#and if I didn’t feel so shitty about it and know I was doing that instead tending to my responsibilities

[katsreading]

Crush - OP81

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

You've worked with Oscar Piastri for a few years now, and sure, he's always been cute, but when you accidentally end up watching a TikTok edit of him? Suddenly you can barely think straight around him (some might call it a crush heeheeeheheeh)

Warnings: 18+ content, dirty talk, praise, oral (m & f receiving), p in v, biting, Oscar Piastri smokes a CIGARETTE (REAL), barely proofread.

Word Count: 6.8k

Note: It's hereee!!! I'm super happy with this one, pls go watch and support the creator who made the tiktok edit of oscar to crush bc that was truly inspired. anyways not sure i'll ever be able to listen to this song again without feeling a bit insane about oscar. Had to loop the new fred again song to finish this, so maybe give that a stream too when ur done. Here she is, i hope u guys love her !!!

You’re one of those strong advocates for separating business and pleasure. You don’t get into discussions about the hottest drivers on the grid, don’t out all night drinking when the team celebrates. Don’t crush on your colleagues. That’s always been your rule.

Well. Maybe not always. You can vaguely remember some particularly messy nights out with the restaurant staff at your shitty minimum wage waitressing job. But, since you left hospitality, you’ve been strict with your rules, and especially since you started working at McLaren. McLaren has always been your dream job, so you’ve got no plans to mess that up any time soon.

When Hailey, a friend from school, started working at McLaren, you almost pretended not to know her. But then she’d managed to convince you that since you were on different teams—you being an engineer and her being a social media manager—it didn’t really count. Which is how you ended up here, two years into being best friends, sat out by the lake on a breezy September Friday, eating lunch and complaining about having to do your jobs.

“I think I have the hardest job in the world ever,” you sigh, stretching out on the wooden bench you and Hailey have claimed as your own, tilting your head backwards dramatically as you take a drag from your cigarette.

She doesn’t reply, just raises an eyebrow and takes a bite of her sandwich, waiting for you to continue, which she knows you will because she’s had to deal with years of this exact complaint.

“I do manual labour,” you continue, flexing a bicep. “It’s inhumane.”

She scoffs. “You do spreadsheets. Sometimes there’s a wrench in the room.”

You wave your cigarette around dramatically. “I’m so stressed, I’ve had to turn to smoking!”

She plucks it from your hand, takes a drag, then hands it back to you with an eyebrow raised.

You sit up and glare at her, offended. “Okay, like you’re one to talk. I’d love your job. You just scroll on TikTok all day.”

Hailey lets out a strangled gasp, loud enough to make a few approaching ducks scatter away. “How dare you,” she says, wiping her hands on a stray napkin. “You wouldn’t last an hour scrolling on the McLaren TikTok feed.”

“You talk like you’re traumatised or something.”

“I am!” She exclaims, throwing her hands out, nearly losing half her sandwich to the lake. “There’s some scary stuff on there. Stuff that has to live in my brain forever.”

You laugh and shake your head, cracking open the can of coke you’ve been thinking about all day. Whilst you’re distracted by that, she leans across and plucks your phone from your lap, fingers quickly moving to open TikTok. You should probably make a note to change your password, which she has clearly memorised. A few taps later, she thrusts your phone back towards you, now logged into the McLaren official account.

“Before you go to bed tonight,” she says, leaning back against the bench, “scroll on the for you page for an hour. Just one hour, then you can come back to me and admit you were wrong.”

You laugh again. “So you’re giving me homework now? To prove your point?”

“Do it, and you won’t be laughing tomorrow, I promise you.”

She goes back to her sandwich, grumbling under her breath about ‘edits that haunt her dreams’, and you finish your lunch still giggling, and completely unconvinced that her job could possibly be that haunting.

That night, before you fall asleep, you do exactly as you were told; you snuggle into your blankets, roll onto your side, and open up TikTok. You manage to scroll through a few normal videos—interview clips, race wins, promotional content from other teams—before you come across your first thirst edit, a shot of Charles Leclerc shirtless in an ice bath. You scroll past it quickly, beginning to understand what Hailey might have been talking about.

Thankfully, there’s not too many after that, and you become pretty good at predicting which videos are about to turn into sexy shots and skip them before they have the chance to. Approaching the thirty-minute mark, you let out a yawn, feeling your eyes flutter closed, and somewhere in between clips of Liam Lawson and Isack Hajdar, you find yourself nodding off.

When you wake up the next morning, it takes you a little while to realise what happened. You fell asleep, of course, with your phone still open. Now, it repeats a song you don’t quite recognise, the singer’s voice low and dreamy as she pulls you from sleep.

Your hand skims across the bed, searching for where your phone has ended up. When you find it, wedged under your pillow, you try to focus on the video, blinking sleep from your eyes. The video plays once.

Then twice.

Then a third time.

The fourth time, something clicks inside your groggy morning brain, and you realise what exactly you’re sat watching, and you’re hit by a wave of horror. It’s quick cuts of Oscar Piastri, then slow zooms, shots of his hands as he takes his gloves off, his fireproofs clinging to him as he’s sprayed with champagne, his fingers tapping idly on his leg in an interview.

You shriek and throw your phone against the bed like it’s the problem and not the entire internet and everyone who’s ever used it.  You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub, hard, in a pathetic attempt to scrub your mind of what you just watched.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. You didn’t see anything. You didn’t watch a TikTok thirst edit of your colleague, Oscar Piastri.

And you definitely, definitely did not enjoy it.

Over the weekend, you do not think about that video. For more than, like, an hour.

Maybe two.

You think you’re maybe being a bit normal about it, when a text pings through from Hailey, and your brain is suddenly back on Oscar’s hands.

‘Ready to eat your words yet?’

You’re pretty sure you’re ready to eat a car, or something.

You type out your reply straight away. ‘You are our strongest soldier. I’m so sorry.’

She doesn’t respond to that, just laugh reacts to it, and clearly reads your mind that you’ve been through some deep trauma already and definitely don’t need her to rub her win in your face.

And that’s exactly why you two are friends.

After that interaction, it feels like the video starts to loop in your brain again. But then you distract yourself, starting with an ice-cold shower and ending with a deep clean of your flat, followed by a major session of online shopping while on FaceTime with your sister.

By the time Monday rolls around, the video has completely erased itself from your mind.

Clearly the universe is on your side in this situation, because you then don’t see Oscar all week. Of course, it could also have something to do with the fact that it’s a race week, and he flies out several days before you do, choosing to sleep in your own bed as often as possible.

Either way, you keep your head down, focusing on your work, and the video doesn’t cross your mind again.

Until Friday morning, when you’re in the paddock, in a blisteringly hot country, where the humid air makes you feel disgusting and sticky even just sitting still. You thought you’d be productive, getting in early enough that you can fire off a series of reports before your manager chases you about them, and you are, for about an hour. You’ve got your headphones on, fingers flying against the keyboard, pausing only to sip your overpriced iced coffee. You’re feeling pretty good, despite the sweatiness.

You don’t realise there’s anyone else in the room, until Hailey is pulling out your headphones, a sharp shriek escaping you. She laughs, handing your headphones back to you.

“Damn, girl. You’re locked in.”

You nod, gesturing to the file open on your laptop. “You know how people get about reports on race weekends. Thought I’d get everything out the way first thing while it’s quiet in here.”

“Totally,” she replies, gesturing to the empty room. “That’s why I’m here too. Do you mind if we do some quick filming, or do you need it silent in here?”

You frown, blinking at her, the bright fluorescent lights above you making you squint a little. “Film? Like, me?”

She barks out a laugh. “No, stupid. I’m getting some clips of Oscar for the socials.”

“Oh,” you say, a little bit too quickly, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, that’s fine. That’s okay, I can work with noise.”

You absolutely cannot work with noise. Or, at least not with this noise. This presence, which you could feel even if you weren’t looking.

But you are looking. In fact, fifteen minutes later, when you’re meant to be finishing off a graph, you’re outright staring at Oscar’s every move. The camera is angled on him as he circles the car, and you’re so transfixed you forget you’re even mean to be pretending to type. He’s just holding the wheel, but your eyes trace the length of his forearm, and the way the muscle there shifts every time he changes his grip.

There’s a thin line of sweat at the bend of his elbow, glinting under the harsh light, and when he pushes the wheel slightly forward you can see the veins rise under the smooth tan of his arm.

As he talks, you realise you’re following the movement of his lips, but not actually registering anything he says to Hailey.

You try to go back to your work, but you quickly catch yourself staring again, at his hands, as he turns the steering wheel. He runs a finger along its curved edge, voice steady as he continues to explain the purpose of the various different buttons and switches littered across the wheel. You sip your coffee, trying to regain your focus, but the ice in it has melted and gone watery in the time you’ve been staring. Before you can get yourself in a bad mood over the coffee, Hailey’s voice cuts through the air.

“What do you think? Should we cut that bit down for TikTok?” she asks, looking at you expectantly.

You freeze mid-sip, realising you’ve missed the entire question. “Uh… What? Sorry?”

If Hailey notices why you’re so distracted, she doesn’t say anything, instead sighing dramatically, and turning back to Oscar, muttering something about you having your head stuck in your laptop. You feel your face heat even more, and you finally drag your eyes back to your work, spending the rest of the day hidden behind the screen.

By Saturday, you’re actually grateful for how busy you are, running numbers and sending emails until the icons on your screen blur together as one, because it means your brain has precisely zero free seconds to wander to the topic of Oscar Piastri’s infuriatingly hot self.

Even when you see him briefly after qualifying, helmet under his arm and hair damp and curling against his forehead, there’s only time for him to flash you a grin and ask how your day’s going.

And you, determined not to let your brain win, to reply with a vague mumble of something that might be polite if said with a smile, but definitely feels a bit harsh when paired with the straight expression on your face.

“I’m busy, sorry.”

He shrugs at you, then disappears off into the crowd behind him.

That evening, after you’ve showered and changed out of the McLaren branded clothes you’ve been sweating in all day, you decide you actually deserve a glass of rosé for all the hard work you’ve done.

You find a quiet corner of the hotel bar and settle yourself into a booth. Apparently, in this moment, the universe decides you’ve had enough peace, because you’re halfway through your first sip when the seat next to you shifts, and Oscar drops into it completely uninvited.

“I was just going to take this upstairs,” you say quickly, hoping that he’ll take the hint and leave you alone.

Either he doesn’t get what you’re saying, or he chooses to ignore it. “That’s alright,” he says, setting his beer on the table. “You can get another one to take upstairs after you’ve had this one with me.”

You try to think of another way to excuse yourself, but you come up with nothing. So, you decide that one drink with Oscar Piastri might not be the worst possible way to end your day.

“Should you be drinking?” you ask, pointing to his pint, an eyebrow raised.

“A bit of beer has never killed anyone.”

“I’m actually pretty sure beer has definitely killed at least one person.” You shoot back.

“Okay, a beer has never killed me.” He says, clinking his glass against yours before taking another sip.

Though it hurts to admit it, you have quite a bit of fun chatting to Oscar. He’s easy to talk to in a way you didn’t expect, slipping in comments that make you choke on your wine because they’re bold enough to catch you off guard but not quite enough to mean anything.

When you finish your wine, you’re no longer completely desperate to escape, but you excuse yourself nonetheless.

You plan to go out for a quick cigarette. You don’t plan for Oscar to follow you, which he does.

You step out into the evening air, the light breeze a sharp contrast to the unrelenting heat of the day. You shiver a little, not dressed for cool weather at all.

You pull a cigarette from the pack in your pocket and hold it between your lips as you root around for your lighter, a shitty neon green Bic that barely works on the best of days. You side eye Oscar a little as you do this, because what’s he about to do, stand and watch you have a smoke break before bed?

You can’t fully contain your shock, when Oscar shuffles around in his pockets for a second, before pulling out a pouch of tobacco and a crumpled stack of rolling papers.

You stare at him, lips parted in a gasp.

And there they are again—his hands, quick and precise, rolling the paper and tobacco without thought.

“Those are bad for you, you know?” he says, as you struggle with your lighter, a pathetic spark against the cool evening breeze.

You raise an eyebrow and nod towards the neat roll between his fingers. “I’m an engineer. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a driver,” he replies, before plucking the lighter from your hand and proceeding to light his own cigarette. He takes a drag, leaving his eyes on yours as he does.

When this makes you roll your eyes, he leans in close, letting smoke curl between you, and angles the burning tip towards your mouth.

Your pulse catches for a second, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face as you inhale, lighting your cigarette against his.

Suddenly you’re grateful for the breeze against your now-flushed skin.

The next day is, again, mercilessly hot, in that way that settles on your skin and refuses to shift, no matter how much water you drink or how many times you wipe sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. You’re completely exhausted before the race has even started, but somehow Oscar looks cool as a cucumber as he gets into his race gear, laser focused on the task ahead of him.

You almost forget how to stand when he offers you a water bottle, like he’s noticed how much you need it. Like he’s been paying attention to you.

You take it, fingers brushing against his, and it’s ridiculous and a little bit embarrassing, the way your stomach ties itself in knots over such a tiny sliver of contact. He smirks, ever so slightly, like maybe he noticed, and maybe he’s going to make a comment. When he says, quietly, just loud enough for you to hear it over the roar of business around you, “Careful, wouldn’t want you passing out on me,” you’re not sure if you want to roll your eyes or bury yourself alive. Maybe both.

