yule excitement. She did manage to summon a smile for me but it did not meet her pretty eyes even as a chorus of birthday wishes grew around us.'Thank you Cardinal, I am surprised you remembered.' My heart clenched for her, how she thought I could forget. Well it would be easy enough for me to show her how cherished she was. 'I would never forget my favourite sister's day! Meet me tonight?' She nodded her agreement and I hurried to prepare the best birthday party I could. There was cake and balloons and party hats and presents but the only guests had been the sister and myself. As I crawled up from under the table I saw her smile finally reaching her eyes. 'Better birthday?' I asked. 'The best, 'she sighed running her fingers through my dishevelled hair. 'There is one thing we are missing for the best birthday, I think.' She looked at me in askance so I didn't keep her waiting 'Birthday sex!' I said as Ilifted her and carried her into my bedroom for the rest of her present. Creampie count: 653

[littlerainyghoul]

some tiny/regressed dew!? 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Of course <333

I added some caregiver Aether too, if you don't mind :>>

When It Rains It Pours

Summary: A bad thunderstorm wakes Dewdrop in the middle of the night, and finds Aether half asleep on the couch in the ghoul common room.

Words: 600

Pairings: Regressed Dewdrop and Caregiver Aether

CW: mentions of a thunderstorm

Dewdrop rose with his heart pounding, a sickening cold chill seeping down his spine  as the roaring thunder echoed loudly in his room. The sound of laborous rain pounded on his bedroom window. He tried to breathe, to calm himself but any efforts proved to be futile, as the storm barked ferociously, like a lion hunting its prey.

He stepped outside his bedroom, and tiptoed himself into the ghouls common room, where he was met with Aether, who was sprawled on the couch, deep in the transcendence between sleep and wakefulness. Dew turned on a soft light, careful to not startle the ghoul on the couch.

His hands shaky, he held onto his pajamas, as he anxiously pranced on the spot, wiggling his knees and flapping his elbows. He hesitated for a moment, before softly speaking

"Aether?"

Aether roused awake, concern raging in his eyes, as they fell upon the ghoul standing anxiously in front of him. He sighed, as he gestured for Dew to join him on the couch, seemingly notice the change.

"Are you...feeling small right now, Dew?" Aether asked, and a quick nod was all it took to confirm.

"I'm...scared, Aeae, can...I stay with you for a bit?"

"Hey, little droplet" Aether whispered, his voice flourishing with softness and comfort "you can stay here all you want"

"It's just a storm. We're safe here. You can be as small as you need to be right now."

He started to draw circles with his quintessence on Dew's palm, as he felt Dew relax slightly with his touch.

"...can...we...fire...and...cuddle...Aethy?"

"Yeah, of course, droplet" Aether lies down on the couch, as he lets Dewdrop rest his head against him, letting him listen to his heartbeat and the way his chest moved up and down.  Dewdrop, finding comfort in the cadence, closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the storm outside blend with the soothing presence beside him.

Aether gently stroked Dew's hair, his fingers moving in a rhythmic pattern, a gesture that attempted to calm the anxious ghoul down. The fire continued to dance, casting shadows that painted a serene tableau in the common room.

As Dewdrop rested, he still raised his head with every flash of light that filled the room, only to be gently guided back to Aether's chest as he had words whispered into his ear "breathe, little one, breathe, we'll weather any storm together, droplet."

"Aethy?" Dewdrop voiced himself, as he grabbed Aether's shirt

"Yes?"

"Thankies, Aethy, I love you"

"I love you too, darling" was Aether's response.

"Can you...tuck me in bed? I want...sleepy"

"Yes of course, darling" Aether's voice carried a delicate tone. He gently took Dew's hand and guided him to his room, he  lightly laid him on his bed. He covered the little ghoul with his favourite blankies, and planted a kiss on his forehead. The storm still rumbled on, but he felt a lot safer with the quintessence ghoul around him.

"...paci" Dew mewed, as he snuggled warm in the blankets.

"You want your dummy, firefly?"

Aether nodded, smiling gently. "Alright, let me grab it for you." He fetched Dewdrop's pacifier and handed it to him, his eyes glimmered as he noticed Dew gingerly flap  his hands with delight.

"Sleep well, little one."

Dewdrop nodded, his eyes heavy with drowsiness. "G'night, Aethy."

As Aether left the room, he glanced back one more time, ensuring Dew was settled. The storm continued its symphony outside, but within those walls, a quiet warmth enveloped the room.

Aether sighed, and turned around. He crawled into the bedsheets, snuggling Dew against his chest, as Dewdrop filled the room with light purring, which transitioned into an eloquent snore. Aether held Dewdrop close, their silhouettes faintly visible in the soft glow of the room.

[umarblog1]

Short-Term vs. Long-Term Data Analytics Course in Delhi: Which One to Choose?

In today’s digital world, data is everywhere. From small businesses to large organizations, everyone uses data to make better decisions. Data analytics helps in understanding and using this data effectively. If you are interested in learning data analytics, you might wonder whether to choose a short-term or a long-term course. Both options have their benefits, and your choice depends on your goals, time, and career plans.

