#but yeah Snuff felt wrong

[velarisdusk]

This Tempest, Ours

Rhysand x Reader

summary: On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought. word count: 11.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, there's only one sleeping bag, y/n is scared of storms, very briefly insinuated tamlin x reader, daemati-use, wet dreams, lovemaking for the most part but we get rough for a sec ] author's note: we’re gonna assume mental shields stay up during sleep…. yeah... ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a veil of dreammist & a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot & starlight crystals stirred thank you anon for the request!!!! i'm finding i really enjoy writing friends to lovers this is so sweet :") anyway i hope you like this one!! <33

The cold in the Winter Court didn’t seep into your bones—it gnawed at them. Gnawed like it had teeth and purpose and the unrelenting patience of a predator that knew you’d wear down eventually.

You’d stopped pretending to sleep an hour ago, after the lantern blew out. The wind outside the tent moaned like a creature in mourning, threading through the seams and catching in the corners of the thin canvas until it felt like the whole thing might lift and carry you off with it. You pressed deeper into the bundled cloak beneath you, trying not to shiver too obviously. You failed.

You were wrapped in more layers than you could count—thermal base, thick wool, a coat heavy enough to double as a blanket—but it still wasn’t enough. Even Rhys, normally indifferent to climate or discomfort, had resorted to cloaks and furs, the sharp line of his jaw the only part of him visible from beneath the hood pulled low. 

Behind you, Rhysand exhaled, sharp and irritated. “You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through the ground.”

You didn’t open your eyes. “You always this broody when you’re forced to keep all that power on a leash?”

A beat. Then—“Keep talking and I’ll show you how not broody I can be.”

You snorted, cracking open one eye. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t let my magic out at all in twelve days. Give me a break.”

You finally rolled over to face him, the dim moonlight filtering through the tent’s fabric casting his features in pale blue and silver. There was a tension around his mouth, in the fine line between his brows. He hadn’t looked truly relaxed since your boots first crunched through the snow at the border. 

The artifact—known only in whispers as the amulet of Larethine—was said to suppress magic so completely that even a High Lord’s power would snuff out like a candle. Rumored to have vanished after the war centuries ago, it resurfaced in scattered reports. They all pointed to the same abandoned temple buried somewhere in the Winter Court’s northern edge, where the snowfall was so constant it blanketed even sound. Rhysand intended to retrieve it quietly—before word spread and the wrong hands reached it first. So here you were. Nearly two weeks with no magic, no contact, no help. Just the two of you, and a map worn soft at the creases.

Rhysand’s power coiled beneath his skin like a thing alive, begging to be freed. But Kallias’ wards draped over the court like a net of ice, intricate and merciless. The second he even brushed the world with a tendril of it, you’d be caught.

You hadn’t expected it to wear on him like this. 

“Your pack,” he said after a pause. “Still soaked?”

You winced, remembering the misstep near the creek a few days ago, then nodded. He shifted. “Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your pack, and everything in it—including your sleeping bag—is useless. It won’t dry in this weather. Either we share mine or I watch you freeze to death. I vote the former.”

You hesitated, the silence between you swelling into something tight and uncertain. But then another gust of wind screamed past the tent, and pride gave way to practicality. 

“Fine.”

You crawled across the narrow space and slipped into the sleeping bag beside him. It was cramped—painfully so—and the moment you settled, his body pressed to yours, impossibly warm. You turned onto your side instinctively, back to his chest. You could feel every breath he took, feel the slow thump of his heart against your spine, the barest hint of muscle shifting when his hand curved around your middle, settling just beneath the edge of your ribs, his palm held steady against you.

Behind you, something rustled, and then the faint brush of membrane—Rhys shifting, one wing sliding from the sleeping bag in a slow stretch over you. 

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered. “That thing freezes and falls off, we’re really fucked.”

He snorted quietly. “It has excellent circulation, thanks.”

“Put it away.”

Another rustle of fabric as he tucked the wing back inside.

“Warmer now?” he said dryly. 

“Mm.”

The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable. You listened to the wind, to the soft crinkle of fabric with each small movement, to the quiet hum of his presence behind you. It was startling, how much space he took up without speaking, how much lighter the silence felt now that he was pressed against you. 

His breath stirred at the hair at your nape. You tensed, then forced yourself to relax again, inching away a fraction. He followed. 

“Rhys.”

“What.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

A pause. Then, shamelessly: “It’s where your neck is.”

You huffed, and he chuckled—a rare sound lately. Low and warm, it rolled through your back where your bodies touched, and you had to fight not to smile. 

After a long moment, his voice came again, quieter. 

“We’ll find it tomorrow.”

You gave a small nod, felt more than seen.

He shifted behind you, the subtle movement bringing his chest closer to your back, breath skimming your hair. “Then we get out. We go home.”

You let out a quiet breath, just enough to fog the air in front of you.

“You always this optimistic at night?”

He hummed low in his throat. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”

That pulled a small, tired smile from you.

“Must be the frostbite. You’re delirious.”

His fingers flexed slightly where they rested at your waist.

“Mm. That, or the cold makes me honest.”

Something in your chest ached—not sharp, but deep. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle soft around you.

Sleep found you curled into his warmth, his hand resting at your waist, his breath a gentle rhythm against your skin. And in the morning, with the air sharp in your lungs and the scent of pine still clinging to the chill, that warmth lingered over your skin.

The cold in the Winter Court hadn’t gone with the morning light. You’d found Larethine two days after that—tucked beneath the roots of an ancient ice-locked tree, a whisper of power veined through crystal. The mission had ended days later in a quiet exhale, a long journey home trailing behind it. It had been nearly three weeks since then. Long enough for bruises to fade, for muscle to stop aching.

Still, the cold seemed to have burrowed itself into your bones, the bite of it still there, even in the warmth of your bed in the City of Starlight. 

You woke to the sound of wind clawing at the windows. A storm, full and furious, had settled over Velaris—the kind that turned the Sidra restless and made even the stars hide. Thunder cracked a beat later, loud enough to shake the walls.

Your heart was already racing, breath shallow and tight, at odds with the warmth wrapped around you. You lay there a moment, still and listening, the storm rattling through your bones like it had teeth again. They’d always scraped at your nerves, left them humming like struck strings. 

The covers were a tangled mess around your hips, shoved down in sleep. Your T-shirt had ridden up high, bunched beneath your ribs, and when you looked down, you caught a glimpse of bare stomach, underwear, the slope of one thigh kicked over the sheets. You shifted, tugged the hem back down, fingers moving slow and clumsy like they weren’t entirely yours.

You remembered bits and pieces of the dream, not that it’d been much different from the others you’d had since that night. Tonight, he hadn’t been content just to hold you. His hands wandered. His mouth dragged slowly over your skin, coaxing sounds you’d never let slip in daylight. You woke slick between your thighs, the ache lodged deep and stubborn. 

Another crash of thunder rolled across the rooftops. You pushed the blankets off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The house was magicked to stay warm; your skin was slick with sweat, and still, you felt chilled. 

You didn’t think about it. Didn’t bother with pants or slippers. Just padded into the hall in your T-shirt—soft, worn thin, hem brushing mid-thigh and swaying with every step.

The storm pressed against the glass. The quiet inside felt louder for it.

You moved through it automatically, headed for the kitchen. The house was still, shadows long and familiar, but your mind had already drifted somewhere else—somewhere colder.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. Maybe you’d tried to. Maybe you’d told yourself it hadn’t meant anything. But your body remembered. Before your thoughts could catch up, your body remembered—his warmth at your back, the weight of his hand at your waist, the breath at your neck.

That same tension had curled beneath your skin now. You hadn’t realized you missed it until it came back.

The air had gone heavy the moment he touched you, and you hadn’t breathed properly since. You hated how your body still reacted—like it didn’t care what your mind had decided. Like it knew better.

Maybe it did.

You reached the stairs and took them without thought, one hand trailing the banister. The house didn’t creak beneath you. Even your own footsteps felt hesitant, like they didn’t want to disturb the memory.

You’d spent weeks pretending it hadn’t changed anything. That you were still the same. That he was.

You stepped into the kitchen without turning on the faelights. The storm outside pressed at the windows, a steady beat of rain—or maybe snow—smeared against the glass in streaks. Slush, probably.

You moved on instinct, pulled the kettle from its place, filled it from the tap. The cool weight of it settled in your hands, grounding—but not enough.

You set it on the stove and twisted the knob, a faint click giving way to the low hum of magic-warmed coils. Still, your thoughts refused to quiet.

You’d been telling yourself you hadn’t wanted it. That it had just happened. But you remembered leaning into him. You remembered the way your body had reacted—eager, instinctual, like you’d been waiting for it. 

You reached for a mug without looking, fingers curling around the ceramic absently. It was warm from the cupboard’s enchantment, but your skin still felt cold.

You exhaled slowly and leaned your hip against the counter, staring at nothing.

And while the kettle began to warm, your thoughts slipped—quiet and treacherous—back to the tent. But your mind didn’t pull up the truth of that night. Not the soft hush of breath, the shared warmth, the way you’d both kept to yourselves despite how closely you lay. What you remembered instead—what you felt—was the dream you’d had in his arms. The one you hadn’t dared to admit to anyone. 

You remembered the weight of his hand curling around your hip—broad, sure fingers splaying possessively across your skin like he’d always known exactly where to touch you. His thumb pressing just beneath your navel, slow little circles that made your breath catch. His chest, solid and hot, flush against your spine. Each inhale of his drawing your body tighter to his, like he wanted to fit you perfectly between every breath. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you.

And gods, you’d imagined how he’d move. He’d start slow, savoring it. Savoring you, every thrust controlled. He’d want to melt into you, to lose himself in every slick, shivering inch. And the press of him felt so real in your mind that your thighs pressed together without you meaning to.

The slow, deliberate roll of his hips against you, grinding in the dark with maddening restraint. Like he wanted to drag it out. Like he wanted to feel it, not just fuck. 

But it wasn’t like you didn’t have dreams about that, too.

Like the one you’d just awoken from.

Where he wasn’t slow at all. Where he’d pushed you against the window, dragged your panties down with a growl, and dropped to his knees. He devoured you like a male starved. Like he needed it to breathe.

His tongue was relentless, slick and firm, fucking you with slow, torturous precision until your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the cries threatening to tear from your throat. 

And just when your body began to shake, just when you thought you’d collapse—he was rising, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and sinking into you with one long, ruinous thrust that stole every breath from your lungs.

His voice rasped against your ear, all filth and hunger, whispering what he’d do next, what you’d beg for, how good you look, all wet and wanting and his. Every stroke dragged need from you like a confession, torn from your throat in gasps, in whimpers. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a demand. You shattered on his cock like you’d been made for it—again, and again, and again—until your body blurred at the edges and all you could feel was him.

And then—your name. A low murmur against your throat, reverent and rough at once, like it scraped its way out of him. Like it meant something. Like saying it against your skin was the only prayer he knew.

Almost a whisper. Almost a plea.

Almost—

Lightning split the sky—and thunder followed like a war drum, slamming through the silence hard enough to rattle the windows. 

You flinched, heart in your throat, the mug slipping and knocking against the counter. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as the thunder faded, but it wasn’t the cold tiles beneath your feet that made your hands shake.

Wasn’t the storm making your chest rise and fall just so.

It was the echo of your name, murmured into your neck.

The ache in your body for something that had never even happened—

But felt, somehow, like it had.

Your breath came fast and shallow, heat rushing to your cheeks in a flush you couldn’t chase away.

Your heart was still hammering when—

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You jumped. The kettle screamed—when had it even started? The mug nearly slipped again, and you cursed under your breath, scrambling to keep hold of it. 

A flush of panic surged alongside the remnants of arousal—

Glamour. Now.

Your scent vanished in an instant.

You rushed to take the kettle off the burner.

Shields—already up, and you triple-checked them. Reinforced them out of instinct, out of panic. Just in case.

Rhysand stood in the doorway, framed by the faint flicker of lightning beyond the windows. 

Shirtless, his chest bare and skin golden in the dim light from the hall. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, like he’d just gotten out of bed—like he’d just been dreaming too.

Your stomach flipped.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him—not after what you’d been thinking, not with your skin still warm from it. 

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realize it was whistling—gods, I’ll—”

“You didn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “It was the storm. You’re fine.”

But something in his tone—the careful way he said it—made it feel like  he was only trying to spare you.

You glanced down at the mug in your hand like it might save you. “Right. Okay. Still. Sorry.”

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you, eyes unreadable in the dark. 

Then, quietly: “Storm wake you too?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thought tea might help.”

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—barely there. “You always brew it with wide eyes and shaking hands?” he asked as he stepped closer, brushing your fingers when he took the mug from your grasp. 

You huffed a soft laugh. “Only when the thunder sounds like it’s about to rip the sky open.”

That earned a quiet breath of amusement from him as he slid an arm around your shoulders. Solid. Familiar. Like it belonged there. 

“You know it’s mostly just noise, right?” he murmured. Rhys topped off the water in your mug, grabbed two teabags from the tin, and dropped them into the mug. His arm remained looped around your shoulders, holding you close as he covered the cup with a saucer to let it steep. “Sounds a lot worse than it is.”