Later, when Lando stands on the top step of the podium, and Oscar stands next to him in second, spraying him with champagne, you try to pretend you’re not disappointed. A win for McLaren is what you should be rooting for, no matter the driver. And you’ve never picked favourites before, so why now?

Everyone piles out the door together, mutters of club names spreading through the crowd like wildfire, people continuing to cheer for Lando and pat him on the back as they pass him.

You plan to slip away quietly, and head back to the hotel, letting the whole team celebrate without you. The parties, the drama, they’re not really your scene.

You’re not expecting to arrive back at the hotel at the same time as Oscar, and you’re certainly not expecting him to convince you to stay with him for a drink again. But he does.

“Hey,” he says, as he catches up to you with ease, walking through the grand main entrance to the hotel.

“Why aren’t you out with the rest of the team?” you ask, a mix of genuine curiosity and frustration that your plan to sit alone has been crashed.

“I could ask you the same question.” He replies.

“I don’t really feel like celebrating tonight,” you say, hoping that’s enough of an answer to make him back off.

 He tilts his head towards the bar, soft light glinting off empty glasses stacked behind it, and lets a glimmer of something shine through his voice, when he says, “Me neither. Why don’t we drown our sorrows together?”

And even though all the sane parts of your body are screaming at you to remember your rules, your only set of rules, the part of you that’s warm and fuzzy when Oscar looks at you like that takes over, and replies, “Why not?” and lets him lead you to a table in the corner of the room.

He pulls your chair out for you, like a complete gentleman, then returns from the bar with a bottle of champagne.

“This feels like a celebration, not a pity party,” you say, eyeing up the bottle. That thing definitely came with a hefty price tag.

“Well,” he replies. “I still got second place.”

You laugh, and let him pour you a glass. Which becomes two glasses, then three, because he’s making you giggle, then blush, and way his fingertips brush against yours on the table makes you want to stay sat with him forever.

But you manage to convince yourself to stand up when the bottle is done. Owing to the huge bowl of pasta you wolfed down at the paddock, you’re not drunk. If you were, you might have suggested a second bottle. Instead, you tell Oscar you should head to bed.

He doesn’t stop you. In fact, he agrees that it’s been a long day, and he should probably head off too.

So that’s how you end up in the lift together, unbearably aware of just how small the space is, surrounded by the sound of Oscar’s breath, and the feeling of him right next to you, arm brushing against yours as he pushes the close door button.

The seconds stretch out, daring you to move, to do anything. By the time the button dings softly at floor 3, you’re desperate to get out.

“This is my floor,” you say, without turning to look at him. He doesn’t reply.

The doors open, and a part of you hopes there will be someone stood on the other side, to force the two of you apart, and shatter the building tension between you. When there isn’t, and all you’re greeted with is an empty hallway, you swallow hard and step out.

You don’t turn back, but you wait for the doors to close, for the knowledge that he’s gone and you can breathe again. A light thud tells you they have closed, and you’re about to walk away, when they open again, and Oscar’s hand is on yours, pulling you back to him.

He presses you against the wall, foreheads touching, and his breath is hot against your mouth when he mutters, “tell me you don’t want this.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. You barely even breathe. And it’s the answer he’s been waiting for, because then his lips are crashing against yours, in one messy, breathless movement.

Oscar’s tongue licks into your mouth, exploring freely as the lift doors close behind you. He tastes like champagne, and you almost laugh when he grinds his hips against yours, because how can somebody who was so restrained thirty seconds ago be so impatient now?

A soft ding tells you you’re at Oscar’s floor. He breaks away from the kiss first, but leaves his body pressed against you, lips brushing across yours as he parts them to breathe. His doe-eyes meet yours, and there’s something softer about them now, more pleading, like the teasing façade of the past few days has crumbled to the ground, leaving just raw, desperate want.

Something shifts, as the doors open, because suddenly this is real and you’re not just kissing in the lift like drunk teenagers, you’re letting Oscar snake his arm around your waist—grip firm like he’s done this a thousand times before—and guide you down the hall to his bedroom.

When he removes his hand from your waist to fumble for his room key, you actually feel yourself lean into him with a gasp, chasing the skin-to-skin contact. He notices, and his hands are back on you the second the door is open, settling right at the bottom of your McLaren shirt, which has started to rise up, revealing a strip of bare skin. You shudder slightly as his fingers brush against you, thumbs digging into the soft, exposed flesh.

His teeth graze your lips, then his tongue follows, pressing his mouth against yours again, in a wet, pleading kiss.

He pulls you backwards into his room, flush against him as he walks. Your eyes are closed, tongue memorising the shape of his mouth, as he guides you both straight across his room. You feel him kick his shoes off somewhere around the middle of the room, and you copy him, grateful you’re wearing a pair that slip off without tripping you over.

The back of Oscar’s knees hit the bed, and he sinks down onto it, pulling you forwards still so you’re straddling him fully. His hands grab your ass, adjusting you in his lap, and you finally break apart, giggling as he puts you where he wants you.

One of your hands holds his waist, and the other steadies you, soft against the back of his neck. You study his face, a grin tugging at his lips as he looks back at you.

His lips are flushed and wet from kissing you, and his eyes glassy with that same concentrated desperation you saw earlier. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to its centre. Your other hand still cupped around the back of his neck, you tighten your grip on him as you shift in his lap, ass pressing against his now fully erect cock.

He exhales sharply, and digs his fingers into your side, but doesn’t stop you, as you begin to grind against him. There’s too many layers between the two of you, the friction not quite enough, but you continue to tease him with the pressure, chasing another sharp gasp with each movement.

Your movements continuing, Oscar tugs at the hem of your shirt. You pause to let him pull it over your head. He doesn’t waste any time, removing your bra straight away, and then his mouth is on your tit like he needs it to survive.

He grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin, humming in pleasure when you groan into his neck. His hand works your other breast, fingernails scraping against you softly before rolling your nipple between two fingers.

Then it’s your turn to grab at his shirt, hands sliding up underneath it, thumbs tracing the soft definition of abs you find there. He’s surprisingly solid, you think, despite how skinny he looks.

You feel his thigh muscles flex through his trousers, and it’s almost embarrassing how insane it makes you feel.

After you pull his shirt over his head, Oscar’s hair is a little ruffled. You throw his shirt to one side and kiss him again, softly.

The kiss doesn’t last long though, because you shift just a bit too hard, and Oscar grunts out a moan, lifting you to your feet.

Before you can fully register what’s happening, he flips you round, so he’s in front of you, and you’re stood facing him, back to the bed.

He pulls your trousers down, pushing you down onto the bed when he’s got them past your ass. When your trousers are gone, he hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, and you lift your hips just enough to allow him to pull them down your legs. He buries his face into your neck, planting a wet kiss at its base, then sucking so hard you’re sure there will be a mark tomorrow.

His hand falls to your pussy, and he inhales sharply, fingers dipping into soft wetness. He drags a slow circle against your clit—the movement devastatingly soft, the friction not quite enough. You move against him, a quiet whimper escaping your lips, and he pulls his fingers away. He brings them to his mouth, and sucks, eyes falling shut as he tastes you on his skin.

When he’s licked his fingers clean, he drops them back down to your core, thumb circling your clit roughly. You drop your head to his shoulder and let your teeth sink into the bare skin. When he chokes out a moan, you bite harder, which makes him press his hips forward, into you. The outline of his cock—now fully erect, hits you, and the sheer size of it sends a shiver through you.

“If I’d known—” Oscar says, slipping one finger into you and relishing in the gasp it forces from your lips, “If I’d known you wanted it too, I would’ve had you like this months ago.”

You want to reply, tell him he can have you like this whenever he wants, wherever he wants, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on anything other than him inside of you, and how badly you’re aching for more. So, you nip his ear between your teeth, and grind into him, the palm of his hand brushing your clit deliciously.

He seems to understand your silent demand, because he slips a second finger in, eyes locked on your face, ready to watch the way your head rolls back, lips parted just enough to suck in a breath. As his pace increases, so does the number of curses that slip from your lips.

“Fuck,” you manage to whisper into his hair, as his fingers curl up, hitting that perfect spot.

“I know,” he mutters in return, fingers pounding in and out so hard you’re already thinking how ruined you’re going to be when he gets his cock in you.

One hand grips his shoulder so tight your nails bite into his skin, and the other runs through his hair, like clinging to him is going to ground you, and stop you from losing yourself as he fucks his fingers into you, closer and closer to release.

A third finger slips in far too easily, and you’re so wet for him, so pliant, it makes him groan as he sinks to his knees before you, face dropping to meet your dripping pussy.

He runs his tongue up your thighs without slowing his fingers, just shifting his palm to one side—giving his mouth full access to your swollen, throbbing clit. He takes it between his teeth, and it’s nearly enough to send you over the edge, panting as your hips twitch upwards, but he lets go and clicks his tongue the second he notices the involuntary movement.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he mutters, running his tongue up from your entrance, where his fingers still press into you, to your clit, which sends sparks through your body when he reaches it. “Gotta let me savour you.”

He doesn’t wait for you to reply. He knows you’re beyond words. Instead, he works at you with his tongue and fingers, unrelenting and desperate to make you come completely undone.

You pant out his name, thighs pressing against his face as your head falls back. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulse racing as you feel yourself clench around his fingers, the sensation building and building until you reach your climax with another string of curses.

And Oscar laughs—he actually laughs against you, and the vibrations send another electric-hot jolt through you, your legs still twitching, your core sensitive beyond words. His fingers still, but he doesn’t remove them, and keeps his mouth exactly where it is. Even the soft heat of his breath sends shivers down your spine, and you squirm, not sure if you’re trying to escape his reach or push yourself back towards his perfect tongue.

One press of his hand into your thigh stops you moving entirely, and you lock eyes with him as he stares up at you, lips wet and covered in you. His cheeks are flushed pink, and the way his hair is pushed back out of his face sends warmth through your face. The look is so tender it could kill you. How can a man produce both the perfect, unrelenting orgasm, and this caring softness?

You don’t have time to finish that thought, because the moment passes, and Oscar’s tongue is flat against your clit once more, fingers starting to slowly pump in and out again. The sensation burns straight through you, and you fall back onto the bed, completely deprived of any energy you’d been using to keep yourself upright.

Your hips buck upwards, barely past your last orgasm, but Oscar keeps going, three fingers pumping in and out, tongue tracing tiny circles against your clit.

You feel it deep in your stomach this time—a solid, burning ache for the feeling of him buried deep in you, the sound of skin hitting skin, his solid frame above you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fully riding his face and fingers now, rocking backwards on the bed as he fucks you further towards your next climax, edging you closer by the second.

The pressure continues to build at your core, like a knot being pulled tighter and tighter, and you fist your hands into the bedsheets, eyes still shut, gasping out choked breaths.

“Please,” he whispers into you, lips sending more jolts of energy through you, “come one more time for me.”

And you do, his name spilling from your lips as a second orgasm rips through your body, toes curling as your legs shake.

When you open your eyes again, Oscar is grinning, wide and genuinely proud of himself, like he’s just won a race. And the sight is so endearing you think you just might have to give him a proper thank you.

“Get up,” you say, shifting your body up on the bed so you’re sat upright.

He blinks at you, searching for the whimpering, needy mess you were a few moments ago. You don’t say anything, though. You just stare him down, waiting.

He stands, eventually, unbuttoning his belt, and you can’t help but lick your lips. There’s something almost powerful, in knowing that despite the fact that he just had you melting in his hands, you’re about to have him moaning your name.

When he’s in just his boxers, you press the palm of your hand against the solid outline of him showing through the thin fabric. There’s a wet spot forming in the middle, and you let one finger press against him there, delighted by the sharp inhale he takes.

You grip his cock through the boxers, rubbing up and down his length once, then twice. The third time, his hips thrust forwards. The way his head falls back, and the groan that falls from his lips, tell you that this wasn’t an intentional movement.

You look up at him, eyes wide and doe-like. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No—” he hisses, hand tangling into your hair, as you palm his dick again. “Fuck. No." So, you let yourself slip off the bed, knees hitting the ground.

You reach up to the waistband of his boxers, and he helps you out, pulling them down until they hit the floor. And then you’re face to face with his dick, hard against his chest. All you can do is stare for a second, as he steps out of his boxers and tosses them to the side.

Oscar’s cock isn’t just ‘big’. It’s pretty. Annoyingly so. The perfect shade of pink at the tip, swollen and throbbing for you. The tiniest drop of precum beads at the tip, and you swirl your finger across it, before running it down his length.

You almost want to take a picture of it, and keep it, with the knowledge that you did this to him. But you don’t. Instead, you bring your tongue to his tip, swirling it at the end, teasing him as he did you.

You drag your fingers down his chest, nails scraping gentle lines across the faint outline of his abs, tracing down to the trail of light blonde hairs that usually disappear beneath the waistline of his trousers.

Now though, they serve as the perfect road, leading your hand to join your mouth, cupping his balls as your tongue finds a thick vein along the underside of his cock and traces it.

You try, as you run your tongue back along the vein, to commit this to memory. The taste of Oscar’s cock, throbbing, hard for you. The way his breath catches ever so slightly when your teeth graze against him, or when your fingernails dig half-moon kisses into his thighs. The way your name spills from his lips like a prayer, as he thinks of only you.