At Uncodemy, we offer both short-term and long-term data analytics courses in Delhi. This article will help you understand the key differences between these courses and guide you to make the right choice.

What is Data Analytics?

Data analytics is the process of examining large sets of data to find patterns, insights, and trends. It involves collecting, cleaning, analyzing, and interpreting data. Companies use data analytics to improve their services, understand customer behavior, and increase efficiency.

There are four main types of data analytics:

Descriptive Analytics: Understanding what has happened in the past.

Diagnostic Analytics: Identifying why something happened.

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Short-Term Data Analytics Course

A short-term data analytics course is a fast-paced program designed to teach you essential skills quickly. These courses usually last from a few weeks to a few months.

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A long-term data analytics course is a comprehensive program that provides in-depth knowledge. These courses usually last from six months to two years.

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Advanced Data Analytics Techniques

Machine Learning and AI

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FeatureShort-Term CourseLong-Term CourseDurationWeeks to a few monthsSix months to two yearsDepth of KnowledgeBasic and Intermediate ConceptsAdvanced and Specialized ConceptsCostMore AffordableHigher InvestmentLearning StyleFast-PacedDetailed and ComprehensiveCareer ImpactQuick Entry-Level JobsBetter Career Growth and High-Level JobsCertificationBasic CertificateIndustry-Recognized CertificationsPractical ProjectsLimitedExtensive and Real-World Projects

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When deciding between a short-term and long-term data analytics course at Uncodemy, consider these factors:

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Why Choose Uncodemy for Data Analytics Courses in Delhi?

At Uncodemy, we provide top-quality training in data analytics. Our courses are designed by industry experts to meet the latest market demands. Here’s why you should choose us:

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Final Thoughts

Choosing between a short-term and long-term data analytics course depends on your goals, time, and budget. If you want quick skills and job readiness, a short-term course is ideal. If you seek in-depth knowledge and long-term career growth, a long-term course is the better choice.

At Uncodemy, we offer both options to meet your needs. Start your journey in data analytics today and open the door to exciting career opportunities. Visit our website or contact us to learn more about our Data Analytics course in delhi.

Your future in data analytics starts here with Uncodemy!

[guess-that-ship]

S8 Round 1

Sing me to sleep

cw: major spoilers, murder

A and B are childhood best friends who, after A dropped out of college, start a band together and become roommates. But one day, after coming home, A inherits new powers and is thrust into a new world filled with other beings with godlike powers. A, due to the inheritance of her new powers, is planned to be executed, but after some bargaining, A is given one week to clear her name of a crime she didn't commit.

She immediately goes to B, and tells her everything. Though B doesn't believe her at first, when she is shown proof of her friend's new powers, she is quick to help her out in any way she can. Together, they go around the new magical realm they now know of and have access to, talking to suspects and following leads. But they get too close to the truth. While investigating, A and B end up in a sticky situation, and with no other way out, B ends up sacrificing her life in order for A to survive.

Desperate to bring B back, A ventures to the underworld with the help of an ally. There, she finds B, who tells A that she must go on without her, but A refuses, and gives her powers to B, in an attempt to bring her back, which works. B is slightly frustrated with A, having been at peace with her decision and not prepared to have so much power and pressure forced upon her. B then confesses that the reason she sacrificed herself was because she was in love with A and had been for a long time, to which A then reciprocates, saying that she also has loved B for a long time. B laments over how, after her death, they aren't the same, and how she's afraid that as her powers grow, and they both change more and more, they'll stop loving each other, and how she wishes they both knew of their reciprocated feelings beforehand.

A ends up going to her trial. B comes in and stands by A's side, and using her newfound powers, helps A in clearing her name. Afterwards, B tells A that she needs more time to accept everything. 2 months later, B has had enough time to get used to her new powers, and the two give each other a chance (plus, making the decision to finally go somewhere with their band and go on tour).

March meets December, full of Joy

March is a depressed young man, whose wealthy socialite mother only really cares about the illusion of giving two shits about him, rather than actually caring about him. Here March, free car! Now go be respectable. In retaliation, his primary hobby is faking his suicide in increasingly over the top tableaus, though he also enjoys going to funerals for strangers.

At one of these funerals, he meets December, a hippy dippy counter cultural type, an anti-cop old lady who lives in a lively little decommissioned boxcar. She is able to show March a certain joy de vivre, far removed from his dreary shallow life, as they get into hijinx like when they find a tree struggling to live on a concrete sidewalk, they dig it up and steal it and a cop's motorcycle at the same time to go plant it in forest. They plot to make sure March's mother's plan to make him join the military fails as well, putting March's death-faking skills to good use with a fake murder in front of his military uncle who deems him too unstable.

Eventually, March tells December about why he started the suicide thing (there's a specific incident, alongside general parental neglect) and she shows him the sunset whilst he sees her tattoo of numbers on her arm, heavily implying she's a holocaust survivor. She teaches him to want to live and he falls for her, but she knows she is old and dying. He plans on marrying her, but she has planned her own death. When she does pass, March throws his hearse off the highway and into the sea, with him not inside. The last we see of him is walking away from the cliffs, colorfully dressed, and playing music on his banjo as he faces away from the wreckage.