You nodded, but your thoughts felt foggy and slow. Maybe it was the storm, or the hour, or the way he still hadn’t let go. The way his arm fit around you so naturally, as if it belonged there. As if it had never left since that night. 

You shouldn’t read into it. It’s just comfort. Just instinct. 

But you can’t stop noticing the warmth of him, steady and close. Can’t stop thinking about how easily he’s always known how to settle you—how natural it feels to lean into him like this.

Your lips press together, and you try not to think about how that same warmth once curled around you in a tent, or what it felt like to wake up in his arms.

His arm shifted, sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back, hand warm and steady as it pressed there. “C’mon,” he said softly, guiding you away from the counter and toward the little breakfast table near the window. He handed you your mug on the way, his fingers brushing yours again. 

You moved without thinking, still wrapped in that dazed hush the storm had settled over everything. You sank into the chair without a word, and with a quiet flick of his fingers, the table filled. A crystal bowl of sugar cubes appeared near your elbow, followed by a small pitcher of warm milk, and even a tiny plate of shortbread cookies that hadn’t been there before. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, the words quiet and full. Rhysand only nodded, moving back to the kettle to make his own.

After some time, you removed the saucer and took a careful sip—still too hot—before setting the mug down. Instead, you watched the steam curling lazily upward, trying not to let your gaze wander to where he stood by the counter. The stretch of muscle across his back. The ink winding over golden skin. The slow flex of his wings as he moved. 

Then, lightly, “Cassian tried to give Azriel a haircut today.”

Your brows lifted. “He didn’t.”

Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly, though the only indication of his humor from where you sat was the soft shake of his shoulders. “He did. Said he could ‘blend the ends’ better than the hairdressers at the Riverfront salon.” He turned slightly toward you, the kettle behind him just starting to bubble.  

You snort. “That’s because Cassian thinks ‘blending’ means cutting in a straight line.”

“Exactly,” Rhys said dryly, just as your fingers reached out—without looking—toward the honey jar at the far end of the counter.

His own hand twitched, summoning it with a flick of magic, smooth as breathing.

“He nearly took a chunk out of one of his wings,” he added, the jar gliding toward you in the same breath.

You caught it mid-air and spooned in a little honey, not missing a beat. “Azriel let him?”

“He didn’t know,” Rhys replied, pouring his own mug. He added the tea bags, covered it with a saucer, and took the seat across from you. “He thought Cassian was just trimming his own hair. Came back from the bath and Cassian had scissors and that look in his eyes.”

You stirred slowly, keeping your eyes on the swirl of tea. “I’m shocked he survived.” Whether you meant Cassian or Azriel didn’t matter; the sentiment applied to both. 

“Mor told him if he even looked at her hair with a pair of scissors in his hands, she’d skin him.”

You smiled faintly. “Wise.”

Rhys’ lip twitched a little. “I thought so.”

The silence that followed was the kind that didn’t need filling. You let it stretch, let it settle into your bones like warmth. Outside, the thunder seemed to soften, like it, too, was growing tired. 

After some time, Rhys lifted his mug, nose wrinkling slightly as he brought it to his lips. 

“Lavender?” he asked, skepticism coloring the word. 

You glanced up at him over the rim of your own cup. “It’s calming.”

He took a sip anyway, then made a quiet sound like he was trying not to grimace.

 “It tastes like wet flowers.”

You gave him a look. “You’re still drinking it.”

“Out of solidarity.” He gave a theatrical sigh, settling the mug down like it had personally offended him. “Suffering beside you. As always.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you—small, but genuine, slipping out before you could catch it. The first moment of true ease you’d felt since you’d woken up. Rhysand didn’t say anything, just watched you with that quiet attention he wore too well, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like it pleased him to see it. 

You let the silence stretch. “I didn’t know you were staying the night,” you said, still not quite looking at him.

“Didn’t mean to, ” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Had a few things to check in on here. Then the storm hit, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, casual, but not careless. “Didn’t want you riding it out alone.”

The stupid little flip your stomach did was entirely unhelpful. You took a slow sip of tea to ignore it. 

The quiet settled again, a little softer now. Gentler. 

Then Rhys’ voice came, quiet and rough at the edges.

“You always pace around in shirts that short when you’ve got the place to yourself?”

You spluttered mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without choking. Then shot him a withering glare over the rim of your mug.

He was smirking now, the picture of smug innocence. “It’s cute,” he added. “Cozy. Terrifying, really.”

“Keep talking and I’ll convince the House to trap you in the bathroom with no toilet paper.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re too tired. And besides—” he leans in just slightly, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself—“you’d miss me if I left.”

You flinched as a particularly loud boom of thunder cracked. The windows trembled in their panes, wind howling against the glass. The faelights dimmed briefly, a flicker like the storm had drawn a breath too deep. 

“You should lie down,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wired.” His eyes flicked to the goosebumps on your arms. “And freezing. Come on.” He rose, tea still in hand. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll wait it out together.”

You hesitated. “... You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” The words were light, but not careless. “At least let me for a bit. You can talk at me until the storm passes.”

And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it cost him nothing to offer his presence—undid you more than it should have. 

You didn’t answer right away. Just took another sip, hoping the warmth would quiet your pulse. 

He let his words sit for a beat before offering, with a spark of levity, “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”

“You don’t have a side.” 

“I’ll make one.”

You narrowed your eyes as you considered him, gaze trailing from the smug tilt of his mouth to the glint in his eyes. “Fine. But no funny business.”

“Define funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stood slowly, cradling your mug between your hands, and padded after him down the dim hallway. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, and you liked that—liked the hush between your footfalls, the faint creak of old wood beneath your steps, the way Rhys kept his pace just a half step ahead of yours. 

Then, without looking back, he said, “You’ve got more mugs than sense.”

You glanced at him, deadpan. “They’re seasonal.”

He lifted his, inspecting the faded gold lettering. “‘I survived Calanmai in the Spring Court.’ It’s nearly Solstice.”

You took a long sip. “Year-round commemoration felt appropriate.”

He snorted. “You weren’t even in the Spring Court for Calanmai. We were in the Day Court dealing with that trade dispute, remember?”

“Sure, not this year.”

You turned your mug just as he glanced back, hiding the side that read “I Got Picked at Calanmai and All I Got Was This Mug.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know me.”

He stopped outside your door, wings tucking in as he leaned casually against the frame. You opened it without a word and stepped inside, flipping on the lamp. The room glowed in warm golds and shadows, the storm pressing faintly at the windows.

Rhysand followed a beat later, hands wrapped around his mug, gaze roaming the space like he hadn’t already seen it a hundred times before.

You crossed to the dresser and started absently clearing up—folding the sweater draped over the chair, tucking a pair of socks into a drawer, shoving a bra beneath a pillow like it hadn’t been lying out all day.

“Please,” Rhys said behind you, voice drier than your tea. “As if it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”

You tossed him a flat look over your shoulder. “They’re not for your viewing pleasure.”

“Everything’s for my viewing pleasure,” he muttered, already halfway to the bed, mug thunking down on the nightstand like a punctuation mark. 

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dresser, reaching for a lacy little number you hadn’t realized was still out—only for Rhys to beat you to it, no doubt winnowing the last few feet just for theatrics.

He held it up delicately between two fingers, eyebrows lifting in mock reverence. “Really, (y/n)? This barely qualifies as a scrap. Is it for… special occasions? Or just Tuesdays?”

You snatched it from his hand, cheeks warming. “Stop being a pig.”

His grin was wicked. “Oink.”

You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

Rhys just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Your hospitality says otherwise.” He moved to climb onto the bed like he’d done a hundred times before. You gave him a long, unimpressed look, then turned to grab your tea. 

By the time you turned back, he was already against the headboard, wings gone, legs stretched out. He looked perfectly at home—too at home.

You slid in beside him with a muttered, “Don’t spill anything.”

“I never do,” he said, tugging the blankets up from where they’d bunched at the foot of the bed, covering you both.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just curled your fingers around your tea and let the warmth soak in. The bed creaked quietly as you shifted against the pillows. His thigh brushed yours.

Thunder grumbled far off, less urgent now. You let yourself breathe.

Then, casually, Rhysand said, “Still humming, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

“When you stirred your tea earlier,” he clarified, turning his head toward you. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Hum while you stir your drink? You do it all the time,” he said, flopping his arm behind his head. “Drives Amren insane.”

You let out a small, startled laugh. “Now I’m just sad I don’t hum louder.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his mug in mock toast. “Rattle whatever functions as her soul.”

You clinked your cup against his without thinking. “She’d gut you if she heard you.”

“Please,” he said. “She’s wanted to gut me for centuries.”

You smiled into your tea, warmth pooling in your chest that had nothing to do with the drink. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Full of steam and thunder and the fact that Rhys was here, warm beside you, his presence taking up more space than it had any right to.

He sank deeper into the pillows, stretching out like he belonged to the space and it belonged to him. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, distant but not vacant. And you let yourself look. The lines of his face were softened in the low light, made golden and shadowed by turns. He looked older like this. Not aged—just… full of time. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes, ancient and endless and quiet. 

And yet he was warm beside you. Solid. Here. 

“You always do that,” you said after a moment, surprising even yourself.

His gaze slid toward you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Do what?”

“Go quiet. Like you’ve left the room without getting up.”

A faint hum, low and noncommittal as he turned back to the ceiling. “Sometimes I do.”

It wasn’t a deflection. Just a truth handed to you gently. 

You ran your thumb around the rim of your mug. “Where’d you go just now?”

A pause. Not long enough to mean avoidance, just… thought.

“Nowhere.” A pause. “Here.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but something in his jaw eased. 

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

Then Rhys moved, and your shoulders were almost touching. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Y’know, I used to imagine this.”

You blinked, the sudden shift catching you off guard. “Imagine what?”

He didn’t seem to notice your disorientation, eyes still fixed ahead. “This—sitting here, quiet like this. You. Me. Tea.”

You stared at him for a second. 

“Tea, huh?” you managed, still trying to catch up.

He grinned faintly. “Always figured it’d be chamomile.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Let me guess. In your daydreams, I served you tea in a silken robe and draped myself over your lap like some lovesick devotee.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward you with a glint in his eye. “You were wearing mismatched socks and humming off-key. The usual.”

That startled a laugh out of you, too loud for how late it was. “So you’ve always had terrible taste.”

His brow pulled just slightly, not in confusion but… disappointment? “I like to call it refined,” he said after a breath.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, so you did what you did best: sipped and looked away. Beyond the window, wind and water still tangled in the dark—but the violence of it no longer touched you. 

“You know,” Rhys said after a pause, his voice dipping low again, “if we’re pointing fingers, you’ve been the quiet one.”

That violet gaze stayed fixed on you. You’d been on the receiving end of it before—in briefings, in battle, across a crowded room. But never like this. Never steady enough to knock the air right out of your lungs. 

You didn’t answer. 

He shifted again. “Won’t even look at me. What’s that about?”

You didn’t look up. Kept your eyes on the tea gone cold between your hands. There were a dozen reasons you could’ve given. Because the moment felt too full. Because it was easier not to see his face when you answered. Because his voice in your space, his body next to yours, felt like opening a book you weren’t ready to finish. 

Instead, you said nothing. 

Rhys didn’t push, he let the moment stretch.

You tilted your head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it might hold a map for what to say next. But what came out wasn’t planned. Just something that had lived on the tip of your tongue for far longer than you were comfortable with. 

“Do you remember that night in the Winter Court?” you asked softly. “When we were in the tent?”

His reply was instant. “We were in the tent a lot of nights, you might have to be a bit more specific.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The night with the storm. When the fire kept going out.”

Realization flickered across his face. “Ah,” he said, voice quieting.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up. Not really. But something about tonight—about the tea and the thunder and the way he looked lounging on your bed like he belonged…

You two had never talked about that night. Never talked about the way his arms wrapped around you like instinct. Never talked about how it felt too natural, too easy, how the silence between you only ever felt like comfort and understanding. But now, with the storm as this strange cocoon around you…

You didn’t know what you’d expected him to say. But now that the words were out there, you couldn’t take them back.

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your mug. “I couldn't feel my toes. Thought I might lose them honestly.”

“You were shaking,” Rhys said, a quiet chuckle buried beneath the words.

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “You didn’t seem to mind holding me.”

Rhys tilted his head, his smile softer now. “I didn’t.”

Time slowed, dense with everything you weren’t saying. The storm pressed against the windows. His thigh brushed yours.

Then, quietly—like he was still deciding whether or not to say it—

“I thought about kissing you.”

You looked at him, heartbeat racing.

“You were freezing,” he added quickly, almost like a defense. “I kept thinking if I kissed you, it might stop your teeth from chattering.”

You huffed a breath, setting the mug down on your nightstand. “That is not how body heat works.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes warm. “But it was a nice excuse.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

“I didn’t sleep much that night,” you said.

Rhysand looked at you. Really looked at you. “Neither did I.”

You swallowed. The storm murmured against the windows like it remembered too.

“…I had a dream,” you admitted, voice barely above the hush of rain.

His brows lifted, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.

You hesitated. “Not the kind I should’ve had with you so close.”

A beat passed. And then he said, softly, “No?”

You shook your head once.

Rhys’s voice dipped, amused but careful. “Was I at least impressive in it?”

That pulled a short laugh from your chest—breathless, a little flustered. “You were… very convincing.”