Just in case it never happens again.

Then, once you’re sure you’ve savoured the moment, you take him in your mouth entirely, gagging just a little as he hits the back of your throat.

You hold him there as long as you can, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, before you pull off him with a slight choke. Spit dribbles down your chin. You don’t wipe it away.

You return your mouth to his tip, bobbing up and down his length, increasing your pace, hungry for the little sounds that spill from his lips as he pushes into you.

You let yourself gag around him again, cheeks hollowing out as you keep him there, at the back of your throat for as long as you can manage.

When he grips your hair just tight enough to make you pause, you look up at him through your lashes, eyes wide and vision blurred by tears, and he lets out a choked, low, “fuck.”

You blink, tears spilling from your eyes, and he lets the palm of his hand cup your jaw, as his thumb swipes across your cheek.

“You’re gonna ruin me, baby”

He pulls out of your mouth, a string of drool connecting you to him. You don’t bother wiping it away, still staring up at him. He tangles a hand into your hair, pulling you up. The sharp tension at your scalp is so deliciously painful you almost ask him to drop everything and make you come like that, finger-fucking yourself as he pulls your hair.

But then you feel his cock press into you as you stand, and you remember just how badly he needs to be inside you. And how badly you need him inside you.

You let yourself drop back onto the bed, bringing your knees up towards you so you’re spread perfectly open and completely on display for Oscar.

He kneels on the bed, crawling over your body, hands tracing up your curves.

He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he lines himself up with your core, letting his cock hit your clit as he does. You press your hips forward, begging him to do it again, to return that pressure. And he does, letting out his own little moan at the feeling of your soft wetness against his flushed tip.

Just a few circles is all he can manage, before he needs to be inside you, filling you up.

He pushes into you slowly, savouring the feeling of you adjusting to his size, as you clench around him. The first few strokes are gentle, too.

His hand caresses your hair, as he bottoms out. It’s almost too much—the combined softness of his touch, and the feeling of being so stretched out by his cock.

He gets into a steady rhythm, and his eyes drop to your tits. He watches the way they bounce as he fucks into you, and it makes him go faster, harder.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve pictured this,” he says, one hand lifting your thigh, allowing him better access to you, somehow fucking you even deeper than before, while the other hand grabs at your tits greedily, rolling a nipple between his fingers until you gasp. “How many times I’ve cum in my hands thinking about you.”

He thrusts into you again, the hand he was using to prop up your leg dropping to your clit, rubbing fast, hard circles. “I imagined the sounds you’d make as I fucked you,”

And you let out another one of those sounds, a soft and pathetic whine that falls from your lips as he pushed into you once more, filling you up so well that your vision blurs at the edges. “But this is more perfect than I could’ve ever imagined,” he chokes out, the words half broken by a moan that falls from him as you clench around him. “So fucking perfect.”

He moves his hands so they’re either side of your head now, and he lets his body follow, so you’re fully pressed against each other, noses touching, hot breath hitting each other’s lips as you pant, both completely spent, both chasing the other’s climax.

Your hands trail up his back, before letting your nails dig into his skin, hard, dragging them down. His pace is steady now, fucking you in and out, so deep inside you you’re not sure what day of the week it is. When your eyes meet again, he drags one hand down to your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles. He watches your face, observes the way your breath hitches at that specific spot, and doubles down, thrusting harder until you cry out, and he still doesn’t stop until he feels your climax ripping through you—legs twitching as you clench around him so perfectly.

As he fucks you through your orgasm, sparks jolting through your body, brain completely devoid of any thoughts unrelated to Oscar-fucking-Piastri, you scrape your teeth along his jawline, slightly scruffy with stubble.

At that, he pounds into you harder, the sound that escapes his lips almost pornographic. You continue to drag your teeth down his neck, nipping at the soft skin lightly as you go, and you watch as his grip on the bedsheets tightens, and his thrusts become harder, less controlled and steady.

You clench around him, before sinking your teeth into his shoulder, hard. It’s what he needs to send him over the edge—one final thrust and he’s spilling into you, filling you up as you run your tongue along the sensitive spot you’ve just bitten.

He lets his weight drop onto you, and rolls to your side, still inside you, cock still twitching. You barely move, letting your body stay as close to his as possible, pressed up against him.

Oscar pulls you into his arms, cheek nestling into your neck. He pushes some of the sweaty hair that’s stuck to your face back, and plants a kiss on your cheek. “Stay?” he whispers, devastatingly quiet. You lace your fingers through his, where they hold you at your waist, and nod.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper, the sudden emptiness feeling completely wrong. He turns you to face him, and your hands drop to his chest.

Your lips meet his again, and this time it’s softer. So much softer than before.

Because this time, you’re not racing to an end goal. You’re just letting Oscar’s tongue explore your mouth, as his hands learn the shape of your body.

You fall asleep like that, intertwined in each other.

And you decide the fact that you both look like you were attacked by vampires is a problem for tomorrow.

[due-vigilance]

The Law of distraction (part 2)

part 1 [ao3]

ohmygodwe'rebackagain! Part 2 of some unhinged, unbetaed writings... I don't know what's happening here, it's just all so dumb. Enjoy!

warnings: kidnapping, being drugged, tied up, foul language, mild sexual language, canon-typical violence, and mentions of torture.

fem-metahuman!reader (no/YN, no particular physical description)

tagging: @vlassk (thank you!!)

You’re tied to a chair, something heavy strapped over your head. When you crack an eye open, everything’s tinted red. Shitty office, fluorescent buzzing, empty.

“Hello?” you try.

You squirm against the ropes, wrists burning, but it’s useless.

“Too tight?” a familiar voice asks. Then he strolls into view—Vigilante. Great.

“It’s you.”

He nods, mask back on. Even though you saw his face at the restaurant, your brain still can’t reconcile the two. It’s shameful how his mask flattens his curls. 

You can also feel the contraption covering your head. It wraps around your hair, ears, down to your nose. “What the hell is this?”

“Oh, that? Old mask of mine. Prototype. I tweaked it so you can’t take it off. Also stripped the prescription.”

“You built this?” you ask, half-impressed despite yourself—as if he hadn’t just designed your personal nightmare.

“Yes,” he beams, practically proud of himself. “As soon as you abandoned us, I made it. Just in case we bumped into you again.”

His choice of words makes you pause. Abandoned? That’s not what happened. You didn’t abandon them—you escaped. Bumping into you? “Were you even looking for me?” you ask.

“Not really. Adebayo said it wasn’t that important, they had other priorities.” Then he taps a finger against his temple, “But you were always in my mind.” 

“That’s… nice?” Your voice jumps an octave, turning it into a question.

“Yeah, I hate when crime goes unpunished.”

“Oh.”

He grabs a chair and plants it in front of you, crossing his legs like he wants to start a lovely conversation with you. “We’re waiting for the others to figure out what to do with you.” 

“Okay…” You hum, slumping back against the chair. For once, you’re too tired to fight—whether it’s the ropes digging into your wrists, or Vigilante’s sheer, immovable stubbornness.

There’s a few minutes of silence, just staring at each other, before you finally ask: “So… you’re a waiter?”

“Fuck, I knew my secret identity was blown.” He slaps his hands against his thighs with a dramatic sigh. “No. I’m a busboy.”

Somehow, that makes the whole situation worse.

“My coworker, Blake? She said you were a bitch—”

“Rude.”

“—and when I saw it was you, I agreed. You are a meanie. So I volunteered to handle it. I hid a tranquilizer in the breadsticks. You didn’t see it coming,” he repeats, proud of himself.

“You really got me,” you deadpan. “Do you always stash tranquilizers at your day job?”

You’re not even sure why you ask. Half the time it feels like you’re toying with him or maybe he’s the one playing you, and you’re just diving headfirst into it.

“Yeah,” he answers instantly, without hesitation.

Talking about the tranquilizer makes you realize how pasty your mouth is. “You could’ve waited until I ate something before drugging me. That would’ve been nice.”

“I’m usually not very nice with criminals.”

“I am not—” You bite back the anger, exhale hard. “Can I please have something to eat?”

“Oh. Sure. I brought the breadsticks. Want something to drink?” He asks it like it’s a rehearsed line.

“Do you have Dr. Pepper?” you humor him. 

“Uh, no. Just coffee and water. Soda’s bad for you anyway. You’re kind of in bad shape.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, no— I mean you’ve got a nice figure. But you look… soft. Like you don’t work out much. It’s important to stay in shape. Especially in my line of work.”

“As a busboy?”

“No, as Vigilante.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Not because you’re mocking him—at least not entirely. There’s something weirdly charming in how earnest he is. Cute, even. Which is insane. He’s a serial killer, and here you are smiling at him.

“What?” he asks, head tilting, genuinely confused.

“Nothing. Can I have a breadstick, please?”

Vigilante hops up, disappears behind you, and comes back with a fistful. He stands so close you can smell butter and oregano clinging to his gloves.

You lift your bound wrists. “Hello? Hands?”

“Oh. Right, sorry.”

Instead of untying you, he brings the breadstick to your lips, adamant on feeding you. You lean forward, lips pursed, mouth parting. When the tip brushes your tongue, heat prickles your cheeks.

Why the hell are you blushing at this?

You snap off a bite, chew fast, and wrench your head away, trying to hide the flush. He doesn’t move, though. He’s still right there, one leg wedged between yours, patiently holding the rest of the breadstick like he’s doing you some great service.

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid. And for some reason your pulse won’t calm the fuck down.

“You like that, huh?” he says, voice dipping almost suggestively.

Your cheeks burn hotter. “What?”

“They’re very good, right?” He holds up the half-eaten breadstick, utterly earnest, like he wasn’t implying anything at all.

You stare at him, half convinced he’s messing with you, half convinced he’s just that oblivious. Either way, your pulse is hammering.

Your gaze lingers on his chest. Back at the restaurant, you should’ve taken the time to read his nametag. It would be useful now, being able to call him by his real name. You don’t let yourself think too hard about why. It’s just because he’s antagonizing you. That has to be it. 

“You know, I was in your place not so long ago. A butterfly tried to cut my pinky toe off. Haven’t been able to walk the same ever since. He fried my balls too, with electricity.”

He’s still holding the damn breadstick there like he’s feeding a zoo animal, but he keeps rambling. You can’t help being grateful, though—it distracts you from whatever dark, damp corner your mind was wandering into.

“I’m really sorry about your balls,” you say flatly before leaning forward for another bite. You chew, swallow, then tilt your head at him. “Are you going to cut my pinky toe off? I wear sandals in summer. I hope not.”

“No,” he scoffs. “If I were going to torture you, I’d go for your nose or ears. Statistically, facial disfigurement causes longer-lasting psychological trauma. More efficient that way.” He shrugs. 

That’s dark. “If I don’t have ears or a nose, I wouldn’t be able to wear glasses.”

“You can keep the mask, don’t worry about it.”

That’s… oddly sweet? You narrow your eyes at him and bite into the breadstick again, trying to make sense of him. How can he say the darkest, most awful things you’ve ever heard, and then, right after, be compassionate?

“Can I have a glass of water, please?” you ask. It’s not like you’re trying to test your theory, but either he’s terrible at this whole kidnapping thing or he’s some kind of… nice serial killer. If that’s even a thing.

“You’re really demanding for a hostage,” he mutters, but still obliges. 

“For someone who swears they’re not kind to criminals, you’re… well, not all the time, but sometimes nice to me,” you point out. “You could even untie me! Since I can’t take your mask off anyway.”

“Nice try, but I don’t trust you,” Vigilante says flatly. Then he tilts his head, voice going uncertain. “But it is important to be a good host to… hostage?”

He comes back with a flimsy paper cup filled with water. He clearly isn’t about to untie you, which makes the whole thing feel even more absurd.

“Don’t you have a straw? It’d be easier. Or, you know, you could just untie me.”

Vigilante lets out a sigh heavy enough that you see his shoulders slump. “You’re lucky I recently swapped the plastic straws for paper ones.”

“How thoughtful of you—not letting me murder all the turtles.”

“You’re welcome,” he shoots back. “I wouldn’t want your rap sheet getting even longer.”

“I love how you take care of me, Vigilante.”

The words slip out lighter than you intend, almost teasing. He stiffens at that, his head tilting just a little, but he masks whatever flickered across his face by quickly dropping a paper straw into the cup and raising it to your lips.

You hold his gaze anyway, right into the red visor of his mask—useless, but you do it. You picture his face from the restaurant instead, soft where this one is hard. He really doesn’t look like a merciless killer. The thought lingers a moment too long—until the door bursts open.

“What the fuck, Vig?” Peacemaker calls from the doorway, the blonde woman trailing behind him. “Why are you feeding her while she’s wearing your mask? Is that some weird kink of yours?”

“What? No!” Vigilante replies quickly.

“Are you the kind of guy who takes out some ribs just so you can… you know?”

“I really don’t,” he says, deadpan.

“Is that Lobotomy Girl?” the blonde woman asks, pointing right at you.

“I am not,” you snap—at the exact same time Vigilante blurts, “Yeah!”

“Adrian, what is she doing here? Tied up?” the blonde woman asks.

Vigilante’s head whips violently between you and her. Adrian.