His smile turned lazy. “Convincing, or irresistible?”

You huffed. “Don’t push it.”

“Never. I ease,” he said with a smirk like sin, sipping from his mug. “That’s how you get what you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a steady thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of everything that hadn’t been said over the years pressing in like gravity.

“I kept waking up,” you murmured. “Because I thought… if I moved too much, you’d pull away.”

He was very still. “I wouldn’t have.”

You looked over at him, heart skipping. He was watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that always made you feel like he knew more than he let on.

Then, almost too casually, he added, “For the record… you did move. Quite a bit, actually.”

Your heart stopped. 

No, surely not—

You would’ve remembered that. You definitely would’ve remembered that. Right?

You blinked. “I did not.”

His grin was maddening. “Mmm. Rolled right into me. Twice.”

Heat rushed to your face, ears, down your spine.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, then opened it just to whisper, “You’re lying.”

He looked far too entertained.

“Twice,” he repeated, like he was doing you a favor.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Kill me.”

“I did consider it,” he said with a faint smile, “but you were clinging to me. It felt cruel.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you muttered.

“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” he went on, tone far too innocent. “Torturing me in my sleep.”

Your face remained planted in the palms of your hands, groaning. “I’m never speaking again.”

“That seems dramatic,” he said, clearly delighted.

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“This is your room,” Rhys said, not missing a beat.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “And you just let me?”

Rhys gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes twinkling. “Well, what was I going to do? Shove you away?”

You sputtered. “Most people would’ve!”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the air shifted—like even the storm outside had quieted to hear what he might say.

“I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to stop you.”

Your breath caught.

You looked at him, expecting the usual grin, some teasing remark—but there was none. Just quiet.

“You never… You never said anything,” you murmured. You weren’t talking about that night anymore—you both knew it. 

Rhys hummed, low in his throat. “Didn’t want to spook you. Or tempt fate.”

This was about all of it. The looks, the silences, the way he’d never pulled away. The way he always felt just out of reach, like he was waiting for you to be sure. Like he’d been sure all along. But so had you—only you hadn’t known he was. You’d stayed just out of reach, too, waiting for a sign that never came.

You gave a breathless sort of laugh. “You think that would’ve tempted fate?”

He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t it have?”

Your silence said enough.

He let it hang there for a beat, then—without looking at you—reached for his mug again. Took a slow sip like he wasn’t aware of the tightrope he was walking. Like this wasn’t everything.

And when he set it down again, he spoke like it was nothing. “Whatever it was you dreamed… you certainly made it hard to stay asleep.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was velvet. “You were restless. Kept shifting. Making these soft little sounds, kept saying—”

You made a strangled noise. “Rhys.”

That made him glance over—his smirk unfairly smug. “Yeah, like that. A bit breathier though.” 

You smacked his arm without thinking—more flustered than actually annoyed.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying. Must’ve been quite the night.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. You should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve changed the subject.

Instead, you said, quiet and steady, “You can see it, if you want.”

That wiped the grin off his face. He sat up, and his eyes found yours again, sharp and glittering.

“…Can I?”

You hesitated. Because the air between you felt different now, like the quiet after a confession, when the world waits to see what you’ll do with it.

You pushed the blankets off and sat up, mirroring him. Legs folded beneath you. Hands braced in your lap. You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were, every inch between you a live wire. Close. Closer than before. 

You met his gaze and slowly, steadily, exhaled and let go.

Not all the way. Just enough. A slow unspooling at the edge of your mind—like a thread tugged loose.

It wasn’t dramatic. No crashing walls. No shuddering gasp.

Just a tilt. A lean. A flicker of trust in the quiet.

Like cracking a door open—not wide, just enough for someone to slip through if they wanted it badly enough.

And he felt it. You knew the moment he did. Not by any shift in his expression, but by the way his presence responded—quiet and immediate, the brush of his mind ghosting along the threshold of yours. Not a push or a pry, just a gentle touch, like a fingertip at your temple, tracing the edges of your mind’s adamant, as if to say, I’m here. It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.

When he did come in, it was careful. Gentle. Not a push, not a pry—just a brush of thought, like a thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He moved through you with reverence, with restraint. Not like he was looking for something, but like he was waiting for you to offer it.

The pressure in your chest built. Not from fear—but from how intimate it was.

You felt the weight of him in your mind. The shape of him. Familiar and foreign all at once. Rhys, your friend. Rhys, the shoulder you’d leaned on more times than you could count. Now quiet in your head, holding still, holding back—waiting.

So you let him see.

The memory rose, and it bloomed slowly, like a flower opening to sunlight.

Your skin slick with sweat, flushed and bare. Blankets kicked down around your hips. Rhys between your thighs—his mouth everywhere at once. On your throat, your breasts, the inside of your knee. His voice low and rasping, coaxing, worshipping. You arched into him, hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, closer.

Soft sounds slipping from your lips. His name. Over and over, like a prayer.

The pace of his thoughts shifted.

You felt it—felt him—react, felt the pulse of heat that wasn’t yours.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the memory played out, as you trembled beneath the ghost of his mouth in your dream. As your back arched for him. As your dream-self gasped his name like it meant everything.

You could feel his focus on every detail, like he was memorizing it all.

The way you sounded. The way you looked. The way you wanted him.

Rhys.

You whispered it in your mind—his name soft and aching.

Rhys.

The dark curled tighter inside you, shadows licking through your veins like smoke—hungry and unrelenting.

Taking. Taking. Taking.

Your hips shifted. Your breath hitched.

Rhys.

His breath stuttered in response—wherever he was.

And then, in the quiet of your room, you heard it.

A groan.

Low. Wrecked.

Rhys.

Your eyes snapped open.

Only—you weren’t in your room anymore.

The air was sharp and cold. You could smell pine, damp earth, that faint mineral tang of snow on the wind. Canvas fluttered quietly overhead. The lantern cast that same golden pool of light. You heard the storm beyond the trees, muffled and distant. And beneath you—sleeping bag. Mat. The slight ache in your shoulders from a long day of hiking.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

You blinked—and felt it all at once: the soft cotton of your shirt clinging to your skin. The same T-shirt you’d fallen asleep in earlier tonight. The same thin underwear beneath it. Your legs were bare. Cold.

And he was there.

Rhys, kneeling over you—close. Real. One of his thighs braced on either side of your hips, careful not to press down. His hands planted on the floor beside your shoulders. Caging you in without meaning to. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Chest bare. Hair mussed. 

No sign of the coats you had that night. No gloves or boots or scarves to fight off the cold. Just skin.

Warm. Alive. Here.

Your fingers dug tight into the sleeping bag beneath you. “What are you doing, Rhys?”

He tilted his head. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

The words landed low in your belly.

Because it was—your memory, your dream, your body already humming with the way the figment of him had touched it before. 

He was watching your mouth when you spoke again. “This isn’t how it happened.”

And gods, you could see it—where his hands had already touched this version of the night. Where the boundaries had softened, blurred. The cold clung to your skin still, but this was a watered-down echo of what you’d felt that night. Especially with the heat of him radiating so close, like he was the only warmth left in the world. The wind outside faded. All you could hear was the rhythm of your own pulse.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours. “No. But it could’ve.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to quiet the storm.”

He blinked, like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he said simply. “Well, since the kitchen. Bit by bit, so you’d think it was fading on its own.”

Your heart stuttered. “Rhys.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “What? You think I couldn’t feel how tense you were?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, the words quieter now. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Oh?” His brows rose slightly, magic shifting like the tide. “Should I stop then?”

And then, with no more than a flicker of thought, he did.

Sound returned all at once. Wind shrieking against your bedroom windows. Rain pounding the glass in sheets. Distant thunder rolling deep and endless across the city.

Your body locked up. Breath caught in your throat.

And just as fast as it came, it was gone again.

Silence fell. Not the true silence of the storm easing, but the quiet Rhys had crafted for you—thick, warm, and distant, like a memory.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Because part of you wanted to laugh. Not at him—but at yourself. At the sheer madness of lying half-dressed in your own memory, with your best friend hovering over you—inside the dream you’d had about him. Seeing it. Breathing it in. Touching the edges of everything you’d refused to say out loud. 

Your voice came quieter this time. “We’re not just looking anymore,” not really a question, but you needed confirmation. 

A pause.

“No,” he said—low and sure, gaze locked to yours like it was a tether. Like he needed the confirmation too.

You stared at each other. That same heat coiling in your gut, the same ache building where his hands hadn’t touched you yet.

You shifted slightly, barely a brush of your knee against his.

That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow, careful. Like giving you a chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His mouth brushed yours once. Barely. A whisper of contact, soft and almost uncertain.

But your breath caught, and your hands moved on their own—reaching, pulling him closer, until that uncertainty dissolved and his mouth claimed yours fully.

It was deeper this time. Hotter.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just inevitable.

Like he’d always meant to kiss you, and some part of you had always meant to let him.

While one hand held him up, the other found your hip, steady and sure, but not insistent. Just… there. A grounding point. A question.

You answered it without words—just a shift of your weight forward, the press of your chest against his, your fingers sliding up to rest lightly at his jaw.

He groaned low in his throat. Almost inaudible, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

Your kiss deepened, slow and molten. His tongue brushed yours, deliberate, and you let him in. Let him have that part of you.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just his fingers at first. Testing. Savoring. The warmth of your stomach. The shape of your waist.

His touch wasn’t greedy. It was careful. Almost reverent.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmured, breath catching as he dragged his knuckles along your ribs.

His lips ghosted down your jaw. “So have you.”

You didn’t deny it. How could you, when the lines between dream and memory were already blurring around you? When your body was already arching into his, betraying every want you’d ever buried?

You didn’t have to say it. Not when he could feel it in every breath you took.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. How you responded. The way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips just barely against yours.

Still clothed. Still not quite there. But the heat between you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating.

You whispered his name against his lips, barely audible.

His mouth stilled against your skin. “Say it again.”

You did. Quieter. Closer to a prayer than a plea.

Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

There was no smirk this time. No mask of arrogance. Just that same dark, endless gaze, lit now with something deeper. Something older.

“You’re sure?”

Not a tease. Not a dare.

Just a question. One last door he wouldn’t walk through unless you opened it.

You met his gaze and gave him the only answer that mattered—leaning in, mouth brushing his in a kiss that was softer than before. Not desperate. Not urgent.

 Just honest.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling there, grounding yourself in him. In this moment.

And Rhys melted into it, bearing his weight on his forearm now, the hand beneath your shirt sliding up again—flat palm, slow drag. Like he was rediscovering a familiar map, one he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.

Every breath you took pressed your chest against his. Every motion of your hips fed the fire you were both barely keeping contained.

But it wasn’t just heat burning between you.

It was years. Of glances held too long. Of arguments that meant more than they should’ve. Of moments like this, only imagined.

Rhysand pulled back, far enough to drink you in—eyes roaming, slow and deliberate, like he meant to memorize the sight. The flush on your cheeks. The part in your lips. The want you didn’t bother hiding. “What were you thinking about in the kitchen?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. Because I was sleeping. And then I wasn’t.”

He shifted above you, and his hand drifted. Down your stomach. Past the pushed-up hem of your shirt. “It wasn’t the storm that woke me,” he murmured, and that hand kept going, slow and steady. “It was your scent.”

You gasped as his palm cupped you over your underwear—broad and warm and possessive. The heel of it pressed just right and he knew it. “Rhys—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t soften. 

“I wanted so badly to know what you were dreaming about,” he said, voice dipped in velvet and ruin, rich with heat. His fingers curled just slightly, a teasing drag along the soaked fabric. “I could smell it. Clear across the house.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear now. “I could smell you,” he said, voice dragging slow, like he wanted the words to settle in your blood. “Warm and ready. Like sugar melting off skin. Like salt and heat.”

His breath skimmed your ear. “I wanted to fall to my knees right then and taste every drop of it.”

He inhaled at the curve of your neck, sharply, greedily, hungrily. Like he could drink in the want from your skin. “It hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.”

Your thighs twitched. He smiled.

“You were so wet, weren’t you?” His thumb moved now, tracing slow, idle circles over the damp cotton. “Dripping onto the sheets, dreaming of something. I couldn’t stop thinking.”

You, on the other hand, simply couldn’t think. You could barely breathe.

“Thoughts of you…” he murmured, dragging the words across your skin. “Spread out across my sheets. Still dreaming. Still wet. I imagined you there on my bed, mouth parted, thighs sticky with it. Maybe you were dreaming of me fucking you slow—dragging it out. Or maybe rough—hands on your hips, face pressed into the pillow.”

His hand stilled. Breath shallow.

“I wanted to touch myself to it,” he said, voice torn. “To that scent—your need hanging in the air like perfume. To the image of you in bed… It drove me fucking mad,” he whispered. “The thought of you, wet and whimpering in your sleep. I almost fisted my cock right there, just to take the edge off.”

A pause, thick with restraint.

“But it felt like… a line I couldn’t cross. Like taking something that wasn’t mine to have yet.”

His head dropped slightly, forehead brushing yours.

“So I just lay there. Thinking. Burning. Telling myself to sleep—Rhysand, ignore it. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about her fingers between her thighs, don’t think about her mouth open, whispering your name into the night—

Just sleep.”

A beat. A slow, shaky inhale. 

“But I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop needing you. And right when I couldn’t fucking take it anymore—right when I gave in and was reaching for myself—”

“Rhys,” you breathed. 

“It vanished. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. So I got up, went to get some cold water.” He kissed the curve of your jaw. “Tried to walk it off.”

Another slow press of his thumb. Another spike of pleasure.

“And then,” he went on, gaze sharpening like a blade, “I got close to the kitchen. Heard you moving around.”

His smile turned feral. 

“And there it was again.”

You made a soft, involuntary sound—embarrassed and wrecked all at once. 

Rhys purred against your neck, all smoke and satisfaction. “That scent. Cauldron, it’s maddening. Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?”

You shook your head, barely.

He groaned—deep and low and filthy. “Fuck, don’t even have to touch yourself to flood the whole fucking house with it.”

His fingers dragged along the soaked fabric again, deliberate and slow. “All of it between your thighs, and you just… stood there. Thinking about it. Letting it drip down like you didn’t care who smelled it.”

You thought you were alone.

Cassian was in Illyria, Azriel was in Vallahan. 

Rhysand hadn’t said a word before you’d gone to bed. Hadn’t made himself known, hadn’t so much as sent a thought your way. 

He had to know you thought you were the only one home. 

You never would have left your room like that if—

“You wanted me to find you like that?” he whispered. “Is that it? Standing there in your little shirt, soaking yourself, pretending you couldn’t sleep while your body screamed for me?”

Your hips jerked. His hand didn’t budge.

“Rhys,” you tried, broken and breathless.

But he was far from done.

“Maybe,” he mused, voice going molten, “you wanted me to walk in and bend you over the counter. Pull these—” he snapped the waistband of your underwear—“to the side and taste that sweet, sleepy mess you made between your legs. The one that begged me to wake you up with my mouth.”

You let out a ragged breath—half sob, half moan.

“Tell me what you were thinking about in the kitchen,” he said again, lower now, darker. “And this time, don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.

You gasped, hips twitching, breath gone.

“Try again,” he growled, mouth at your throat. “Or I’ll keep my fingers here all night and won’t let you come. Not until you tell me.”

Your legs trembled. “It was you,” you admitted, voice wrecked. “It was always you.”

He groaned like the words were a reward, his fingers finally moving with purpose, circling, stroking.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me what I was doing.”

You bit your lip.

His fingers stilled instantly. 

“You—” your voice cracked, and you dragged in a shuddering breath. “You had me against the window.”

He hummed in approval, fingers pushing in just a little, just enough to make you gasp. “Which one?”

“The big one. Upstairs. In your room.”

“Of course,” he murmured, darkly pleased. “You like the one with the view.”

You nodded helplessly.

“And what was I doing to you?” he prompted, thumb brushing maddening circles again. “Tell me exactly.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed. “You came up behind me. Wrapped your hand around my throat. Pressed me against the glass.”

Before the words even finished leaving your mouth, Rhys shifted—free hand sliding up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath your jaw.

You gasped.

“Like this?” he asked, voice all sin and silk.

You nodded, throat moving against his grip. “Yes.”

His hand between your thighs moved diligently, slick sounds soft and obscene. “Keep going.”

“You pushed my legs apart. Made me look out at the city. Said you wanted everyone to see how pretty I looked for you.”

He groaned—low and wrecked. “Of course I did.”

And then he moved—sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip, the crease of your thigh. He peeled your underwear off your legs with lazy reverence, and when he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinted like a god about to claim what was his.

“Did I touch you like this in your dream? With my tongue?” he asked softly, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You moaned, thighs twitching. “You didn’t stop.”

He grinned—dark, delighted—and then he didn’t stop, either.

His mouth was on you in a heartbeat��hot, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt, tongue dragging through your folds, firm and slow. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, helpless, right where he wanted you.

And gods, he was good.

He licked into you like he was trying to taste the dream itself, moaning against your cunt like you were the one unraveling him. When his tongue flicked your clit—once, twice, then again—your hips bucked and he groaned, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you still.

“Gods, I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. “Did I make you come like this?”

You whimpered. “Twice.”

His mouth sealed around your clit again, tongue flicking faster now, more pressure, more hunger. Your hands scrabbled at the blankets, his hair, anything to hold onto as the pleasure surged, sharp and sudden and far too much—

And then you broke. Legs shaking, breath gone, climax crashing through you with dizzying force. He held you through it, tongue still moving lazily, drawing every last tremor from your body.

You didn’t even have time to recover before he was moving—rising over you again, mouth glistening, eyes wild with want.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheek as he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep. Let you taste yourself on his tongue. Let you feel how much he needed this.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice low. “Tell me what I did next.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and already aching again. “You—” your voice faltered. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath. You just… slid inside me.”

A groan rumbled in his chest, and he shoved his pants down with the kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. reached down, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with maddening patience.

“Like this?”

He guided the head of his cock through your folds, slick and aching. You nodded, breath catching.

“No teasing,” you whispered. 

His jaw clenched, and then—

He pushed into you with one long, slow thrust, the stretch of him making your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—.”

He started to move, hips rolling deep and steady, slower than the rhythm you’d imagined in sleep. He thrust like he couldn’t get enough.

Gentler. Like he wanted to savor it. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand slid down your side, settling at your waist, grounding you as his body rocked into yours with patient, aching care. Each thrust was deliberate, every motion a silent promise. And when he looked down at you—eyes dark and open, lips parted with quiet reverence—you felt like the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Better than I could’ve ever dreamed.”

That pulled a soft smile from him. He dipped down to kiss you again, slow and lingering, his hips still moving with that unhurried rhythm that had your toes curling. He wasn’t fucking you—he was making love to you. Deep and warm and full of something that felt dangerously close to adoration.

Then his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent question. You shifted beneath him, lifting your arms to help, and he peeled it off you with reverent care, tossing it aside without taking his eyes off you.

His lips brushed yours again, breath warm and trembling. “You feel so good,” he murmured, like the words had to be pulled from somewhere deep. His gaze drifted down your body, hungry and awestruck all at once. “And you look…” His breath hitched. “You look so fucking beautiful.”

One hand slid up, fingers splaying over your ribs before cupping your breast—slow, purposeful. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and your back arched instinctively, a soft sound catching in your throat. 

“There you go,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s it. Just let yourself feel it.”

He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower. “Been thinking about this,” he rasped, tongue flicking over the peak before he took it into his mouth. “Dreaming of this.”

And his hips never stopped moving.

The pace stayed slow—for a moment longer. Long enough to draw another gasp from your throat, long enough for your fingers to tighten against his back. But you felt it—how his control began to fray. How the roll of his hips deepened, a little harder now, a little faster.

“You still with me?” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to see you nod absently. “That’s my girl… Let me take care of you.”

He drew back and pushed in hard, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Then again. And again. Still tender—but no longer soft. Not when he buried himself inside you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.

You clung to him as the pace built, sweat slicking your skin, breath mixing in the charged air between your mouths. He kissed you like he needed it, like he needed you, all of you, while he fucked you deeper, rougher, until every thrust had your eyes rolling back.

You turned your head, breath catching as his mouth dragged along your jaw. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

He groaned in response, hips stuttering just slightly.

“Every time you push in,” you went on, voice low and wrecked, “gods, it’s so deep.”

His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hitching it higher, opening you more. “You’re perfect,” he growled. “Fucking perfect.”

Your fingers curled around his nape, tugging him down until your lips brushed his ear. “You don’t have to hold back,” you breathed. “I can take it.”

His hips slowed. 

You didn’t stop. “I want to take it,” you whispered, and then added, a little bolder, “Want to feel all of it. All of you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Your gaze met his—open, hungry. “I want you, Rhys.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Then his grip tightened—hands sliding under your thighs, pressing them up, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you open. The new angle had you gasping as he sank in, slow at first, then all at once—deep and overwhelming.

He held you there, panting above you, pupils blown wide.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, and he started to move—hard, fast, relentless, like a dam breaking, like he’d been holding back for years and couldn’t anymore. “So take it. Don’t close your eyes, look at me… There’s my girl. There you go.”

You couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe as he talked you through it. You could only feel as he fucked you into the blankets with single-minded, devastating purpose.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he drove into you again and again, every thrust punching a sound from your throat—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him, the heat of him, the way your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let him go.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips snapping forward.

You tried. Gods, you tried. Your lashes fluttered as your eyes met his—wild and dark and hungry.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep those eyes on me while I fuck you.”

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs trembling in his hold. “Rhys—”

“I know,” he panted, pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed across your ribs before brushing the swell of your breast. He cupped it gently at first—then squeezed, thumb circling your nipple until you cried out.

“You’re doing so well, fuck—taking me so deep. Can you feel how tight you are around me? Gods, you’re perfect like this,” he said, voice cracking. “Under me. Around me. Fuck—mine.”

You were close—so close it ached, a coil drawn tight in your belly, ready to explode.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he urged, voice nearly breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

And with one more brutal thrust—deep, punishing, perfect—you shattered around him—body locking up, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure surged through you like lightning. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

Rhys kept fucking you through it, relentless, determined, dragging every last wave of that climax out of you with deep, punishing thrusts. His grip on your thighs was bruising, the way he held you open, kept you wide and helpless beneath him, like he needed to watch the way you came undone.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

Your hands clawed at the blankets, your mind white-hot and unraveling. Every thrust hit something electric inside you, your body too sensitive, too raw, and yet—you wanted it. Needed more.

“Too much,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.

“No, baby,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—then slamming back in so hard your vision blurred. “You can take it. You’re gonna give me another.”

Your mouth dropped open in a moan, back arching as he angled his hips just right—grinding deep, relentless, right against that spot that made you sob.

“I can’t—” you tried again, voice breaking, but your body told a different story. Your hips rolled to meet him, thighs quaking where he held them, cunt pulsing so hard around him it was all he could do not to lose it.

“Yes you can,” he hissed, sweat slicking his chest. “You’re already close. I can feel you—so tight, so wet. Fuck, you’re milking me.”

You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The pressure built again with terrifying speed, your body strung so tight it felt like you might snap in half.

Then his thumb found your clit—circling, pressing, teasing just enough— just enough—

You screamed. Loud and wrecked and his, as a second orgasm slammed into you, fiercer than the first, crashing over you like a storm. Your whole body locked up, legs shaking violently in his grip, and all you could do was feel—like you were flying apart in a thousand pieces, pleasure white-hot and endless. Your vision went white. A cry tore from your throat as your body clenched down around him, pulsing with wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back in with a groan as he chased his own end.

“Gods,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—fuck—”

And then he was coming, hips pressed flush to yours, buried as deep as he could go, filling you with every last pulse of him.

He didn’t stop touching you, even then—his movements gentler now, grounding, soothing, his hands sliding down your legs, your hips, up to cradle your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, trembling, lost.

You were still trembling when he finally eased out of you, slow and careful, like he hated to leave the warmth of your body. You hissed at the sudden emptiness, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You barely registered him moving—just the rustle of fabric, the shift of air. Then something warm and damp pressed between your thighs, and you jolted.

“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, rasping with the remnants of his own ruin. “Just cleaning you up.”

Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Where the hell did you even get that?”

Rhys gave a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he wrung out the cloth and dabbed between your legs with unhurried care. “I always come prepared.”

You groaned. “That better not be from your pocket.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. It was clean. Can’t say the same for you.”

You swatted at his shoulder, too weak to land anything meaningful. He caught your wrist easily, brought it to his lips, kissed your knuckles. Then, quieter, more serious: “You okay?”

You met his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just that—his eyes, searching yours, all that fire banked into something steadier. Warmer.

“I’m good,” you whispered. “Better than good.”

He nodded, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that.”

“Liar,” you muttered, which earned another soft grin.

“I mean,” he murmured, voice dipping as he smoothed the cloth over your skin one last time, “I did—but I wasn’t planning on it going that far.”

You let out a breathless laugh, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest as the chill started to creep back in around the edges of your bliss.

“Rhys,” you said dryly, “as much as I’m enjoying the ambiance out here, I’d really prefer not to freeze to death with your come dripping out of me.”

He huffed a soft laugh—but a blink later, the cold vanished. The ground beneath you softened, gave way to your plush mattress. Dim, golden light from your lamp spilled over you both. The scent of lavender and sex filled the space. 

Rhysand shifted closer, his arm curling low around your waist. The weight of his touch, the steadiness, was enough to drown out the storm still raging beyond the window. 

You tucked your head beneath his chin, let his warmth settle into your skin.

“Next time,” you mumbled, eyes already heavy, “you conjure us a fire first.”

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he promised, voice like velvet and shadows, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

[isufferfromyd]

😳Chapter 3.5👀

✨The demons, they are whispering to me:))) Anyway enjoy a lil preview 😌

Zoey’s gaze flicks over and sharpens. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

Her expression shifts — half mock concern, half amusement, and maybe something a little knowing. She sits up, crossing her legs.

Mira groans, folding her arms across her chest. “You remember the last time we had a movie night?”

“Yeah?” Zoey draws it out, brows scrunching.

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Remember the morning after?”

Zoey blinks. The gears turn. Then — recognition. Her eyes go wide. A flush rises, quick and pink. She nods, sheepish.

Mira huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah. I get it now.”