“Fucking fuck, she knows my name now!” he yells, slamming the cup onto the table so hard water splashes everywhere.

You grin, sharp. “I saw your face and know where you work—we’re way past that.” You lean in, savoring it. “Adrian.”

“Well, thank you for that!” he says, slapping his palms together in exaggerated gratitude.

Then, with a suddenness that makes you blink, he rips off his mask and drops back into the chair across from you. He digs into a pocket of his costume and pulls out a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, slipping them on before crossing his arms like a sulky kid. It’s adorable.

Wait. No. What the fuck? Absolutely not.

“Okay, Vigilante,” she says, stressing every syllable. “What is she doing here?”

“It’s too late now,” Adrian mutters, shoulders hunching. He can’t quite look at her, or you. “I found her at Fennel Fields. Brought her back.”

“Why?”

“She left last time.”

“And we expressly said we didn’t care. If she was going to do anything, she’d already be back rotting in Belle Reve.”

“She is right here,” you say. 

“It’s over, Adrian. This whole operation is done. We did what we had to do, and now we’re done.” Harcourt’s voice cracks like a whip before she storms out of the office, the door rattling in her wake.

“If you fuck, do it on Economos’ desk right there,” Chris points at the desk beside you before jogging after her.

Adrian blinks, tilts his head, and says, “Wait, why would he think we’d have sex on a desk? That’s so unhygienic.”

You refuse to take the bait, your gaze fixed anywhere but him. Feeding you breadsticks and blushing were already bad enough—you’re not adding this to the pile. “What’s up with her?” you ask instead.

From the corner of your eye you see Adrian fidget with his glasses, then shrug. “I think something happened between them, but I can’t tell for sure. He looks sad.”

He really did, you figure, but the costumed idiot across from you hardly looks better. 

“Well then, if everything’s over, I guess you can let me go.”

Adrian falls back into his chair with a long huff, crossing his arms. His mouth twists into a pout, eyes darting away from you. And that’s when it hits you—he really believed this little stunt, kidnapping you and all, would pull the team back together. The thought is so sad it almost softens you. 

“Well,” he says finally, tone eerily casual, “guess I’ll have to kill you now.”

So much for pity. “What? No. I really don’t think you have to.”

“You know my secret identity. Too risky.”

“I promise I won’t tell a soul,” you shoot back quickly.

“I can’t trust you. You’re a criminal.”

“Being in jail doesn’t automatically make you a criminal.”

He stares at you like you’ve sprouted a second head—then suddenly slaps his thigh and bursts out laughing. “You’ve said a lot of dumb shit, but that? That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Okay, okay, stop! I mean— technically the penitentiary system is fucked up, justice even—”

“Yeah, that’s why I do it!” Adrian cuts in, all proud. “It’s a lot of talk and no action,” he says, lifting his chin. “That’s why I kill the bad guys.”

“That’s not—what? No. That’s not what I meant.”

“You said jail doesn’t make someone a criminal. Which is dumb, because, hello! only criminals go to jail.”

“That’s literally not true.”

“Uh, yeah it is. I mean, unless you’re like… tax evasion guy. Or jaywalkers. But jaywalkers are criminals.”

You blink at him. “That’s… that’s not even close to nuanced.”

“Nuanced?” He tilts his head, grinning behind his glasses. “Big word for a criminal.”

“Stop calling me a criminal!”

“You were in Belle Reve. That makes you—drumroll—” he slaps his thighs for effect, “a criminal!”

“You didn’t kill Chris, even though he came out of Belle Reve,” you counter.

“Yeah,” he blurts, voice pitching higher. “But he’s my best friend, okay? And he only kills bad people. That’s different.”

“Does he really?” you slur out, disbelief dripping from every syllable. Before he can answer, you push further, “I only manipulate bad guys too! Like CEOs. Elon Musk. And I take their money. I even give some back. I’m basically Robin Hood.”

Adrian stares at you for a beat, then deadpans: “You’re not a fox.”

You blink. “What?”

“Robin Hood’s a fox. Green hat. Cute little tail. Steals from the rich. Fox.”

“I steal from the rich—”

“Still stealing,” Adrian cuts in. 

You drop your head with a groan. God, you’d almost rather circle back to the whole ‘fucking on Economos’ desk’ conversation than this. The absurdity bubbles up, and before you can stop it, laughter bursts out of you.

“What?” Adrian asks, tilting his head.

“You’re insane,” you say between laughs. Then your smile falters into something sharper. “But, ok. Kill me. I’m sure that will bring them all back together.” You lift your shoulders in a shrug, casual as you can manage. 

“You’re being sarcastic. I think.”

“Of course I am!” you snap, voice pitching higher than you’d like. “I don’t want to die! I just got out of Belle Reve. I wasted time there because I pissed off the wrong people, not because I’m some criminal mastermind.”

He stares at you, eyes wide and owlish behind the glasses. It’s not empathy— you know he doesn’t really do empathy— but the silence stretches, and something in his posture shifts, maybe he’s listening.

You keep going, words tumbling out fast and desperate. “I can beg, Adrian. Please.”

At his name, he jerks like you slapped him. His jaw works, hands twitching on his knees. “That’s cheating,” he blurts. “You’re not supposed to say my name when you beg. It feels wrong… manipulative. They never do it when I wear the mask.”

“Good,” you shoot back, your chest heaving. “Because I’m trying to manipulate you into not murdering me.” You try to catch his gaze, not even sure if he can see a damn thing through the red visor, but you do it anyway. “Please, Adrian.”

His fist curls tight, knuckles whitening, and you catch the muttered “Fuck” under his breath. He tips his head back with a theatrical groan, rolling it side to side like the world’s most put-upon martyr. Finally, he drags out, “Fiiine,” the vowel stretched long enough to sound like it physically pains him.

He slumps forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, glaring at the floor like he’s negotiating with himself more than with you. “But if you screw me over, I’ll make sure you regret it. Forever. Like… worse than losing a toe. Way worse.” 

He moves behind you, fingers working expertly at the knots until the ropes finally give. You pull your hands free and immediately rub at your wrists, hissing when you notice the faint burn marks.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I won’t screw you over. Not because of your whole forever toe-doom speech, but because you just untied me and I’m not suicidal.”

Adrian straightens up, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. He hesitates for all of three seconds, then blurts out, “Cool. So… can I have your number?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you know, just in case. Like, if I need to check that you’re not doing crimes. Or if I want to make sure you’re not dead. Or if I’m bored and wanna talk. All very practical reasons.”

You scoff a laugh—he was ready to kill you a minute ago, and now he wants your phone number. “I’ll give it to you if you first take off your mask from hell.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He digs into his pocket for a small key, then steps behind you to unlock the mask. The latches click, and when it finally comes free, you sigh in relief—only to immediately squeeze your eyes shut as he comes into view.

“My sunglasses, please, Adrian,” you say quickly. You want him to trust you, after all.

Instead of moving, he says, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I don’t know— uh, all of them?”

“Fuck, you can see? Am I under your spell? Hold on, let me do it again.”

“…Three fingers?”

“Ah! Got you, I wasn’t holding up any fingers. You’re really bad at this.”

You groan, pressing your palms to your eyes like that’ll make him vanish. “Adrian, this isn’t a game.”

“Fine, killjoy,” he mutters, and you feel the cool press of plastic as he slides your sunglasses onto your face, nudging them up your nose with surprising care. “There. Happy now?”

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth, the edge in your voice softening. “Very,” you admit, finally opening your eyes to look at him. “Did you bring my bag with you? My phone’s in there.”

Adrian hands you your bag, not before taking a quick peek inside. “You should really keep a gun with you, or at least some pepper spray.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t want to get kidnapped,” you answer, dripping with irony.

“Exactly.”

You dig through your bag and pull out your crappy burner phone. “Here. Put your number in.”

Adrian punches it in and hands it back, muttering something under his breath.

You tap call and hold the phone to your ear, watching him freeze as it rings— Barbie Girl?

He pats his pockets before taking his phone. “Hello?” he answers the call, his voice cautious.

You hang up with a snort. “Now you have my phone number,” you say, grinning.

“Good, good,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“I probably should go now, Jiminy Cricket,” you add, smirking and tugging your bag strap over your shoulder.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion.

“My conscience?” you tease, stepping closer to the door. “Don’t go doing anything… illegal,” you add, mimicking his tone.

He huffs, crossing his arms, clearly flustered. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you,” he mutters.

You smirk again. “See you around, Adrian,” you say, waving lightly as you head out. Then you pause. “Oh, wait. Which one is Economos’ desk?”

Adrian points toward a desk in the corner. You stroll over and rummage through the top, making a show of it. “Now I can go. Bye, Adrian,” you add, grinning as you finally leave.

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x reader

sum.: in a small moment of need, you call robby

warnings: set in this universe. reader is a strong independent woman, but she can’t put together a coffee table without help LOL, age gap (reader is late 20s, robby is canon age), they are not together but they share a child (ryan), a child/parenthood, reader is engaged to another man (dylan), lowkey/potential?? emotional infidelity (idk if that’s the right term BUT i’m using it anyway), there will be an (eventual) happy ending for robby and reader. minors please DNI with my work.

notes: i am so obsessed with them omgomg. like, i have so much to go on with them, just ahh. like there is so much potential here. eventually, there will be an actual long fic for them, but for now, drabbles. unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: roughly 700

You take one more glance at the instructions, the pile of junk that is supposed to be your new coffee table, and the pile of screws before you groan out of frustration. You’re going on hour two of trying to get it put together, and it’s just as frustrating as when you started.

Without even really thinking it through, you grab your phone and call the first man who can get this done without a second thought.

Twenty-eight minutes later, Robby is sitting in your living room drinking a beer with a drill in his hand, already almost done.

“You should have called me,” his voice breaks you out of your trance, “I would have come and done this when it came in.”

You laugh, bringing the glass of lemonade to your lips and taking a long slip, pretending not to notice his eyes that are glued to your neck as you swallow.

“I was trying to make a point.”

His eyebrows raise slightly, “And what point would that be?”

You give him a half smile, “That I can do things without depending on a man.”

He huffs out a laugh, turning back to the screw he’s drilling in, “You can do just about anything you put your mind too, baby. Man or no man,”

You both ignore the pet name. A habit Michael really never bothered to try to quit after the two of you separated.

Not that you really mind.

But you probably should.

You chuckle slightly, “Anything except put together a coffee table.”

He finishes drilling in the last screw, and you can tell something is bothering him when he takes a swig of his beer and follows it with a deep exhale, “Can I ask an inappropriate question?”

You raise an eyebrow, but nod slightly.

“Why didn’t Dylan put this together for you?”

You want to tease him, but you can tell it genuinely bothers him. The look on his face, the slight irritation in his eye.

Not irritation from having to come do it. But irritation that this has been sitting in your living room in it’s box for at least a month and it never got put together. And judging by the paw patrol bandaid on your finger, you cut yourself trying to do it.

You sigh, but there’s a soft look in your eye, “I told him I was an independent woman when he asked. He agreed, but said if it wasn’t put together soon, he was going to come do it himself.”

Robby can’t help himself, fighting off a smile as a sadistic feeling of joy crawling up his chest, “And yet you called me instead.”

You give him the smallest hint of a smile, “Yet I called you instead.”

He can’t help himself now, “Why?”

You blank at his question. Truly, you don’t have an answer as to why you called him instead. It was almost instinct to call Michael.

You’ve always just called Michael. For anything. He may have been a shitty boyfriend at one point, and he may not be the absolute best dad. But you can depend on him when you actually need him.

“I don’t really know,”

His eyes dim, just slightly, and he gives you a tight smile.

“Well,” he rubs his hands on his jeans, “it’s all put together now.”

You nod, “Yes, it is.”

He stands slowly, and you can’t help but notice the way he holds his lower back, nor the feeling of concern that comes with it.

“I probably should get out of here.”

“You don’t have to leave,” The words are out before you even realize it.

His eyebrow raises slightly in question.

“Well, I just mean,” you’re stumbling over yourself, and you know he can see it, “I just mean, the boys will be back soon. And Ryan will be disappointed that he didn’t get to see you.”

He spends a solid minute looking at you, studying you, before he answers, “Okay.”

When Dylan and Ryan walk back in, your boy is, of course, ecstatic to see his father, which you knew he would be, and you have to pretend not to notice how disappointed Dylan looks at the coffee table sitting in the middle of your living room.

[northernsoulktf]

Between The Lines- Chapter 14

Keeping The Peace

Summary: After your kiss, you and Eddie are both faced with a difficult decision.

Chapter Warnings: Controlling Behaviour (Scott), cheating, mentions of physical violence and injuries

Word Count: 7k

Your Perspective

You wake up slowly, still tangled in the warmth of Eddie’s arms. The faint light from the morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. For a moment, everything feels peaceful, like nothing else exists outside of this quiet, safe space.

Eddie stirs next to you, and you feel him shift. When he opens his eyes and sees you awake, he grins, the sleep still in his voice.

“Oh man,” he mutters, “If I wake up with drool on my chest, I’m charging you emotional damages.”

You smile against his shirt. “I don’t drool.”

“Mmm,” he says, eyes still closed, “we’ll let the forensic team decide.”

You can’t help but laugh softly at something he says, because that’s what he does to you. He makes you laugh even when your chest is caving in. But the sound slips away almost instantly, your smile collapsing under the weight of everything tangled up inside you.