Zoey’s snort turns into laughter — warm and full-bodied — and Mira’s eyes narrow. Embarrassment flares hot beneath her skin.

“I told you,” Zoey teases, grinning. “You wouldn’t let me live it down.”

“You looked wrecked,” Mira mutters.

“I was wrecked. And now you’re wrecked.”

Mira groans again, dragging her hands down her face. “I hate you.”

“You don’t, though,” Zoey sing-songs, scooting to the edge of the bed. “You’re just mad it got to you too.”

Mira shoots her a glare. But she can’t argue. Still, she tries, futilely, for a disagreement, “it’s not that bad.”

Zoey leans forward, half grinning half smirking. “Isn’t it? When we went dancing, you looked like you wanted to climb her like a jungle gym. And somehow, you’ve managed to up that.”

“Zoey.” Mira half-whines, half-warns.

“What? I’m just saying you look like me. Morning-after me. And now here you are. In my room.”

Mira crosses her arms tighter, trying not to let her gaze drift toward the keyboard. Or the pile of hoodies Zoey wraps herself in when she’s writing. Everything in here smells like lemongrass and scented candles and home.

“I didn’t come here for this.”

“Didn’t you?” Zoey teases — softer now.

And for a moment, Mira can’t answer.

Her skin’s still buzzing with heat where Rumi touched her. Where she touched Rumi. The way Rumi had looked up at her — breath caught, lips parted, eyes wide and searching.

They’d been so close. One shift forward and Mira could’ve kissed her.

She wanted to.

And for a second, it felt like Rumi wanted it too. But then she’d stopped it.

And now Mira can’t stop turning that second over in her head — whether she read it wrong, whether she pushed too far.

Her whole body feels tight with wanting, nerves still lit up like a fuse she forgot to snuff out. And the fatigue only blurs everything at the edges.

She stares at the corner of Zoey’s bed, arms folded, brows scrunched.

“You’re allowed to think about it,” Zoey murmurs — quieter now, no tease in her voice.

Mira bites the inside of her cheek. She’s usually the one who sees through everyone else. Rumi. Zoey. Reads them like pages.

She’s still not sure how she feels about being the one read so easily.

“It feels…” Her hand flicks through the air in a vague gesture, then drops again. “Complicated.”

She doesn’t notice when Zoey moves off the bed — not until there are arms around her shoulders, grounding her. Mira doesn’t look up. Not until Zoey’s hand finds her cheek, thumb brushing softly before tilting her chin. Just a little.

Their eyes meet and Zoey offers a small smile. “We know it’s not unreciprocated,” she says, gentle but sure.

Mira’s voice is dry. “Do we?”

Zoey gives her a flat look. “You, out of all of us—”

Mira rolls her eyes.  “I know but—”

“Mira,” Zoey cuts in, another look — and Mira deflates. “Rumi might be crap at asking for the things she wants,” Zoey says, soft but steady, “but we both know she’s crystal clear about the things she doesn’t want.”

Mira lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. I know.” A pause. Then she mutters, barely audible, “I almost kissed her.”

Zoey’s eyebrows shoot up.

Mira looks away.

“Oh?” Zoey draws it out, voice lilting with intrigue. “Dish?”

Mira huffs, shaking her head. “We were just—so close. I was on top of her. And the way she looked at me...” She swallows. “I wanted to. I really wanted to.”

Zoey chuckles softly, her hand drifting to the back of Mira’s neck, tracing light lines there — grounding again but not quite calming.

Mira’s eyes flutter closed.

[satoruswifeyyyy]

lover, you should've come over (r. zoro x fem! reader

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5

chapter two: snuff

official playlist

masterlist

sypnosis: reader and zoro are dating but it's not the same as before- something has changed.

the night air was heavy. the silence between you and zoro was suffocating.

you waited for zoro to say something. tell you that what you had blurted out was wrong, that you were just paranoid and nothing had changed between you and him.

however, zoro didn't say anything.

you took a deep breath in, taking a deep breath and clenching your fist. your voice was barely above a whisper, as you asked the question that had been eating you alive.

“…do you not love me anymore?”

zoro tensed.

his jaw clenched, his fists tightened, but he didn’t answer.

you felt your stomach drop.

“zoro,” you tried again, stepping closer. “tell me.”

still, nothing.

for the first time in your life, you felt… desperate.

“i—” you swallowed hard. “i know things have been different. we don’t talk like we used to. you don’t even look at me like before.” your voice cracked slightly, but you forced herself to continue. “i keep trying to tell myself that it’s just in my head, that maybe you’re just stressed or tired. but…” you hesitated, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “but if you don’t love me anymore, just—just tell me.”

zoro closed his eyes, inhaled sharply… and exhaled.

then, in a voice so quiet, so wrong for someone like him, he muttered, “…i’m sorry.”

you felt the world tilt.

“…what?” you breathed, stepping back.

zoro finally looked at you. his face was unreadable. stoic. cold.

“i'm sorry,” he repeated. “i can’t do this anymore.”

a sharp, painful sting stabbed at your chest.

“no.” you shook your head. “no, what the hell does that mean?” your voice rose, panic settling in. “you can’t do what anymore? what—why?”

zoro didn’t answer. he just stood there, stiff and unmoving, as if this wasn’t killing him too.

you felt like you were suffocating.

“no,” you snapped. “you don’t get to do this—you don’t get to just leave me like this!”

your voice cracked at the end, and you hated how weak you sounded.

zoro looked away, avoiding your gaze. “it’s better this way.”

“better for who?!”

he didn’t respond.

you felt your breath hitch. your eyes burned. you gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to stay strong, to not fall apart.

“so that’s it?” you whispered. “you’re just… walking away?”

zoro didn’t say anything for a moment. then, after what felt like an eternity, he muttered, “yeah.”

you clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms.

“why?” you choked out. “just tell me why, zoro.”

he inhaled. then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said the only thing you didn’t want to hear.

“i’m sorry.”

a heavy silence fell between you and zoro.

and then—without another word, without looking back—zoro turned and walked away.

you stood frozen, your heart hammering in your chest, your breath shallow.

you wanted to scream, to yell, to chase after him—but your body wouldn’t move.

the one person who you thought would never leave you had just walked away.

and you did not even get a reason why.

a/n: i love angst. i don't know what i wrote in here, this is just pent up frustration istg 😭

[mariacallous]

the real problem for dems in dumping biden (and maybe his internal polling was that bad, idk) is that everyone who felt like democrats and biden hadn't done anything for them was *immediately* validated once it happened. here was his own party seeming to concede he was incapable. it was dumb to try and sell that he had been capable and successful as president but no longer was as a candidate. trying to thread the needle of 'we are so grateful for biden's leadership and accomplishments but we think he's no longer up to snuff specifically to campaign this year even though he was very old four years ago but he definitely worked hard and well for you until just now, and this other democrat who backed him until just now deserves your vote running on his record' is the exact nuanced academic workshopped messsge dems idiotically love to try to do. god bless harris, she did her best with it. but all anyone hears is 'even we don't believe in our own guy'. (doesn't help when you launder petty comments through slimy journalists eager to paint him as a doddering old fool, either). republican leadership didn't want to be saddled with trump either time, but he won the primaries and they stood behind him- yeah bc they're cowards who wanted lower taxes and a right wing SCOTUS, but all anyone thinks is 'well he can't be that bad', bc surely they wouldn't let him run otherwise. strong and wrong wins, every time.

.

[justanofficeworker]

TW: This Fic contains kidnapping, dub con, NSFW scenes, Stockholm syndrome among other things. Please do not read if these themes upset or disturb you. That being said, welcome and enjoy the ride.

A/n: Thank you for waiting for this chapter, after like 2 weeks of writers block and not knowing how to pull story beats together its done. I'm gonna start chapter 3 next Monday and hopefully release it before Friday. As always thank you for your support and drop a follow if you like my work.

Chapter 2- The date

You could hear what sounded like rattling metal as you ended your call with Simon. ‘Probably the dog he had mentioned at the store’ you thought to yourself as you began to frantically sift through your closet. It was a simple coffee date, no need to get dolled up. Maybe just a cute top and some jeans. “Yeah this should work “ you say aloud as you lay out your outfit for tomorrow.It had been so long since you went on an actual date.  Sure you had the occasional hook up and to be truthful a lot of them, were not up to snuff. But this coffee date was something to actively look forward to. Simon was polite and patient from what you could tell. He had suggested somewhere highly public and not tried to get you to his place immediately . Maybe all your waiting had finally paid off and you had found an actual nice guy. “Let's just hope he’s not some kind of serial killer” you mused to your house plant as you passed it on the way out your bedroom and to your now cooling bath. Now all you had to do was relax and let tomorrow come. 

Simon pov

Simon was late. Johnny had decided he needed to be a brat as soon as Simon made his way to the front door. Pulling at Simon's belt , murmuring ‘just’ a quickie, fer good luck and’ a clear head’ he had murmured. That quickie ended up being more of a half hour event, with Johnny whining for him to ‘go harder, please sir, wanna feel you while you catch our bird’. Granted Simon did have a clear head as he walked through the door to the small-ish coffee shop you’d agreed to meet him in. Panning his vision across the small space yielded a sight that could make an angel fall. There you sat, eyes wet , idly stirring what looked like a chocolate flavored coffee topped with pink sprinkles. God you looked so dejected , like everything that could go wrong in the world had all happened just before Simon had walked in. Slowly, Simon made his way towards you internally cursing Johnny for being so persuasive in his efforts to hop on his dick and spin. 

“Ello lil bird, I'm sorry to be so late,” Simon remarked as he stopped , right behind Beanie’s chair.

The brown skinned woman sat up quickly , blinking away un-shed tears. “Oh shit, Simon, heeeey. I figured  you wouldn't show” She greeted , turning in her seat. Simon felt lower than low, seeing the wetness in her eyes gather and release a single tear that she quickly wiped away.

“God you must think I'm well and truly an ass' ' Simon retorted with a sad crow “my dog decided he wanted to make a mess right as I was leavin my house. If I had known it would take so long to clean, I would have just left" Simon's eyebrow furrowed at that last remark, sudden anger foreign.

“May i?” he gestured to the chair opposite you. 

Nodding you avert your eyes to look at the door , suddenly thinking about whether or not you should just make a run for it. “ you know normally if someone is this late to a date i leave” you quip , hoping to hide your nerves.

“Yeah? Well I'm honored that you decided to stay. I hate to admit it but you've been on my mind since yesterday. I’ve gotta tell ya I'm curious, who are you , where you've been , what you want and how i can factor into those plans. You are mesmerizing "Simon finished , in awe of you all but glow under his complements. a feeling shoots up your spine as you feel you face heat at the confession.No one had ever said something so deep to you and been genuine . Most of the time guys would say ‘deep’ shit to try to charm their way into your bed. Maybe it was because Simon was hot and made you feel butterflies in very inappropriate areas or maybe his vulnerability was something you craved , you weren't sure yet. You did know that you were going to keep Simon in your life for as long as he would let you cling. Plus he had a dog and everyone loves dogs.

“That's a lofty ask Simon , maybe I'll tell you who i am on this date and for each date I'll answer one of you questions. But you gotta answer them too” you bargain. Simon seems pleased that you want to know him just as much as he wants to know you.

“ Well then Simon, my name is Y/n L/n, most people call me Beanie. I’m 27 and i work from home as a freelance book editor. My favorite desert is flan and house plant tending is my hobby." Beanie formally introduces herself , much like one would do in front of class at the beginning of a school semester.You look at Simon expectantly. 

“ oh um ,’ he starts “My name is Simon Riley, Simon is fine, I'm 37 and I'm a retired military vet. Not by choice mind you, ended up with a bad injury and got discharged with a couple of my men. Now i just garden and take care of an old geezer of a dog.”

You and Simon talked for another hour before the cashier announced the shop would be closing early due to some sort of electrical issue. Simon took this as the perfect time to draw your date to a close and promising that he would text you later. You agreed that it was a good idea to end here and make plans for a later meeting.

_____________________________________________

Your second date, a week later , ended up being your idea. A quiet afternoon at a local park for a picnic.

“Well Simon, your next question of where I’ve been” you said propping yourself up on your elbows. “I’ve been to the states, Canada, the Caribbean. Ive got family there , but we don’t talk much. And finally London. I ended up staying and applying for a citizenship after my work visa ran out and i gotta say, i like it here.” You finish with a giggle. You’d been looking forward to this date all week.

Simon was so open and honest, telling at length about his injury and it felt to basically repurpose his life after being discharged. You couldn’t imagine having to reboot how you went about your life so abruptly. He was so strong for that. Handsome, kind and thoughtful, Simon had even gotten you a bouquet of peonies, your favorite flower. You weren't entirely sure how he knew, but it was thoughtful none the less.

Simon looked deep in thought before he responded “ originally born an’ raised in Manchester, though during my military career I've seen all corners of the world , but I’m much more content with the more rural areas of London”. Simon looked off into the distance, surveying the park goers when he caught sight of a black and brown blurred bee lining straight for you.

One second you were turning your head to see what Simon was looking for and the next you were in his lap as a very hyper doberman barreled right through the spot you had been sitting in. A very frantic dog walker yelling an apology as he dashed passed, leash in hand. A giggle tumbled out of your mouth as you watched the pair until they were out of sight. It was only then that you realized , you were suddenly very close to your date.