You sit up, clutching the blanket to your chest like it’ll protect you from everything that’s coming next.

“Eddie… about last night…”

The words stick in your throat. They feel too big and too small at the same time. How are you supposed to explain it? That you kissed him because you couldn’t not? That you’d do it again if you let yourself, if the world were fair, if your life were yours?

You liked it. God, you liked it.

And that’s the problem.

You like him.

And you can’t.

“I don’t…” You shake your head. The tears don’t come, but the ache in your chest is just as sharp. “I can’t…”

“You can’t be with me.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like he already knew what you were going to say. Like he’s already made peace with it.

Then he smiles, small and lopsided. “You think I didn’t know that?”

You blink at him, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How right he is.

“Come on, princess,” he says gently. “I know your world’s got rules. Big scary ones with sharp teeth and trust funds.” He leans forward a little, tone more serious. “I’m not here to make it harder for you. I’m just… here.”

And it wrecks you.

Because you were braced for him to be mad. To feel used. To shut down, pull away, leave you in the cold like you deserve. You wouldn’t have blamed him.

You’re mad at yourself, after all. For kissing him. For dragging him into the mess you call a life. For wanting something you can never have.

But he’s not walking away.

“Wait… you’re not mad?” you ask, voice small.

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something behind it. “Mad I don’t get the girl? Maybe a little.”

He grins, a flash of humour softening the blow. “But mostly? I’m just glad I got to be the one who held you when you needed it.”

Your heart twists so hard it feels like it might snap.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you whisper.

Eddie watches you for a moment, then nods. Like he understands in a way most people wouldn’t. “It’s that you can’t.”

You nod, eyes burning. “I just… I don’t want to make things weird between us.”

He snorts softly. “Weird?” He raises an eyebrow. “Princess, I’m a grown man who wears a Hellfire Club shirt in public and once tried to convince the principal to let me teach a D&D elective. I am weird. We’ve got weird covered.”

Despite everything, that earns him a tiny smile. He always knows how to find it, even in the dark.

Eddie bumps his knee against yours. Gentle. Steady. “Look, I’m not expecting anything, alright? No pressure. No strings. I’m just here. That’s it.”

You look at him, eyes searching.

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Even if it means we’re … just friends?”

“Yeah, I’m down with being your friend no matter what that looks like. If that means sitting in my shitty van at midnight while you cry about your idiot fake boyfriend? Cool. If it means falling asleep on the couch during a horror movie marathon, also cool. If it means just… this?” He gestures between you, soft and simple. “Still cool.”

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him. The way his voice stays light, even when his eyes are saying something heavier. The way he keeps leaving the door open without asking you to walk through it.

Eddie Munson doesn’t do halfway.

But somehow, with you, he’s willing to.

And that, God, that’s what almost undoes you all over again.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whisper.

Eddie leans back on his hands, squinting at you like he’s thinking real hard. “Yeah, probably not. But I’ve got a soft spot for emotionally repressed overachievers with trust issues, so here we are.”

You snort before you can help it. “You’re such an idiot.”

He grins. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot. Or… your emotionally supportive, platonic idiot with great hair and zero boundaries, whatever works for you.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile, but the emotion behind it is real. Deep and aching.

You gather your things slowly, like you’re bracing for a storm. Eddie doesn’t rush you. He just drives.

Eddie drives you home, and you barely register the road slipping by. You’re already thinking about home, about Scott, and what kind of storm you’re walking into. About the lies you’ll have to tell just to get through the door.

And then there’s Eddie. Quiet, steady, kind. You were supposed to be helping him, and somehow he’s the one holding you together.

Then you see it, Scott’s car, parked like it owns the place.

Your stomach knots. You didn’t think he’d be here. Not today.

You mutter under your breath, barely audible, “Great.”

Your eyes stay locked on the car, pulse beginning to climb. You weren’t ready for this. You thought you’d have more time, time to breathe, to pretend things were normal, to figure out what the hell you’re even supposed to say to him.

“You sure you wanna go?” Eddie asks, voice low but sharp around the edges.

You blink, pulled out of your thoughts. Caught.

“Yeah,” you murmur, though even you don’t believe it. The word feels empty, paper-thin. “I have to face him. I haven’t seen him since… well. You know.”

Eddie nods once, slow, his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at you. Just stares ahead, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek like he’s holding something back. “Right. Gotta keep the peace.”

You don’t respond. Don’t argue. Because what would be the point? That’s what this has always been: keeping the peace, keeping up appearances, keeping quiet.

The silence stretches again, thick and suffocating, and you hate it. You hate that it feels so normal. That you’ve gotten used to swallowing the worst parts of your life like they’re just part of the deal. You hate that Eddie’s here, that he’s seeing this, carrying it, when he shouldn’t have to.

And still some part of you, quiet and cowardly, whispers that this is just the way it is. That maybe this is what you deserve. To be the version of yourself they need: the quiet one. The easy one. The one who doesn’t cry, doesn’t ask, doesn’t make a mess.

Eddie leans closer, elbows on the wheel, voice dipping again. “I’m not trying to make this harder for you, okay? But… I gotta ask.”

You straighten, just a bit. Shoulders tight. You knew this was coming. The moment he saw the bruises, it stopped being something you could keep tucked away in the dark. It’s out now, between you, heavy and inescapable.

“Is he gonna hurt you again?”

The question cuts through the quiet, more like a wound than a sentence. And suddenly, you’re back there, his fingers digging into your arm, too tight, like they always get when you don’t say what he wants fast enough. But the slap… that was new.

He was drunk. You keep telling yourself that. He was drunk. It wasn’t like him. Except… it was, wasn’t it? Just a different version. A worse one. And he’s been getting tired of you lately. Snapping more. Rolling his eyes when you speak. Sighing like you’re some weight he’s forced to carry.

What’s to stop him next time?

You press your hands deeper into your sleeves, like you could somehow shrink from the truth. Like disappearing might save you from it.

You lie, because this isn’t Eddie’s problem. Because you can’t bear the way he’s looking at you. Like you matter.

“No,” you say softly, forcing the word out like it doesn’t taste bitter in your mouth. “Probably not.”

It’s a weak answer. Hollow. And you both know it.

But Eddie doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

You sit there, trying not to fall apart under the weight of everything he’s saying. Everything he sees.

You don’t deserve this, not his kindness, not his worry, not the way he looks at you like you’re worth his time. It twists in your chest, tight and shameful, how bad you feel that he’s been dragged into your mess. He didn’t ask for this. You were supposed to be tutoring him, helping him pass English, not handing him pieces of your wreckage.

And yet… he’s here. Steady. Present. Looking at you like you’re not some burden he’s been stuck with.

“Look,” he says, voice low but firm. “I’m not tryin’ to be a hero, alright? I know I can’t fix all your shit with a few late-night talks and my charming personality…”

A soft breath escapes you. Half a laugh, half a sigh. It’s not much, but it’s something. He catches it, and his crooked smile is enough to make your heart ache.

“But I need you to hear me.”

You look at him, really look, and you feel raw under his gaze. Exposed. But you don’t look away. Not this time.

“You don’t have to put up with that shit.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Like they cracked something open inside you. Your throat tightens, and suddenly you’re not sure how to breathe, let alone speak. Because it’s not that simple. It never is.

He keeps looking at you, and in his eyes, you see things you’re not ready to face. Fear. Guilt. Hope. Maybe even trust. And it wrecks you, just a little.

“I’m not saying you gotta move in or run away and join my band, though you’d be a killer groupie.” He tries to joke, and it lands, even if just for a second. Your lips twitch. A ghost of a smile. But then he sobers, and the air between you shifts again.

“But if he lays a hand on you again, hell, if he even looks at you wrong, you call me. I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care where you are, I’ll come get you.”

There’s a catch in his voice at the end. Barely there, but it guts you.

The silence that follows is thick and trembling, like the whole world is holding its breath. You feel like you’re drowning in it, in everything you wish you could say.

So instead, you hug him.

It’s quick. Barely there. But it’s real. And the way he holds you back, careful and solid and warm, it undoes something in you.

When you pull away, there’s a moment where neither of you says anything. You’re still caught in the quiet gravity of him, of everything he is and everything he sees in you. Then, before you can fully come back to yourself, Eddie’s out of the van, boots hitting the pavement as he rounds to your side.

You step out, shaky but upright. Your legs feel like jelly, but you force yourself to keep walking, keep moving.

Just before you turn to go, Eddie’s voice breaks through your spiralling thoughts. It’s low, like he’s trying to make sure only you hear.

“And hey. Just because you have to go back… doesn’t mean you have to stay.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath out of you. You can’t look back. Can’t let him see the effect he’s had on you. You can’t let him see how much you need to hear that, even though you’re not sure you believe it.

You finally whisper, barely audible, “Thanks. For the ride… and for everything else.”

Eddie’s smile is small but warm. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Your throat tightens as you try to look away, the guilt rising in your chest.

You don’t want Eddie involved in this mess. You wish more than anything that he could stay out of it, that he could stay clean and free of all the ugliness you’re drowning in. He’s too good for this, too good for you. He doesn’t deserve any of it. He deserves better than you, better than this broken, empty shell of a person who can’t even fix her own life, let alone offer him anything worth having.

Your voice cracks when you speak, but you push it out anyway. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

He frowns, and his voice softens. “Doing what?”

You shrug, your gaze glued to the dashboard, avoiding his eyes. It’s easier that way. “Being here. Letting me dump all my crap on you. I don’t want to drag you into this mess.”

He exhales, shaking his head like he can’t even entertain the thought. “I’m not exactly Hawkins’ poster boy for social responsibility, sweetheart. If I’m here, it’s ‘cause I want to be. Not out of pity. Not ‘cause I have to.”

You swallow hard, the words you’re choking on clogging your throat. You feel the pressure building, the weight of everything you can’t say, everything you want to, but can’t bring yourself to. “I just… I know it’s a lot. With him. With me. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Eddie leans back, his gaze softening, like he’s seeing the mess you can’t let go of. “You’re not a problem I’m stuck with. You’re someone I give a shit about. Big difference.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You can’t find the words, not for this.. But the truth is, you don’t know how to handle him being nice to you. You don’t know how to accept the kindness without feeling like it’s all a lie, like it’s all temporary, and at some point, he’s going to wake up and realise he deserves more than what you can give him.

A long beat passes before you ask, “You still good for tutoring tomorrow?”

Eddie’s smile is small, but there’s something in it that makes you feel like you can breathe again. “Wouldn’t miss it, princess.”

You nod, and the smile he gives you is like a lifeline. As you shift to head up the path, you softly call, “See you tomorrow, Munson.”

Your legs feel like lead as you make your way up to the front door. You hear the voices of your dad and Scott from inside before you even open it, the familiar sound of their casual conversation echoing in the hallway.

You push the door open and step inside, immediately greeted by the sight of Scott sitting on the couch, chatting with your dad like nothing was wrong. Your dad looks over at you, his face unreadable, but he gives you a half-smile, nodding toward Scott.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence. Scott was just telling me about his plans for the summer,” your dad says, his tone casual, like everything is normal.

Scott looks up, and his eyes immediately soften when they land on you. He stands up and walks over, placing a quick kiss on your lips, though it feels mechanical, rehearsed. “Hey, babe,” he says, his voice smooth, but you can feel the tension in the air, thickening with each passing second.

You force a smile and nod, trying to make everything seem okay. “Hey,” you say, your voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.

Your dad watches the exchange with a detached look, then stands up and claps Scott on the back, sending you both a brief, final glance. “I’ve got some things to take care of. You two can talk.” He disappears upstairs without another word, leaving you alone with Scott in the quiet of the living room.

Scott sinks back into the couch, his hands fidgeting in his lap as if he’s trying to find the right words. He glances at you, his usual confident demeanour cracking just a little. “Look, I know Friday was… a mess,” he starts, his voice quieter than usual. “I shouldn’t have acted like that. I got drunk, and me and my dad, well, we had a huge fight. He found out I’ve been screwing around, fucking other girls, and… well, he lost it. Really lost it.”

You stand there, your heart thudding in your chest as you listen, trying to process what he’s saying. His words are coming out in fits and starts, and for a second, it almost feels like he’s being honest, like there’s some real emotion buried under the surface. But then it hits you, the way he’s framing it. He’s not really taking responsibility for what he did to you. 

He’s avoiding the heart of the matter, the way he can be cruel, the way he treats you when no one else is watching. Instead, he’s trying to justify everything. He’s sorry, kind of. But not really.

“My dad’s pissed,” Scott says again, running a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to shake off the frustration. “He’s been on my case, pushing me to be this perfect version of myself.” He looks at you for a moment, searching for something, but it feels more like he’s waiting for you to reassure him. “I guess I was trying to live up to it. But I fucked up.”

The words sit heavy in the air between you, but they don’t reach you. Not really. They’re hollow, just like everything else he says to you, like everything else about this relationship. His apology feels more like an obligation than an actual attempt to make things right.

“I’m going to stop all that,” he continues, his voice softening, like he’s searching for something you’re not sure you can give him. “I’m going to be a real boyfriend to you. I know I haven’t been. But I’m going to change. For us.”