Your eyes met his and it was kind of like fate. Like the stars had aligned and pushed your two souls into each other's orbit , willing you to meet. Your eyes connect and Simon leans closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Till his lips are just barely ghosting over yours. 'screw this waitin shit' you think as you surge forward, closing the distance and sharing a searing kiss. His lips tasted like the strawberries you had brought and the champagne Simon surprised you with when you had met at his car. It was like everything clicked together and the world stopped for a brief second. Sadly you both had to breath at some point and you pulled away.

"Oh wow" you sighed, almost giddy with the lack of oxygen. "I've never been one to kiss on the second date, but that felt"

"right?" Simon finished your sentence for you. " to be honest I've never felt as comfortable as i do with you." he reveled , holding you close.

You stayed like that for a while, sun beginning to set and the park lights flickering on. Soon it was time for you to leave. You folded and packed away your picnic basket and made your way back to Simon's car. he had insisted that he take you home, the drive to your building was comfortably silent , the radio playing some new love song by an obscure boy band. It didn't occur to you that you hadn't given him your address, too love struck for the thought to register.

The drive wasn't long and soon you were parked outside of your home, Simon slipping out to open your door and walk you up the stairs. "I had a nice time, thank you for the picnic" you say to to Simon suddenly shy as Simon crowded you against the door.He leaned down, close to your ear and said " for our next date , I'll take you somewhere real fancy, wear something pretty for me , ok?" he voice soft and velvety. Planting a quick kiss on your cheek he stepped back and winked. You release a breath you weren't aware you were holding, face hot. "yeeah, yep. c-call me when you get home k!' you stammer as you unlock your door and slip inside under Simon's watchful eyes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Simon signed as he watched your door slide shut. Your date was a success and soon, so very soon you would be home with him and johnny. You had felt so soft in his arms and now that he had had a taste of you , there was no substitute. he just had to get you home, without damaging you too much. He had the whole drive home to finalize his thoughts.

Pulling up the gravel drive way , he could see johnny lazing on the front porch, face tight in concentration as he sketched on a drawing pad, near manic in he fervor.

"ech-em" Simon cleared his throat, jolting johnny out of his thoughts, "Jesus, ye big bastard. Did ya need to scare me half to death?" he admonished as he set aside his art supplies. Simon chuckled a the Scot's crassness, "And here i was ready to tell you how my date went with our bird and all i get is yelled at. Maybe I should' Simon trails off as johnny all but bum-rushes him, shouting obscenities as he forcefully pulls Simon towards their front door and into the living room , where he promptly shoves Simon down onto the couch and straddles his lap with an expectant look. " now, tell me everything" johnny pushes , blue eyes wide an waiting.

Simon lets out a warm laugh as his hands run up and down the fat of johnny's ass and thighs, gripping and groping every now and then. "There's my eager puppy. You wanna know all there is to know about our precious bird, dont'cha?" Simon pulling his lover close so he can whisper into his ear. “Her favorite fruit is strawberries, want to taste?” He teases as johnny rears back and smashes his lips with Simon’s. Johnny can only whine as Simon's tongue slip's past his lips.

They had much to 'discuss'.

[marshmallowprotection]

Sneaks behind suit and puts bunny ears on his head

Suit Saeran is far from the person anyone wants to tease, but you? You're not one to hesitate when it comes to something you like. He couldn't hide his true desire from you even if you wanted to.

You understood that what he wanted more than anything was to be given the opportunity to be treated tenderly, but in a place that was determined to have him be strong in a way that denied him that opportunity, he couldn't say what he wanted. He couldn't have what he wanted as long as it was out in the open.

But, that's where he went wrong with you in the first place. He didn't have to pretend to be someone he wasn't when he was with you. His only problem with that was that he didn't yet understand that was the case. No amount of grinding his teeth and stomping would ever be enough to hide what you knew in your heart. He wanted to know what it felt like to be touched by a gentle hand.

He didn't know how to offer a gentle hand, but you couldn't blame him for that. Mint Eye tried to snuff out his light. It tried to teach him that kindness was a weakness, and any sign of it would be the cause of his ultimate destruction. If that were the case, he would have exploded long ago when you pressed your lips against his. Strength wasn't about destruction, it was about being brave enough to confess what you wanted even if the odds were against you.

You didn't expect him to put his life on the line just to know what it felt like. You knew he wouldn't ask the same of you.

However, it was that standard that gave you something to work with. He couldn't get into trouble if you bothered him. If it was something that could be blamed on you a hundred times, nobody would think about reporting it to the Savior. It turned out that the best way to get what he wanted would be to let you get away with what you wanted. It was like a game of cat and mouse, but the cat and mouse weren't who anyone expected them to be.

Beaming ear to ear, you snuck up behind Saeran as he worked at your desk, placing a plush pair of rabbit ears over his head. It was a simple pair of white ears, and just the right color to match his hair. The ears weren't the kind that stood at attention, rather, they were the kind that hung down and would caress his face every time he tried to move his face around. If you had access to dye, you would have painted the tips of the ears with a soft rosy tone to match the streaks in his hair, but maybe you could do that in the future, you figured.

Saeran growled, flinging his head around to face yours, over to be smacked in the face by his brand new ears. "What the hell is this, toy?"

"Your ears!"

His face was turning red. You couldn't tell if it was from confusion, embarrassment, or his frustration. He was the one who called this room a simple toy box, and who were you if not someone who was willing to play? It was cute to see him look like that. This was a part of his vulnerable face. He might not have been to a point where he could reveal more of his true self, but you were happy to see just a smidge of it underneath the anger he used to protect himself.

"My ears are already on my head, you moron! Why in the world would I need plush ears on my head? These aren't even human ears! Is there a purpose to this?!"

"Yeah, they're cute," you swatted at the ear that dangled over his left cheek. "You know, as much as you remind me of a cat, you're also like a rabbit."

"I am no creature of prey!"

"I meant that you're quick on your feet and clever. You know, just because rabbits might be lower on the food chain doesn't mean that they're not intelligent. I think you're clever in every sense of the word, you just needed the ears to go along with it," you added.

Saeran shimmered. You can tell that he still didn't understand what you were getting at, but he didn't try to rip the ears off his head after you said that. He seemed to take it in stride instead. "Yeah, well... I am the strongest. I guess their little legs are good at demolishing smaller creatures of prey, much like you, my little toy."

[little-forest-goblin]

First impressions Pt.6

Regency!five x reader

Synopsis: In the regency era every woman wanted to marry a man that was wealthy and had good status. there was little time to get to know one another. But you Y/N L/N are the most reluctant to these whole marriage to random men you don’t fully know.

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You held a hand in front of the flame to shield the light making sure you were the only one able to see it. You heard Colin and Penny's voice in a little nook that had large windows and curtains. The moon was their backdrop. You hid behind a piece of wall that jutted out. They sounded as if they were arguing. Colin whispered, “You lied to me and told me you were an important lady!” Pennys eyes were worried and soft but she was defensive “I'm sorry colin! I didn't want to tell you about who I truly was!” Colin looked away out the window and crossed his arms “You still lied to me penny…” her eyes were hurt “Does my status as a servant of the hargreeves manor really mean this much to you, colin? Is money all you think of?” colins head snapped to Penny “Of course not! Money is the last thing I look for when I am trying to find someone to court!” he sighed and rubbed his eyes. Your brows knitted as you peeked out from the wall to see and listen better. Penny tried to take his hand but he ripped it away “Colin please… I'm sorry I lied. I really do like you and I want to be with you.” he didn't answer for a minute which stirred poor Pennys nerves up and made her stomach do flips. He finally looked back to her “How can I trust you in a relationship if I can't even trust you now?” her eyes widened tears brimming them “colin…” he shook his head “No penny. You lied to me. How am I gonna trust you?” Penny was saddened a tear fell down her cheek till a wave of anger and frustration flowed through her and she was less than quiet “YEAH I LIED! I UNDERSTAND IT WAS WRONG BUT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND” apparently all sense of being quiet was a foreign concept at this point because Colin raised his own voice. “OH I DON'T UNDERSTAND HUH?! THEN TELL ME WHAT I'M MISSING? THAT YOU CAN'T OWN UP TO YOUR OWN LIES?!” Penny pointed her finger at his chest “IF YOU WERE IN MY SHOES YOU WOULD DO THE SAME THING!” Colin shoved her hand away “WHAT AM I MISSING THAN?! JUST TELL ME PENNY!” he said it with almost an air of desperation. Penny raised her voice more in frustration tears pouring down her cheek “I LIED BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT YOU KNOWING I WAS OF A LOWER STATUS! I DIDN'T NEED YOU KNOWING I WAS JUST SOME WORTHLESS SERVANT, UNDESERVING OF YOUR TIME!” tears poured down her cheeks from sadness and frustration. Colin was stunned into a shock “penny i-” before he could speak any further penny left the area obviously hurt leaving Colin standing there. She was coming down your way which caused you to panic and try to snuff out the flame by blowing on it but it kept doing that stupid thing it does where it doesn't go out. so with your thumb and pointer finger in a panic you snuffed it out causing your fingers to be burned making you hiss. That's gonna hurt for days. You watched as Penny went down the hallway wiping away tears. Colin eventually turned around and left back to his room. You checked if the coast was clear which thankfully it was. You stepped out and looked at their spots where they left. The room felt heavy…you much preferred being back in the comfortable bed provided.

>timeskip<

In the morning it was raining outside and raining hard. It smacked the windows like it was trying to get inside the manor. You had gotten dressed and headed downstairs only to find your family talking to the hargreeves. Your father smiled to reginald “reginald i thank you for letting us stay the night in your luxurious home” reginald gave a stoic look but his eyes held respect for your father and appreciation for his kind words “yes i am glad that you enjoyed your night. The beds were to your liking, yes?” your father was gonna speak till your mother spoke up for him “oh yes they were quite comfortable! Excellent beds” your father looked at her smiling but taking her silently shushing her and reminding her of her manners. Grace chuckled from next to reginald. “Seeing as the rain has not stopped I believe I see it fit that you stay here again for the night. It is far too dangerous for your carriages to bring you back home in this sort of condition” your father smiled politely “Sir reigned you are too kind. I thank thee” with that the two families headed to the dining hall where they enjoyed breakfast provided to them. When Penny came around putting dishes on the table her and Collins eyes would occasionally lock together and both her eyes held a longing to them but also a sort of defiance in them. A silent vow to themselves they won't break. Knowing Colin you knew he would break. You knew that eventually she and Colin would fall right back into each other. Call it dumb and foolish, call it hopeless romantics, call it puppy love. Call it what you like but you knew that this was not gonna end in the way you’d expect. Your eyes darted to five who sat eating breakfast looking absolutely tired. He was obviously not a morning person and has already had 2 cups of coffee. RIP his stomach. Once breakfast was done the families talked for a while until you were met with a familiar pair of eyes as both families moved to one of the many living rooms of the manor. It was none other than edward. The very same edward five cut in on the dance at the party thrown here a few days before. Edward smiled and approached you and bowed politely “Mrs L/n what a pleasant surprise to see you here” he stood straight “And i thought i would never see you again” you smiled and crossed your arms “and what are you doing here edward? Also Y/n is just fine you know” he chuckled “Yes i know but your last name is much more appropriate but besides that i am here to speak with reginald about my fathers business. My father has become sick and might pass very soon and I will take over.” your eyes softened “Oh that's awful im so sorry” he shook his head holding up his hand “Please don't be we knew this was to happen soon” you and edward got to talking in conversation before he was pulled away to talk business with reginald. Edward would glance over every so often which seemed friendly enough but something in the pit of your stomach gnawed at you. When Edward was finished talking to reginald it looked like he had something to say. Oh god your stomach was doing horrendous flips. He approached “Y/n i want to ask you something” he gently took your hand leading you into the middle of the room “edward what are you doing” your brows knitted. He smiled and took both your hands in his “Ever since i saw you at the party i can't let you leave my mind. I believe we can learn to get along well because I already have in my mind. Y/n L/n will you take me as your husband?”

…

What. the. Fuck.

———————————————————————Hi guys please be safe out there i love you 💋 😘

[gayboy-memoirofanaddict]

Chapter 13 - Snuff

Portales, NM

2016

"What the hell are you doing here with him?" Jade’s voice was a blade, honed to a razor’s edge. I looked at her genuinely taken aback by her sudden shift from the Jade I knew, to this. Her face was distorted in anger and paranoia. I could barley see her eyes, like shadows had consumed them.

Jarod smirked, all traces of vulnerability gone. "Your nanny said you were at your mom’s. Guess that was bullshit because I drove by and you weren’t there." He flicked his eyes to me; I wasn’t sure who he was calling a liar. But I felt like this wasn’t about me. My stomach twisted. What is happening right now?

Jade’s gaze snapped to me. "So? You just sat here bonding with my husband, while I was gone?"

He bit me then trauma-dumped like a fucking therapy patient, I wanted to scream. Instead, I stared at the scuff marks on the floor. “Is this how you repay my kindness Bradley, by fucking my husband?” I could defiantly see her eyes now, but that wasn’t Jade.