For a moment, it feels like the world stops spinning. You’re torn in two directions, because part of you just wants him to say something real, something that would make you feel like you’re not just a pawn in some game, but the truth is, you don’t want him to be a real boyfriend. Not really. You don’t want the effort, the pretence, the hollow promises. You don’t want him to change. You want Eddie. But that’s a fantasy, and you’ve learned long ago that fantasies don’t work in the real world.

So you settle. You take what you can get. What you’ve been given, what you’ve been told, is all you deserve.

You swallow hard, trying to mask the bitterness in your chest, the ache that tightens around your heart. You can’t look at him, not when the weight of what you’ve just realised is suffocating you.

Instead, you nod. It feels like a betrayal, like you’re letting yourself drown in something you don’t want. But you can’t let the truth slip out.

“Okay,” you say quietly, and the word feels like chains around your throat.

The silence stretches until your mind goes where it always does now.

Eddie.

He’s messy, sure. Loud. A little reckless. But he’s smart in ways people never notice. The kind of smart that doesn’t care about grades or titles, the kind that makes connections no one else sees. Picks up on things you don’t even realise you’re saying.

He’s hilarious, too. Not just funny, not just clowning around to fill space, but genuinely funny. The kind that leaves you laughing even when you don’t want to. That makes the world feel a little less heavy, just for a minute.

And underneath all the noise and the big gestures and the over-the-top theatrics, he’s good. Not nice. Not polite. But good. The kind of good that looks out for people without needing a reason. The kind that shows up, no questions asked, even when you don’t think you deserve it. Soft. Loyal. Brave in the ways that matter.

You see it in the way he watches out for the freshmen in Hellfire like they’re his little brothers. In the way, he’s been there for you even though he doesn’t need any more mess in his life. 

He’s chaos with a heartbeat. He’s real.

And you, 

You’re not allowed to want him.

You bite your lip. Shift your gaze. You shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not when Scott’s trying. Not when you’re supposed to be grateful. Not when you’re the one who kissed someone else.

But Eddie doesn’t feel like a mistake. He feels like something you were allowed to want. For a second.

You glance sideways. Scott’s jaw is tight, like he’s holding his own breath. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s trying, in his way. You don’t even know anymore.

You used to feel sorry for him. Still do, sometimes. He’s as trapped as you are, chained to expectations he never got to set.

But he still made his choices. He still used his fists when his words didn’t land. He still slept with every girl who wasn’t you, then blamed you for not being enough.

Maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.

But it doesn’t matter. You just have to keep pretending.

Eddie's Perspective

It’s sometime in the dark, godforsaken hours of the night when Eddie blinks awake.

He doesn’t know what time it is, he’s not about to crane his neck to find the shitty little clock across the room, but he knows it’s late. Or early. Whatever.

You’re still in his arms.

And you’re still asleep.

Still pressed against him like you belong there.

Eddie shifts slightly, careful not to wake you, even though every part of him is aching, spine twisted like a pretzel, arm completely dead, one leg basically gone to the afterlife.

But he doesn’t move.

He wouldn’t even if his other leg caught fire.

Because you’re here. With him. Breathing soft and slow and safe, for the first time in God knows how long.

Your breath is steady, lips barely parted, one hand curled in the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid to let go even in your sleep. There’s this peacefulness to your face now, a softness he hasn’t seen before, not at school, not at Hellfire, not even when you laughed at one of his stupid jokes. No fake smile. No perfect posture. No pretending.

Just you.

Real and raw and wrecked.

And beautiful. So fucking beautiful it physically hurts.

Eddie stares at the ceiling like it might have answers, eyes dry and tired and wide awake. His mind’s still spinning from what you told him. Your deal with Scott. Your father.

He knew it was bad; he saw the bruises, but hearing it in your voice? Watching you fold in on yourself like you thought you deserved it?

Jesus.

He wishes he didn’t understand it so well.

He should be furious. At Scott. At your father. At the whole damn town for turning a blind eye.

But mostly he’s just tired.

Tired and sad and selfishly, stupidly heartbroken.

You kissed him like you meant it. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the freak everyone said he was. Like he was something solid. Safe. Wanted.

And he’s not an idiot — he knows what that kiss meant.

He also knows it won’t happen again.

Because you can’t leave Scott. Not without losing your family. Your future. Everything you’ve been forced to care about.

And he gets it. God, he gets it.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.

Like, full-body, gut-churning, punch-in-the-heart sucks.

And he hates that it happened like this. That her pain had to be the thing that cracked you open. That the kiss that he’s been dreaming about in half-conscious, guilt-ridden moments? The one that’s been haunting him since the first time you laughed at one of his dumb jokes came wrapped in bruises and broken trust.

And now what?

Now he’s the guy who got kissed once and knows it’s never happening again.

He shifts a little, careful not to wake you. Your hand slips down his chest slightly, and his stupid heart leaps like you did it on purpose.

Get a grip, Munson.

He closes his eyes, just for a second, and wonders, could he do it? Could he really just… be your friend?

Sit beside you in class like nothing happened?

Watch you walk down the hallway with Scott’s hand on your back, pretending you’re okay?

Let you come to him when it’s safe, cry on his shoulder, maybe even sleep in his arms, but never be allowed to kiss you again?

The thought twists in his chest.

It should be a no.

He should walk away before it wrecks him completely.

But then you shift again, breathe out this tiny broken sound, like even in your dreams you’re still fighting.

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he knows.

Yeah.

He can do it.

Because you need someone in your corner. Someone who won’t ask you to change or fix it or walk away from everything.

Someone who’ll just… stay.

So that’s what he’ll do.

Be the guy you can crash into when it all gets too much. The safe space. The quiet in the storm.

He can do it. He will do it.

Even if it wrecks him.

“Guess I’m a masochist now,” he mumbles to himself, smirking bitterly.

He shifts just a little closer, pulling the blanket up over your shoulder with his free hand.

“You really messed me up, princess, you know that?” he whispers.

You don’t stir.

Eddie smiles, soft, tired, a little crooked.

“Still worth it.”

And with that, he leans back, eyes fluttering shut, heart still wrecked but solid in one thing:

He’s not going anywhere.

When he wakes again, Eddie barely registers the light slipping through the curtains before the warmth registers, soft, steady, pressed into his chest like a dream he’s scared to wake from.

You’re still here.

The thought settles somewhere deep in his chest, warm and electric. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, doesn’t want to risk it. Like maybe if he moves too fast, breathes too loud, you’ll vanish. Turn back into a fantasy he cooked up during one of those lonely nights where the silence in the trailer was louder than any amp he’d ever blown out.

But then you shift. Just a little. A soft breath against his shirt, your fingers twitching near his ribs. And that’s how he knows it’s real.

He cracks one eye open.

And there you are.

Awake, tucked into him, lashes catching the light like some cruel kind of poetry. And you’re looking at him like maybe this hurts as much for you as it does for him, but you’re still here.

Which should feel like enough.

It does feel like enough.

Kind of.

“Oh man,” he mumbles, cracking one eye open and giving you a lazy grin. “If I wake up with drool on my chest, I’m charging you emotional damages.”

You smile into his shirt. Soft. Sleepy.

“I don’t drool.”

“Mmm,” he says, fighting a grin as he closes his eyes again, “we’ll let the forensic team decide.”

You laugh.

God, that laugh.

He could live off that sound.

But then, God, it’s gone. Just like that. Like you remembered something heavy and sharp. Like you’re already building the wall back up around yourself, brick by miserable brick. He can feel it in your body, in the way you curl in on yourself just slightly, like you’re trying to disappear into his arms and away from the world all at once.

“Eddie… about last night…”

The hesitation in your voice guts him more than anything else could. You kissed him. You held him like you meant it. You fell asleep in his arms. And now you’re trying to figure out how to make it all disappear without hurting you both too much.

“I don’t…” You start, shaking her head. “I can’t…”

And he finishes it for you.

“You can’t be with me.”

It comes out quiet. Steady. Like he already knew. Because he did know. He knew the second you kissed him that it wasn’t gonna end in happily ever after. The world you live in doesn’t leave space for guys like him.

But he’d do it again anyway.

He smiles, small, crooked, nothing like the real ones. “You think I didn’t know that?”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting him to take it so well.

And maybe that’s the worst part. That you thought he’d fight. Part of him wants to, but fighting you would mean hurting you, and he’d rather rip out his own heart than make you feel worse than you already do.

“Come on, princess,” he says gently. “I know your world’s got rules. Big scary ones with sharp teeth and trust funds.” He leans forward a little, voice low, honest. “I’m not here to make it harder for you. I’m just… here.”

And yeah, it kills him.

But he sees the way your shoulders sag with relief. The way you look at him like he’s giving you something you didn’t think you’d ever get, permission to just exist, without shame.

“Wait… you’re not mad?” you ask, your voice smaller than he’s used to hearing it.

And it fucking wrecks him.

That you really thought he’d be angry. That you’re so used to people turning on you the second you can’t be perfect.

He shrugs. “Mad I don’t get the girl? Maybe a little.”

He flashes you a grin, a little humour to ease the weight in the room. “But mostly? I’m just glad I got to be the one who held you when you needed it.”

Your eyes go all soft then, full of guilt and something dangerously close to longing. And he feels it twist in his gut.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you whisper.

And that, that burns.

Because he wants to reach across the space between them and say it doesn’t matter. That it’s okay. That he wants you too. That he’s wanted you since the first time you looked at him like he wasn’t the freak your boyfriend claimed he was. Since you handed him those notes like he were worth the time.

But instead, he just nods. Because this isn’t about what he wants.

“It’s that you can’t.”

You nod.

“I just… I don’t want to make things weird between us.”

Eddie barks out a laugh. “Weird?” He raises an eyebrow. “Princess, I’m a grown man who wears a Hellfire Club shirt in public and once tried to convince the principal to let me teach a D&D elective. I am weird. We’ve got weird covered.”

You smile, just barely. But it’s real.

And that? That’s enough to keep him going.

He bumps his knee against yours. “Look, I’m not expecting anything, alright? No pressure. No strings. I’m just here. That’s it.”

You stare at him, searching like you’re still waiting for the catch.

“Even if it means we’re… just friends?” you ask.

Eddie nods, tone light, even if it takes effort to keep it there.

“Yeah, I’m down with being your friend no matter what that looks like. If that means sitting in my shitty van at midnight while you cry about your idiot fake boyfriend? Cool. If it means falling asleep on the couch during a horror movie marathon, also cool. If it means just… this?” He gestures between you, soft, fragile, and true. “Still cool.”

You don’t answer right away. Just look at him.

And Eddie keeps the smile on his face even though it burns a little.

Because he meant what he said.

He’s here. Whatever that means. However long you’ll let him be. And yeah, maybe he’s a fool. Maybe he’s setting himself up for heartbreak. But he’ll take it.

Because you’re worth it.

All of it.

You whisper, “I don’t deserve you.”

Eddie leans back on his hands and squints at you, like he’s thinking real hard. “Yeah, probably not. But I’ve got a soft spot for emotionally repressed overachievers with trust issues, so here we are.”

You snort, and it’s like music.

“You’re such an idiot,” you say.

He grins, wide and easy. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot. Or… your emotionally supportive, platonic idiot with great hair and zero boundaries, whatever works for you.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile, but it’s there.

And he doesn’t say it, but it’s true:

He’d rather be your idiot than anybody else’s anything.

You gather your things slowly, like you’re bracing for a storm. Eddie doesn’t rush you. He just drives. 

No music. No jokes. Just the soft rumble of the van and the kind of quiet that feels full, like anything more might break it.

He glances at you now and then, but doesn’t push. He knows some silences are safer left untouched.

He doesn’t say anything until they hit your street.

That’s when he sees the car.

Scott’s car.

Eddie’s fingers tighten around the wheel, jaw locking before he even realises it. That shiny, smug little status symbol is parked right in front of your house like it belongs there. Parked like it owns the place. Like the asshole who drives it didn’t put bruises on her. 

You mutter, barely audible, “Great.”

Yeah, Eddie thinks. My sentiments exactly.

“You sure you wanna go?” he asks, soft but sharp. Like he already knows the answer.

You look up, startled. Caught mid-thought.

“Yeah,” you say, but it lands flat. Hollow. “I have to face him. I haven’t seen him since… well, you know.”

He nods, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. Fighting the urge to punch something. “Right, gotta keep the peace.”

You don’t answer. Doesn’t deny it. And that’s what gets him the most, the silence. The acceptance. Like this is just how it has to be. Like you owe them this part of you.

He leans closer, elbows on the wheel, voice dipping again. “I’m not trying to make this harder for you, okay? But… I gotta ask.”

You straighten, just a little. Shoulders tight.

“Is he gonna hurt you again?”

There it is. The thing he’s been biting back since you told him the truth. Since he saw the fucking bruises and felt like the ground fell out from under him.

Your fingers bunch tighter into the sleeves of your jumper like you’re trying to disappear inside it.

“No, probably not,” you say quietly.

Eddie hears the lie in your words, the hesitation. It doesn’t take much to see through it.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not tryin’ to be a hero, alright? I know I can’t fix all your shit with a few late-night talks and my charming personality…”

You huff a laugh. Soft. Barely-there. But it’s something, and he’ll take it.

“I need you to hear me.”

You lift your head. Meets his eyes. And that’s all he needs.