Just because it’s got two legs and a dick doesn’t mean I’ll jump on it. I thought. This was insulting. Is this what she thought of me? I’m just a homewrecking whore now?

"Get out," Jade hissed at Jarod.

"Don’t you worry Jade, I’m already gone." Jarod stood up quick as lightning and stormed out the door. The air behind him practically on fire. Well at least now Jade and I can talk.

“How dare you!” She approached me aggressively, “after all I’ve done for your ass!”

“Now hold on.” I started but was cut off.

“He’s, my husband!” She shouted before realizing that the kids were still asleep, she looked like a cornered animal about to strike.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, but Jade wasn’t gonna listen, I was starting to get mad. Who does she think I am, like I’m just gonna suck the dick of anyone who comes near me. What had I done wrong here? I grabbed my backpack, my hands shaking.

“Yeah, go ahead and go, go to Jarod. Poor, poor, Jarod, everyone feel sorry for him.” She half whispered, half roared. I was going to leave and give her some space, and myself some air but somehow, I was starting to feel there was no escape, if I leave, she’s just going to think I’m running off with Jarod, if I stay, she’s just gonna keep attacking me. Jade is my friend; my loyalty was to her. But this isn’t fair. I decided to stay, I put my bag down and decided to just let her get it out of her system. It’s just the drugs, it’s just the alcohol, this isn’t her. I said to myself. Making excuses for her. I started to wonder where she had been, it wasn’t my business but wherever she went, that’s what caused this uproar. What was missing here? I had no reason to believe Jarod’s words but the pain in his voice, there was no lie in that. The pain is Jades voice also sounded genuine. I doubt she would listen to me if I told her what he said, it would probably make it worse. Honestly, I was more than offended, or angry, I was scared. Jade stormed past me, her shoulder knocking into mine, and slammed the bedroom door so hard I was sure the foundation had just shifted. I decided to get some sleep, hopefully this will all blow over in the morning and the Jade I knew would return.

Morning came thick and heavy. I woke to the sound of Jade barking at Levi to "Eat your goddamn cereal!" She herded all of them out of the house. But said nothing to me, no shared cigarette on the porch, no apology, no follow up after last night, not even a bowl to smoke. Just the sharp snick of the back door locking behind her as she left with Caleb. What the fuck?

I decided to go to Miriam’s for answers. Something happened last night.

Miriam’s duplex was a museum of chaos when I arrived. Power tools and half-packed boxes formed a maze between the couch and her armchair, where she sat like a queen on a rusted throne. A tackle box of paraphernalia perched on the coffee table like a centerpiece.

"She asked if I was fucking Jarod," I said, collapsing onto the couch.

Miriam exhaled smoke through her nose. "She’s paranoid. But you shouldn’t have to eat her shit."

"She’s, my friend. I put her power in my name to help; I can’t abandon her. I’m not leaving."

Miriam’s eyebrows shot up. "Jesus. That was…well… very nice of you." She looked like she was battling with calling me stupid or praising me for helping her daughter and grandkids. Maybe she was thinking Jade was stupid for trusting me like that. For binding me to her through a utility bill. But there was no malice in her eyes—just the tired acknowledgment that we’d all done stupid things for people we loved. She passed me the pipe. “Jade is very stressed, I’m sure she’ll calm down soon, you better head back before your absence causes any more problems.”

“Okay.”

Jade’s house was a warzone when I returned. Boxes avalanched in the hallway, spilling mismatched shoes and dog-eared paperbacks. Jade stood in the eye of the storm, her hair wild, her eyes bloodshot and glittering with something frantic.

"You should go," she said without looking up.

"Jade—can we just talk?"

"I’m not comfortable having a gay guy around my kids." She hissed at me. This wasn’t Jade. This was the drug wearing her skin, moving her mouth like a puppeteer with tangled strings. The woman who, only last night, called me family - she was gone. What remained was something raw and snarling, all fear and fury with the safety off.

The words hit like a slap, a punch, no a gunshot. In that moment it was as if all the homophobia in the universe surged from her to me. A cannonball of betrayal shot right at my chest. Is she saying what I think she’s saying. I couldn’t justify this. This was just. Insulting. This was betrayal, pure and simple. I hated myself enough for being gay. I didn’t need her hate too. The ignorance was a stain on the Jade I once knew.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” My hands curled into fists, fury finally coming out of me. First, she accuses me of fucking her husband and now she’s insinuating I’d touch her kids. A memory flashed—a dank room, a man’s hands on me, the sour stench. I was eight years old. The shame that followed me like a shadow. My innocence lost. I would never. Never let that happen to any child around me, and I certainly wouldn’t do that to a child either. The kitchen clock's ticking became absurdly loud, each second marking another fracture in what we'd been.

"What.” I paused, “do you mean?" My voice was too quiet, too calm. Every cell in my body tensed. Say it, you bitch!

She wouldn’t look at me. Coward!

The rage surged, white-hot. This is what they think of us. That we’re predators. That we’re all whores and pedophiles. Say it with your chest you coward. SAY IT!

Silence.

"If that’s how you feel," I said, "then you can figure out this bullshit by yourself."

“I’m not comfortable with a bigot’s electricity being in my name.” I said as I walked out the back door.” The screen door screeched behind me, the sound of something final.

[steve-loves-eddie]

40 Year Old Virgin

Chapter 3 - I Had Hoped I Wouldn’t Cry

Rating: 18+ minors gtfo Chapter Summary: Steve confronts Eddie about running away, and Eddie finally talks about what he's been going through for the last two decades. CW: Depression, loneliness, coming out, alcohol consumption (You might want to grab a tissue for this one!) Pairing: Virgin!Eddie x Divorced!Steve Word Count: 2.2k (Chapter title from “Are You Sure” by Willie Nelson)

Chapter 2<<Masterlist>>Chapter 4

He barely slept. The second the door to his trailer closed he crumpled to the floor and sobbed. No…not women. It kept looping over and over in his brain. Men. Steve is into men. Since fucking when?! Did he know before he left Hawkins? Did he always know, and just hid it like Eddie did? The hardest part about this revelation is that small flicker of hope that sparked in his chest. He tried to snuff it out the second he felt it. 

The hope that maybe…Eddie would actually have a chance. 

What a joke.

He’d only end up breaking his own heart.

He finally cried himself to sleep around 4 in the morning and was up again at 7 to get ready for work. He coasted through the day, running on autopilot as he changed oil and replaced tires and worked on a carburetor. The only comforting thought he had all day was that it would be easy enough to avoid Steve since he doesn’t ever fucking go anywhere. The chances of running into him again are slim to none. 

Once he clocks out and gets into his car, he makes his plans for the night. All he wants is to heat up some food, smoke a bowl, and sit on his deck with his old acoustic. Get out of his head for a little while and try not to wallow in shame and self pity.

He follows the dirt road he could drive blindfolded and comes to a stop outside his trailer to the sight of a baby blue pickup truck, and Steve sitting on his deck with a pizza box and 6 pack. He could back out and just leave, but the hangdog expression on that face has guilt roiling through him. He takes a deep breath, shuts off the engine, and steps out.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Brought a peace offering.” Steve gestures to the pizza and beer and his eyes drift down the length of Eddie’s coveralls. 

“Cool. Mind if I just change real quick?”

He nods and his eyes snap back up. “Yeah. I’ll be right here.”

Eddie unlocks the door and steps inside. His hands shake as he scrubs at them to remove any lingering traces of grease, and he quickly changes into sweatpants and an old Sabbath shirt. He has no idea what to expect as he steps back out onto his deck. 

Steve looks up and gives him a half smile as he hands him a beer. Eddie nods his thanks and takes a seat. The silence is awkward as fuck and he doesn’t know what to say. Thankfully Steve does.

“Why’d you run out last night?”

Eddie looks down at the bottle in his hands while his thumbnail starts to scrape away at the label. The beer can’t wash away the taste of his shame.

“Eddie, it’s ok. You can tell me. It just…it really fucking hurt that you left when you did. It took a lot of time for me to come to terms with who I am, and I’m not ashamed of it. I thought you’d be cool with me being bi. If I was wrong…if you hate me for it, I just needed to know.”

The lump in his throat is hard to swallow. “I could never hate you, Steve. You just kinda threw me for a loop, man. And it was uh…a lot to process. Just…would have been nice to know I wasn’t alone. That there were other people in our group who…who were like me. I always kinda figured Buckley was family. Never wanted to ask back then. It wasn’t exactly safe, you know? Everyone already saw me as a freak. If they found out I was gay on top of it, it would have painted an even bigger target on my back.”

He laughs without an ounce of humor and blinks away the start of tears. “Shit, man. I think that’s the first time I ever said that out loud. Wish I could have done it sooner. Guess it wouldn’t have mattered anyway since nobody stuck around. You and Rob left. Wheeler and Byers. Argyle. Then all the kids were gone. I didn’t really talk to Joyce and Hopper much, but it was nice knowing they were still here. Until they left too. And then I…then I lost Wayne. I’ve been alone with it for so long that it didn’t even seem worth acknowledging anymore. Who the hell would I even tell?”

Steve lets out a shaky breath and Eddie still can’t look at him. “What about your friends? They don’t know?”

“What friends, Steve?! This whole town always fucking hated me. They don’t vandalize my shit anymore, which is lovely. They just tolerate me. I’ve been on my own for a really long time.”

“Eddie…why didn’t you leave?”

He finally looks up and gives Steve an incredulous look. “And go where? Everyone I ever cared about scattered. Everyone else moved on and started their fucking lives. Even if I had the money back then to get out, I didn’t have anywhere I could go. My only options were to stay here, and keep living out of a tin box that was already paid for, in a town that I at least knew, or fuck off to some other city where I didn’t know a single goddamn soul. I’d be alone either way!”

Eddie gives up his battle holding back any tears. What’s the point now? “And you know…you said I hurt you last night when I walked out. And I’m sorry for that, really I am. That was shitty, and I can own up to that. But you want to know something? You want to know what really hurts? Having a shred of hope that I’d hear from any of you this past March. It’s been twenty fucking years, man! Twenty years since all that shit went down! We went through hell and we all managed to get out alive. It should have been acknowledged somehow, you know? But that week came and went, and I didn’t hear shit from anyone. Fuck, the only person I ever hear from anymore is Henderson and that’s maybe two or three times a year. I don’t even have numbers anymore for most of you guys. Everyone moved around the whole goddamn country, settled into their lives, and never bothered to keep in touch.” 

Eddie heaves a deep breath and wipes the tears off his cheeks. “Twenty years, Steve. And I was the only one who gave a shit. Just me, some cheap flowers, and Chrissy’s headstone.”

Steve blinks at him and a tear falls down his cheek. Eddie resists the urge to brush it away and gets up out of his seat, his bare feet walking him across the deck where he braces his elbows on the railing and lets his head fall. He doesn’t know what to do now. All of that pain just spilled out of him, and he wouldn’t blame Steve for getting in his truck and leaving. 

He flinches when a warm hand rests between his shoulder blades. He’s so unused to people touching him, and that thought alone is enough to make him break down again. Steve rubs soothing circles on his back while he pulls himself together. The tears finally stop. He wipes at his face and looks up to the treetops surrounding his home. Their gentle swaying in the evening breeze helps calm the storm raging in his heart. 

“I’m sorry, Steve. For leaving when I did.”

Steve grabs his shoulder and turns him so they’re facing each other. His eyes are red and cheeks are wet. But he still looks so beautiful. He pulls Eddie into a hug and holds him tight. Eddie hopes he doesn’t notice the shiver that runs through him when Steve breathes deep and whispers, “So am I.”

Eddie isn’t sure how long they stand there. But Steve doesn’t let go until the tears subside and his body starts to relax. He’s never been held like this. It makes it harder to let go when Steve gives him a squeeze and parts from his chest. 

He walks back across the deck, grabs their beers, and sidles up next to Eddie. Steve passes him the bottle and they both lean on the railing looking out over the land Eddie’s come to know like the back of his hand.

“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with all of that. And I’m sorry, Ed. I could have done a lot more to keep in touch. There’s no excuse that’ll make up for it. But I swear, I never forgot about you. And I promise I’m not gonna let it happen again.”

It’s a sweet sentiment. But Eddie has to take it with a grain of salt. Hope is dangerous, and it can fucking hurt.

“I appreciate that, Steve.”

They take a couple swigs and the silence isn’t as uncomfortable as he expects. 

“I can’t really speak for the others. But if they’re anything like me…I think they all just wanted to move on.”

Eddie sighs and taps his bottle on the railing. “Yeah. I get that. It’s just hard to move on when you’re surrounded with reminders.”

“It’s never too late to leave. I know it’s not easy, but you always have the choice to start over. Shit, come out to Portland. There’s all kinds of weirdos out there, you’ll fit right in.”

That makes Eddie laugh for the first time all day. He gives Steve a playful shove and calls him an asshole, and they finish their beers with smiles on their faces. 

“So. There’s no pineapple on that pizza, is there?”

Steve gives him a bitchy look. Eddie’s missed that. “Fuck no. I haven’t eaten that since Argyle was here.”

They settle into their seats and Eddie cracks open a couple more beers while Steve opens up the pizza box and holds it out for Eddie to take a slice. Pepperoni and onions. That was always Eddie’s favorite. He’s sure it’s just coincidence, there’s no way Steve would remember that after all this time.