“You don’t have to put up with that shit.“

You just look at him. And fuck, the things he sees in your eyes, fear, guilt, hope, maybe even trust, they wreck him.

“I’m not saying you gotta move in or run away and join my band, though you’d be a killer groupie.” He offers a crooked smile, then sobers. “But if he lays a hand on you again, hell, if he even looks at you wrong, you call me. I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care where you are, I’ll come get you.”

The silence between them thickens, stretching long and taut, like it might snap at any moment. Everything they’re not saying hangs in the air.

Then, you hug him.

He holds you like you might vanish if he lets go too soon.

When you pull away, Eddie hops out of the van, rounds to your side, opens the door like you’re royalty, and he’s just the guy lucky enough to drive you around.

You step out, shaky but upright.

He watches you. Watches the way you square your shoulders like you’re walking into battle. And just before you turn away, he says, low:

“And hey. Just because you have to go back… doesn’t mean you have to stay.”

You don’t look back, but you pause, and for a second, it feels like maybe he’s said something you needed to hear.

“Thanks,” you whisper, barely audible. “For the ride… and for everything else.”

Eddie gives you a small smile. “Yeah. Anytime.”

You don’t look at him when you speak again, voice low and rough around the edges. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

His brows pull together. “Doing what?”

You shrug, eyes locked on the dashboard like it’s safer than meeting his gaze. “Being here. Letting me dump all my crap on you. I don’t wanna drag you into this mess.”

Eddie huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “I’m not exactly Hawkins’ poster boy for social responsibility, sweetheart. If I’m here, it’s ‘cause I want to be. Not out of pity. Not ‘cause I have to.”

“I just… I know it’s a lot,” you say. “With him. With me. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Eddie leans his head back against the seat, watching you with something that almost looks like hurt. “You’re not a problem I’m stuck with. You’re someone I give a shit about. Big difference.”

You blink, and he watches your throat bob as you swallow.

After a long beat, you ask, “You still good for tutoring tomorrow?”

Eddie’s mouth lifts at the corner. “Wouldn’t miss it, princess.”

That earns him a small smile as you shift to head up the path. “See you tomorrow, Munson.”

And then he watches you go. Watches you walk up that path like you’re heading straight into a war zone, head high, even though he knows you’re terrified.

He stays until the door shuts behind you and your silhouette disappears down the hallway. Only then does he exhale, slow and heavy, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t head straight home.

Eddie pulls up outside Gareth’s house, engine idling for a moment longer than it should. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, chewing his bottom lip like he’s stalling. He doesn’t want this to be weird, doesn’t want to screw up one of the few real friendships he’s got. But it already is weird. And he did screw it up a little.

He finally kills the engine and heads up to the door, giving it a knock with the side of his fist.

Gareth lets him in without much fanfare, stepping aside with a half-hearted, “Hey.”

Eddie nods, offering a quiet, “Hey, man,” as he walks past him into the house. There’s a beat of awkward silence before Gareth jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Come on.”

They head down the hallway in silence, the air weird and too still. 

Eddie makes a beeline for the bed, flopping down like he’s done a hundred times before, except this time, the weight in the air makes the mattress feel smaller.

Gareth kicks the door shut, grabs a bag of Doritos off his dresser, and tosses it over without a word.

Eddie catches it and slides down to sit on the floor, his back against the bedframe.

It’s familiar. It should be fine.

“So,” Gareth says finally.

Eddie lets out a breath. “Yeah. So.”

Another pause.

“I came to say sorry,” he starts, glancing up at him. “For yesterday. Inviting her without checking first. That was shitty.”

Gareth crosses his arms. “You think?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah. I wasn’t thinking. She’d had a rough couple of days, and I just… I didn’t want her to be alone.”

Gareth raises a brow. “You two talk a lot now?”

Eddie shrugs. “She’s tutoring me pretty much every night.”

“Right,” Gareth says, but his gaze drifts toward the amp in the corner. “You just seemed… close.”

“We’re not,” Eddie says too fast, winces. “I mean, we are, I guess, but not like that.”

Gareth gives him a look.

Eddie sighs, rolling a stray die between his fingers, watching the way the light catches the numbers.

“Look, she’s… smart. Way smarter than me. And funny, and decent. She sees people. I get why you’d have a thing for her.” His tone stays even, but there’s something tight beneath it. “But whatever you’re thinking’s going on? It’s not. She helps me with school, and I drive her home sometimes. That’s it. She’s with Wesley, and I’m just the freak she tutors.”

Not technically a lie.

He doesn’t say we kissed.

He doesn’t say she stayed over.

He doesn’t say I wish to god things were different.

Because it won’t change anything. And it sure as hell won’t make Gareth feel any better.

“She’s got her world, and I’ve got mine,” Eddie says. “And those two worlds don’t overlap. Not really.”

Gareth watches him for a long beat, like he’s trying to read something between the lines, then nods. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing.”

Eddie offers him a crooked smile. “You didn’t. I just felt like a dick. You needed a guys’ night, and I kinda hijacked it.”

Gareth huffs. “I’ve seen worse. Remember when Jeff brought that girl who tried to psychoanalyse us mid-combat?”

Eddie groans. “Oh my God. The one who said Corroded Coffin’s lyrics ‘reeked of unresolved maternal rage’?”

Gareth snorts. “That’s the one.”

Eddie laughs, and some of the weight finally lifts off his chest.

“We good?” he asks after a moment.

Gareth nods. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Tags: @walleloveseve @nngkay @lucydixon @mcqueenster @lodeddiperrodrick

[stupiditysholy]

At the Beach, In Every Life

CW: Steddie, angst, getting together, hurt/comfort, a tiny itty bitty bit of gore

“Is this real?”

Steve answered that question once, a lifetime ago. He fed it a kiss on the mouth and empty promises, warm and tan on a privately owned beach in southern Florida, shitty excuses already floating towards the shore.

He was tipsy, he didn’t know what he was saying.

It just isn’t the right time.

He’s got too much going on right now.

Nobody will understand.

I understand, Eddie would say, but he was three weeks dead before Steve realized that was an argument, not a surrender.

Too little, too late.

The worst part is, those empty promises weren’t just empty—they were lies. It actually wasn’t real to Steve back then.

Not in the ways that count.

That’s not to say his feelings weren’t real. Of course they were. He had never loved someone the way he loved Eddie—wholly, and with abandon. There wasn’t a thing Eddie could do to turn him off or away. His ridiculous theatrics, horrible puns, and criminal record made Steve swoon on their own, so you can guess how he felt about that dirty mouth and those big hands.

And how smart he was. So smart. Deceptively smart. And nerdy, and kind, and handsome, and passionate, and every other perfect thing you can think of.

He was everything.

Of course Steve loved him. Of course that was real—that’s just not what Eddie had been asking about it.

Eddie wanted more than the beach.

To Steve, Florida was a fantasy. A whole different life. It wasn’t anymore real than the nonsense he saw behind his eyelids in the middle of the night. He never approached it or withdrew from it with any sense of purpose, with any intention of making things permanent or cutting things off. It was beautiful. It was fun. It was a differently life in a different world where Steve could chase the things he wanted freely, and surrender to the things that chased him back. There were no consequences to kissing boys, learning guitar, wearing pretty clothes, or drinking too much coffee. In taking those trips to the beach, he had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

Until, one day, he did lose.

Eventually, Eddie just… didn’t show.

Obviously, Steve had suspected that would happen—he’d have been pretty fucking arrogant not to. Effectively, he’d been stringing Eddie along for years with no real intention of ever being more than a series of flings, and if Eddie wanted more than that he deserved it. He more than deserved it—in Steve’s opinion, he was absolutely entitled to a perfect lover bequeathed to him by God, gorgeous and sweet and willing to love him as loud as Eddie wanted.

He just also expected there to be a fight.

Selfishly, he thought there’d be screaming and crying and arguing. He thought on the last day of one of their escapades, Eddie would throw down the gauntlet, whether that be an ultimatum or a threat, and they would go at it like dogs. He thought there’d be bloody knuckles and split lips. He thought one of them might break a window, or an obscenely expensive vase. He thought he’d get one last sliver of a chance, and that maybe, just maybe, he’d finally have the courage to take it.

But that fight—that chance—never came.

And that fucking haunted him.

Suddenly, without warning, Steve was like an addict without his fix. He couldn’t get Eddie out of his head, couldn’t stop looking for him him.

At the grocery store.

At the mall.

In shadows and strangers.

Picking up the kids from school.

On dates.

In girls’ smiles.

In guys’ pants.

He couldn’t talk to anyone about it, not even Robin. She was the most likely to understand, and yet, the words just couldn’t make it past his swollen tongue. Once or twice, he’d gotten so fucking close he thought he’d actually said it just by how she was looking at him.

Then she would turn, babbling about ice cream or sorting tapes or girls, and it was gone.

Just… gone.

But it wasn’t over, was it? Because then Chrissy died, and Steve really couldn’t start looking for Eddie soon enough. The second the news reached his ears he had resolved to pick quietly through the woods that night on his own. It just so happened that Dustin was ten steps ahead of him and he could play it off like he didn’t care knowing the kid would eventually “wear him down.”

Things happened quickly after that.

Too quickly.

They happened so quickly that Steve didn’t have the time or space to acknowledge he desperately wanted Eddie back, everything else be damned, until he was already dead.

And how do you mourn?

How the hell is a man supposed to sit in a pew at a funeral and be unaffected by the cheap, empty coffin that’s supposed to be holding the love of his life? How the every loving fuck was he supposed act like his own heart wasn’t being buried right in front of him? How was he supposed to comfort the kids, comfort Dustin, when he was hollow? Carved out? Pulled apart? It was impossible. It was wrong.

So he sat with Wayne in the church for a while before the actual service. It was quiet, for the most part, except—

“He, uh… he liked you. A lot,” Wayne had said, breaking the silence, “He never… he never spoke bad about you, kid. I know things between you were… different, without the vacations and all, but… he wasn’t mad at ya.”

Wayne was being kind, but hearing that Eddie hadn’t hated him after he’d broken both their hearts burned down what was left of his resolve—he fell into disgusting, choking sobs, and had to leave long before the funeral was meant to start.

He caught hell from Robin and the kids for not being there, so when the ground decided to start cracking open and swallowing people whole, he wasn’t really on speaking terms with anyone but Nance. She let him know when shit was starting to go down, and he showed up, nail-bat in tow.

He hasn’t really processed much from the almost-apocalypse, but none of that really matters anyway.

Not when he’s holding Eddie’s face in his hands, and he’s finally, finally getting that last chance.

“Yeah—yeah, it’s real,” Steve stutters. He wants to sob, wants to scream, but talking Eddie off the ledge is so much more important than the pain he’s in, and the relief he feels. The older boy is still wide eyed and frantic, shaking uncontrollably and occasionally trying to jerk away despite his claws being embedded in the flesh of Steve’s back, “Hey—hey, it’s me. It’s Steve. You’re oka—“

“No, no,” Eddie groans, and Steve hisses as those talons finally retract from his skin, blood seeping down his back—not that he can really tell the difference between that and the grimy lake water still dripping from when he and Eddie went crashing in moments ago, “Not again—I won’t fucking—you’re not him. This isn’t real, he doesn’t—“

Steve wades forward, water swishing around his waist, and gets his grip back on Eddie’s face, forcing him forward to look in his eyes.

They’ve got a bit of a red hue, now, but it’s still obviously, overwhelmingly Eddie.

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

Steve can hold in his sobs, but he couldn’t stop the tears if he tried.

“Hey—it’s real! I swear, it’s fucking real. It’s me. Vecna, the Mind Flayer, they’re gone. You’re free, Eds, I promise. I promise.”

“Eddie!” Dustin splashes into the water, and Eddie reacts in fear. He lurches forward into Steve’s chest, one arm caging them together (with an alarming amount of strength) as the other plunges downwards and rips the sword he’d been wreaking havoc with earlier up and out of the water. He aims it right at Dustin as he clings to Steve like a spooked animal.

“Woah! Woah woah woah,” Steve says, returning the embrace with one arm and reaching out with the other. He takes places the flat of his palm on Eddie’s extended bicep, and gently presses down, coaxing him into lowering the weapon, “It’s okay, it’s just Henderson. You’re okay—“

“Is he alright?” Dustin asks, not close enough to be in any real danger of running into Eddie’s sword, but still wary, “Is it him? Or is it… Kas?”

The sword dips.

Eddie seems to realize, suddenly, they aren’t alone. Dustin’s in the water, now, and Rob and Nance are up on the beach taking stock of themselves. Whatever trick he thought this was, it doesn’t seem to account for them being here, which Steve is grateful for. He doesn’t know what he would do if Eddie started swinging his blade around as a trauma response.

After a few agonizing moments of him just looking around, taking in his surroundings, he turns back to Steve.

He’s much, much closer than he was before.

And it’s completely inappropriate timing with the audience and the near-death experience they just had, but Steve’s breath hitches and he wants, anyway. He watches, melting a little, as Eddie’s gaze flickers from his eyes down to his lips and up again, as if searching for something. Some clue that this is all an evil trick, or…

Permission?

“It’s you?” Eddie asks, quiet and soft, “You’re real?”

He doesn’t trust himself to speak, to say the right thing, so instead he just nods—small, timid.

There is a beat of silence where Steve thinks even Dustin holds his breath.

Then the sword drops back into the lake with a splash as Eddie lurches forward and smushes their mouths together messy and rough and long overdue. It tastes like shit and smells even worse, but Steve couldn’t give any less of a fuck—it’s Eddie. He’s kissing Eddie who is alive and not a Vecna puppet and does not hate him.

Fuck, this is everything Steve ever needed.

Just him and Eddie on the beach in every life.

“Oh whaaaaat the fuck?” Steve hears Dustin distantly, accompanied by the swishing of water. He doesn’t mind it—just kisses furiously and feverishly, hands gripping and groping every available inch of the man in front of him, reminding himself with every touch that he’s really here, he’s really okay.

Bleeding profusely and stinky as hell, but okay.

“I love you,” Steve breaks away to say at some point, a kiss smacking against his moving lips as Eddie tries to keep going— “I love you, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—“

A kiss finds his cheek and his forehead as he dissolves into tears, sobs finally breaking free as the adrenaline he’d been feeling finally wears off. He collapses into Eddie’s chest, choking and shaking and gasping.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Eddie’s asking, but Steve is too busy crying to answer. They sway a little where they stand. If they were on dry land, Steve might have collapsed and dragged Eddie down with him, but he’s not exactly itching to drown right after surviving the apocalypse.

They stay like that a while—a few minutes, maybe—before there’s more water sounds and a hand on Steve’s back. He presses his face harder into Eddie’s shoulder and grips tighter. He won’t let go, not for anything. Not for anyone.

“You both need stitches,” Nancy says, “We have to find the others.”

Steve wants to protest, wants to stay here forever just like this. Starve, bleed out, whatever—but he knows she’s right. Reluctantly, he takes breathes in deeply, shudders it out, and pulls back.

“I love you,” he says again, earnestly.

The smile that spreads across Eddie’s face is more than worth the slight embarrassment of saying it his ex right next to him and Dustin grimacing from afar.

“Oh, Stevie,” Eddie says, almost giddy despite the circumstances, “I know.”

Let me know if y’all want a little bonus blurb about them once they’re dried off and stitched up.

[stories-i-guess]

Today is the 1 year anniversary of Stories!

…I Guess!

One year since I randomly decided, “Y’know what, fuck it! I’ll go on this random weird website and make an account! Screw it!” And then proceeded to, on a random whim, write the first chapter of a book I had never thought of!

And, in that one year I’ve joined a crap ton of communities, followed almost a hundred people, gotten over twenty moots I can never remember the names of, watched two friends leave Tumblr randomly without explanation, and gotten exactly two hundred and fifty followers!

WHY ARE YOU GUYS FOLLOWING ME, I AL NOT THAT FUNNY OR INTERESTING AND I GET REALLY POLITICAL, ANGRY, WEIRD, AND STUPID AT RANDOM TIMES I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE APPEAL OF MY NEURODIVERGENT ASS

…ignore me please.

Moving on!

I’d like to say thank you, to all of you! Yes, even the people who piss me off! Because every single person I meet on Tumblr is another person who shapes it around us! We are the ones who make this hellsite, together! We are the ones who make it fun, queer, horny, fluffy, angsty, weird, nerdy, bright, dark, and every other word possible to describe this wonderful place!

I don’t know where I’d be without you all! *eyes very quickly flick over to a floating cartoon drawing of a grave before looking back at you* …heh!

Anyways! I’m so glad that I’ve met so many amazing people here, and that I’ve seen so many amazing things! I love this ridiculous site, hellish parts and all!

So, happy birthday to…

Stories! …I Guess!

oh, and it’s my birthday, I guess. I got a shitty chocolate cake that tasted like a brownie dropped in sand, and CD player with only one CD, and one on the way, both of which are repeatedly played on my phone. Because I have Spotify for a reason. And Spotify fits in my pocket. I also got merch from my favorite movie, but they were my two least favorite shirts from them that I had openly laughed at when I saw on the shop because I thought they were stupid. Then I got a book from a series I didn’t like and then I got a plushie from one of my favorite shows. But it was a plushie I didn’t want, because I didn’t think the creators had pulled it off very well. I had wanted the figurine version of that character, and the plushie of the same character, but in a different form. And despite the fact that a violin was the only thing I had asked for, it will be private lessons on a rented one, starting fuck knows when. So, not exactly the most excited about that. The best part of my day was when no one was near me and I read in silence. Since I’m on my period, I can’t mask for shit, but my mom had made me cry by yelling at me because I complained about presents from last Christmas literally last night, so I wasn’t about to let my inability to hide my emotions stop me from never actually letting them know what I was feeling, because none of them can read me for shit. I stared solemnly and sadly at those presents for an hour and was able to explain it as a lack of energy with no more questioning.

[jamesonxcassidy]

“ oh definitely. She’s like already got so much of who she is figured out but is still just being a kid and enjoying that. “ Jameson admitted. He never wanted Emma to feel like she didn’t have a good childhood. He’d sacrificed so much of his own because of what happened with their parents and trying to do the best for his sister that his own childhood had been a mess “ I feel like I should have asked do you want to reach out?” He asked still trying not to step too far with her. He knew what it was like when people asked about his dark past and he didn’t want to do the same. “

“ I don’t think anyone deserves to have a shitty childhood. Or it’s something that has to be Believe me I know from experience myself “ he admitted. Glancing back at her. No it didn’t have to be hard for her same as it didn’t have to be a nightmare for him and his sister. They just had different sorts of terrible “ I’ve only loved two places in my life and Aurora bay was the better place. I think it might always be the better of places “ @hollandbrights

"Aw, that's a good age." Holland remembered that age and how great it had been getting to roam around the countryside with the other kids her own age. She didn't have a ton of good memories from when she was little, so she savored the ones that were. She could imagine that getting to see a child grow up was something nice, even if she thought children were probably never in her cards. "Oh, um, maybe? If they were anything like me, they changed their names after they left." She hadn't changed her first name, but she had changed her surname. "True. Seems... I don't know difficult." She shrugged. Holland would rather live her life and if it happened, it happened. Otherwise, she was fine on her own and was doing her best to make friends and be normal.

"It's okay. I mean... I don't know. It's the way stuff has to be." While her childhood had been horrible, Holland liked to look on the bright side of things. She was ever the optimist as much as she could be. "Oh, yeah, traveling was fun. Aurora Bay is really cool though. I don't think I'm going to leave anytime soon."

[confusedgayscreeching]

This voices how I feel about this whole plot line so well. As a queer person who has been called all sorts of slurs and hateful shit, I could easily forgive that 10x faster than the shit Jonathan pulled. He so blatantly violated both of their privacy and did so in such a gross way, he also very clearly didn’t see much of anything wrong with what he did, it was pretty clear he apologized more out of necessity than anything because we never see him act like he feels even a little bit guilty. Steve destroying his camera never felt like bullying to me, it felt deserved, like justice. Steve said some horrible shitty things and he genuinely was a shitty guy in the first season, but a guy who grows up and realizes he was being a shitty asshole teenager and goes out of his way to change is leagues ahead of the guy who creepily spies on and takes pictures of people in states of undress while being intimate without their knowledge. I would lose my shit if I found out anyone did that to anyone I know, regardless of my relationship with said person. I personally don’t really think that action is something a character can come back from, especially when the character themself doesn’t seem to recognize how disgusting of a choice it was.

This was actually always something that bothered me with the writing of the show. As a writer you have to be aware of how a writing choice will affect the way the audience feels about a character. The thing is, even if you genuinely think that this is a forgivable thing to do in real life, a fictional character doesn’t have years to win back the audience and prove themselves, and you’d have to figure out a way to redeem them so fast, or like make the character so pathetically guilty about it, and Jonathan doesn’t do any of that. He genuinely doesn’t seem to believe he’s done anything all that wrong, and it feels like it’s because the writers realized they wrote themselves into a corner with an overly creepy plot line and then couldn’t figure out how to redeem him so they just decided to ignore that it happened.

I’m a huge Steve fan, and I know that makes me seem biased here, but this show has shown me a lot of things about writing, because I am normally a huge sucker for nerdy loser type characters, and I went into the show expecting to really like Jonathan and be a huge fan of Nancy. I hate Jonathan. Nancy irritates me. I adore Steve.

I was intensely bullied as a kid and I despise bully character and shitty high school boys. Steve isn’t either of those things to me. They showed like a couple instances of him being a dick, but they honestly kind of failed at painting him as that typical bully jock stereotype to me, and they certainly failed at making Jonathan any kind of relatable or respectable version of the loner nerd stereotype. Overall the writing does get a lot better as the show goes on but in the first season or two I think the writers really failed these characters.

Steve said fucked up shit in season one, sure. I feel bad for Jonathan that his brother went missing, nobody should ever have to experience that.

However, if I found out that some loner kid that nobody talks to (who is also my neighbor) invited himself over to my house, snuck into my bushes while I hosted a gathering, spied on my girlfriend and I while I was getting ready to have sex with her, took nude photos of said girlfriend while I was none the wiser, then had the audacity to develop said photos?

I would not have stopped at breaking Jonathan's camera. I probably would've almost killed him. Like. Not only did this guy see me naked, which is whatever, but purposefully went out of his way to take photos of my naked girlfriend without her permission all under the guise of an "innocent" crush. Bullshit. That's bullshit.

And, like, I hated Steve in the first season. What he said, if I were in Jonathan's shoes, is completely inexcusable and I'd hold a grudge for a very, very, very long time.

But I don't know. Giving leeway to Jonathan because oh he apologized and Nancy forgave him and they're a good monster hunting/dating duo, but not giving leeway to a guy that was an asshole immature teenager who then bettered himself by actually inserting himself as somebody who helps rather than somebody who is a bystander, and then also got to know a queer person without judgement, and also also apologized—I don't know, that just sort of reeks of something I don't even want to touch.

Jonathan's a fine character. And I know saying that means nothing when it's obvious, just by my header alone, that Steve is my favorite character. But I don't owe it to Jonathan to like him. Because what he did, at least in my eyes, is way worse than some terrible words thrown in the means to cut deeply at somebody and rile them up. And trust me, I have been through it with a guy similar to Jonathan who was a rapist fucking creep (who also coincidentally had a missing brother that I helped find)—and maybe this is biased on my part to mention something personal, but I would never, in a million fucking years forgive the guy that was a rapist fucking creep to me just because I said some shit about him or because he's "nicer" than who my partner was at the time; that's fucking disgusting and underplays sexual harassment and shit.

Also, like, if I found out, too that my girlfriend thought I was bullshit and then started dating the guy that took sexually explicit photos of her without permission? Dude, I don't even know how Steve's still around; I would've fucking ended my life or something, cause that's crazy shit. Not only do I face down a monster with these two, but now the girl that I love the most—that I thought I was defending by breaking Jonathan's camera—is dating said creep and then my new best friend who keeps me in check, my pseudo little brother, and some guy who I have a non-existent rivalry with is trying to push me back to her, meanwhile that same creepy guy is talking shit behind my back? Bro, what the fuck.

Like, sure, if I were Steve in season 3 or 4? Yeah, I'd be like, yeah, Jonathan can hate me all he wants. I don't want to be friends with somebody who preys on girls (in this case one specific girl who I had been dating). And also, yeah, I said some fucked up shit to that guy and that wasn't cool, but hopefully he doesn't want to be my friend.

Okay, yeah, my Steve bias is really showing here, I guess. But I don't know. Steve had his character arc and development and has shown to be making improvements in areas where he previously failed. He's no longer a bystander to the fucked up, and he apologizes swiftly now when he says something that bothers someone (knocking Dustin's teeth back out). And Jonathan is severely traumatized—I get that—but he's also been kind of misogynistic and rude to Nancy (like arguing with her when she's talking about being mistreated in her internship), he lies to Nancy's face, and then also took gross photos; how am I supposed to like him? I feel bad for him in regards to his trauma, but I don't like him at all.

I'm tired of pretending that the Duffers choosing to brush the "took photos of Nancy Wheeler naked" plot line under the rug isn't fucking gross and weird. And it's even more gross that they wrote her getting with Jonathan after what he did all because he apologized. What part of Jonathan's story line am I supposed to click with and like? Okay, the show's about freaks and geeks and whatever—and maybe Steve isn't supposed to be the fan favorite—but I like the other "freaks" in the show just based on the principle that they weren't trying to be sexually weird to some of the other characters in the show. It's just weird. And it's also weird that Jonathan's behavior is viewed as "excusable" by the audience because he apologized, but Steve isn't worth that same forgiveness even though he also apologized. And it's completely fine if you can't get with Steve because he said some fucked up shit, but it's really weird to me—and again bringing in a personal bias, sorry—as somebody who is a sexual assault survivor that Jonathan's blatant sexual assault on Nancy is forgivable.

[valeovalairs]

You can pry girl dad Mark Winters out of my cold dead hands.

[gracebethartacc]

soooo I had a lore idea earlier that ties into the rewrite really well,,,,,,

Poor unfortunate souls am I right :)

[lesbiansanemi]

Currently trying not to vomit over the fact that I essentially just lost almost a thousand dollars brb

[moreaujeans]

semi came out to someone for the first time last night

[seilon]

top surgery…………tomorrow…………

[okcoolthanks]

I feel like my family’s getting sick of me

[barley-st-band]

hey does anyone know how we’re supposed to survive it all. asking for a friend