“This deck wasn’t here before, was it?”

Eddie takes a bite and shakes his head. “Nah. Built it a few years ago.”

Steve raises a perfect eyebrow. “You built it? Like, by yourself?”

“No, all the woodland creatures came out and helped me. Yes, Steve, by myself.”

“Damn. It looks good. What else have you been up to? I kind of monopolized the conversation last night, so…tell me. What has Eddie Munson been doing?”

He could continue his rant about how fucking sad and lonely he’s been, but he gets what Steve is doing. Eddie does his best to shake off the negative and find the good parts. “The shop keeps me pretty busy. Few days a week I’ll head over to the Hideout for a beer. I dunno…other than that I spend most of my time here. It’s quiet. Peaceful.”

Steve looks out over the land surrounding them and nods. “It’s really pretty out here.”

Eddie stopped mowing after Wayne died. It started with him just being too fucking depressed to do any upkeep on the property, but when the grass started getting really long he realized he liked it. Went into town and got some wildflower seeds, and scattered them all over just to see if anything would take. So instead of a perfect lawn that any midwestern yuppie dad would be proud of, he’s surrounded by black-eyed Susans, goldenrod, wild indigo, milkweed, and columbines. It is really pretty.

“So what else? Do you still play music?”

Eddie nods slowly as he chews and washes down his pizza with another swig of beer. Damn, why does that always taste so good together? “I do. No band or anything, just kinda fuck around and teach myself new songs.”

“Do you write any?”

“Nah, not really. I do write, just…not songs.”

Steve tilts his head like a curious puppy. “Are you gonna elaborate on that, or…”

Eddie ducks his head and picks at his crust. “Yeah, I um…I’ve been writing short stories. A few longer ones. Just like…fantasy stuff.” He shrugs and tries to brush it off.

“Eddie, that’s so cool! You were always really creative, with the campaigns and stuff. Dustin would always talk about all the insane shit you put them through. I bet your stories are amazing.”

He’s a little baffled that Steve would even remember something so insignificant. He didn’t even play D&D. Kinda weird that he’d keep that little nugget in his brain after all this time.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that. I just do it for fun. Something to kill the time, keep the creative juices flowing.”

“Well, I’d love to read some. If you’d ever want to share.”

Eddie chances a look at the man, for some reason expecting him to crack a joke or poke fun at his lame hobby. But all he sees is softness and sincerity. “Yeah, maybe.”

They finish their pizza while talking about basic shit. Music and movies and shows they’re into now. Eddie’s happy to find that they actually have more overlap than they would have in their youth. Steve tells him more about Robin’s girlfriend, and the kids he works with. Eddie learns he’s still got a soft spot for the indoor kids. And it’s nice. Having a friend to share his space and thoughts with.

The sun goes down and Eddie waves him off, with promises to see each other again soon.

He hates doing it, knows it might not end well, but hopes that they actually do.

Chapter 2<<Masterlist>>Chapter 4

Taglist is open!

@mrsjellymunson @the-unforgivenn @watermelonmite @stedestielfrattficlover @hiei-harringtonmunson @micheledawn1975 @anaibis @dreamwatch

[sonofthesaiyans]

Gangs of Paradis...

Unpopular opinion alert. Some may call it sacrilegious to say this, but if it were up to me on who got the focus in this series.....

I would rather take these guys........

And certainly THESE guys....... (Lynne’s my spirit gal.....) 

Or even THESE guys........! 

Instead of having been forced to put up with.......

These assholes. 

139 chapters and the famous EMA trio just does NOT deliver on the promise of their long journey. And most of the fault lies with the goddamned timeskip. 

I mean sure Armin’s fine, he was certainly the most sympathetic and the wisest of the three even if I’d say he also didn’t escape the timeskip unscathed......

But Eren Motherfucking Yeager and Mikasa Ackerman are the main heart of this story........and it is nothing but pure cringe at the end. 

Mikasa NEVER develops into a truly three-dimensional character, again due to her singleminded, one-sided obsession with Eren in a relationship that no sane individual would actively choose to pursue. To say they had one is being generous, character-killing love confession be damned, shippers. But Eren may very well be the weakest link, remaining a largely uncoordinated and mindless killing machine through the earlier seasons and never really developing believable relationships with his main circle OR with Mikasa. Worse still, his motivations are completely subverted by the final act, with him committing to possibly the most idiotic revenge plot in recent memory. I mean what else can I say about how fuckular Eren’s scheme is? Between the time loop, orchestrating his own mother’s death, eliminating the world but still leaving Paradis open to attack later AND the fact that it took a massively contrived final confrontation with Mikasa to help some long dead ghost snuff out the Titan curse......Just thinking about it pisses me off, it’s beyond comprehension. 

Yeah, Ymir Fritz, that’s another one I’ll have to get back to later, she’s another can of worms entirely.....

There isn’t much I think I can add about everything wrong with Eren and Mikasa’s toxic relationship and how the story’s final resolution literally hinged on that finding resolution, but the story of Attack on Titan continues to age badly the longer you reexamine their respective arcs long before Marley was ever a whisper in the series. 

Meanwhile.............You had these AMAZING squads that gave us the likes of Petra Ral, Oluo Bozado, Lynne, Gelgar, Miche Zacharius, and of course Levi Fucking Ackerman himself.......Who WOULDN”T want to see more of those respective bands? 

The minor characters of the series left far more positive impact on me than any of the EMA trio ever did. And I’m far more heavily invested in them than I am in a trio that simply did not justify their critical involvement in the series.  I want to see more of Petra, more of Lynne, more of Miche, more of Thomas, I want to see those who had the skill and character to really carry themselves and the story further, possibly with a more positive impact than the main trio. And I’ve been very busy lately ironing out their personalities and arcs they could’ve enjoyed. 

And let’s not forget others worthy of mention....

You could’ve had the entire series focus on Ymir and Historia and that could’ve sufficed all by itself. It certainly is a far more compelling pairing and a more complex one than Eremika ever was. Both of them got dealt a raw deal, so much potential here just was never taken advantage of. 

And of course....

Honestly without Sasha, Connie and Jean really struggled to find ANY place in the remaining portion of the story, I am still convinced Sasha could’ve carried this as the actual main girl over But at least with the three of them their relationship felt far more organic and real than EMA’s a lot of the time.......at least until the timeskip. I think you all can sort that one out for yourselves. 

Any of the aforementioned groups could’ve easily been greater than EMA. EMA got 139 chapters of development and in the end it just does NOT warrant it. 

But everyone else who was there at one point or another along the way before the timeskip...........they are worthy of another chance. 

In summation guys.........EMA sucks ass. Armin gets the least of the blame but Eren and Mikasa are just not the strong characters the story wants us to believe they are. And Hajime Turdyama should’ve given all the aforementioned the space to be even greater. 

Everyone Deserves Better. Just not this A-Team. 

[father-time-and-baby-new-year]

alphabet boy II

SYNOPSIS: college AU. Armin, your brilliant tutor, invites you over to his house for some studying. Naturally, you're nervous and he seems to be giving you a reason to be.

PAIRING: SCUMBAG!Tutor Armin x FEM!Reader

WARNINGS: half edited, noncon/dubcon, fingering, non-penetrative sexual content. gaslighting, manipulating,

A/N: really need the motivation to write again and I've been slacking on my multi-parters so here's a somewhat highly anticipated one. Armin fuckers, this is for you. non-Armin fuckers, I hope this converts you

WORD COUNT: 2.0k

II. I.

“You’re not paying attention.”

You feel his voice right by the shell of your ear, and the proximity nearly makes you reel back in surprise but you manage to catch yourself.

“S-sorry” You apologize, wishing you didn’t stutter.

The thing is you’re just really out of your element. This is the first time you’ve been to Armin’s house for personal tutoring, and it was hard to focus on the material when his presence was so distracting.

It wasn’t like you were fantasizing about him or anything [well…]-you always tried to banish those thoughts as soon as it came. But still, being alone with an attractive boy with a disarming charm was causing some jitters. You felt like a shy middle schooler, on edge and jittery.

The last tutoring session in the library when he [basically] called you stupid plagued your mind. The memory of him feeling up your thighs lived in your head rent-free.

“Let’s take a break.” He sighs. Your heart drops at the noise of disappointment but you suppose it’s what you deserve.

You push your laptop lightly aside on the table, the bleak light straining your eyes, and ask for the bathroom. You just wanted to freshen up and be alone for a few seconds. The bathroom is meticulously clean, something even you knew was unexpected for a boy. You looked at yourself through the spotless mirror, scrutinizing every flaw.

You sigh, fiddling with your dress collar. Why you had tried dressing pretty for a boy so out of your league, he may as well be in Mars--you didn’t know.

When you return, there is a tall glass of lemonade waiting for you.

“Thought you might be thirsty.”

It’s a simple gesture that makes you blush so you thank him earnestly. Like the gentleman he is, he assures you it’s no problem. Not wanting to prolong the awkward silence, you compliment his apartment, “This is a really nice place. So much light and space.”

You’re babbling but he engages you regardless, and you two are mindlessly discussing the benefits of living at off-campus housing over dorming. His words are pleasant but there’s a sinking feeling within you as you notice he’s bored. Or maybe distracted was a better word.

“So, do you have a boyfriend? Or anyone you’re seeing?”

You nearly choke at the question uttered through a buttery voice.

“Oh um, not really.”

“Not really?”

You made a mental note to answer in definitives. Armin seemed the type to snuff out anything he reasoned as half-truths.

“No. I uh, don’t have a boyfriend.” And then you clarified a pin-drop later, “And I’m not seeing anyone either.”

The blond hums a playful tune that’s vaguely nostalgic.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

You don’t understand the point of this line of incessant questioning, and can’t calm your heart rate.

“I-um, I don’t-“

Taking one look at your serious face, eyes rimmed with worry and cheeks pink, he laughs. It’s a startling sound like bell chimes.

“Relax. I just wanted to know if you had any experience.”

The sentence flies out of your mouth before you can even ponder it: “What do you mean by experience?”

It’s not his fault if he can’t hide the feral grin that crosses his mouth right at that moment. You can’t discern his expression as you’re staring at anywhere but him, so you don’t notice the uncontained excitement that glimmers in cerulean eyes.

“Let’s move to the couch. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

You think about saying that you’re fine wherever you are and didn’t really feel like changing positions, but he’s already striding towards the couch. So you start packing up the materials, before a clear voice calls out to you, “It’s okay. You don’t have to bring all that. Just bring your flashcards.”

You hoped that wouldn’t mean he’d quiz you, but that’s exactly what he meant to do.

“Law of diminishing returns.”

“Wait! I know that one!” You brightly exclaimed, “ Uhh..it gives way to the catch-up effect which means poor countries tend to grow more rapidly and they’ll one day essentially catch up with wealthier economies.”

The blond ran his hand through his hair before sighing. You could feel your heart drop. You were sure you were right. Was your answer wrong enough to cause exasperation?

“Stick with the formal definition next time. I didn’t ask for the theory based on the law.”

You pouted, and Armin couldn’t help but relish in how eagerly you sought his approval, like a puppy performing tricks to appease their master.

“You should sit closer. Can you even see the word?”

You moved closer to him, knees knocking into each other. He looks down at the completed set.

“Well, you didn’t do as bad as I expected.” Ouch. But maybe he meant it as a compliment?

“But,” the corners of his mouth curled, “I’d say you’re still struggling.” Never mind.

“T-this is a new chapter though. I don’t think we’ve even gone over it in class.”

Blue eyes narrow, and you wonder if he’s going to give the well-meaning spiel about how staying ahead was the only way to keep up. That mantra may work for someone with high ambitions and an extremely good work ethic but you were no well-oiled machine. You had other classes too!

“Why are you so defensive?”

Your eyes widen in surprise at the question, spoken so softly and casually, you almost miss the disdained lilt.

“Oh uh-“

“Listen to me. I quizzed you so I’m able to assert your skill level. And your response to my assertion is that it’s something you haven’t gone over in class yet. Do those things relate to each other at all?”

Meekly, you shift your attention to the rug.

“Answer me.”

“N-no”, you squeaked.

“And what have I always told you? The only way to keep up is to-“

“Stay ahead.” You finished, “I’m sorry, I just-“

“Did I say you could interrupt me?”

You could feel the blood rushing to your ears, unsure when the atmosphere had shifted. Your heartbeat was beating rapidly and you could feel your body go warm.

He sighed, and placed a hand over over your folded ones, squeezing your palms.

“You know I’m just looking out for you right? It almost feels like you don’t care-“

“No!” You exclaim, “I-I do.” Heat pools into your cheeks once you realize your grave mistake, “I-I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

The blond smiles radiantly and it nearly melts away all of your worries…until he opens his mouth to deliver another damning remark.

“You know, with your looks…you don’t really even have to graduate. Maybe choose an easy major and then get some rich husband to take care of you.” There’s a distinct lack of humor in his tone as if he wholeheartedly believed every word he was saying.

Your eyebrows furrow in blatant confusion, and in the back of your mind, danger signs are flashing at the back of your head. Your thighs are growing warmer. Oh no, this could not be happening right now.

“That’s what most girls’ dreams are anyways.” He inspects his spotless nails, “You chose this class because Ackerman’s attractive right? That’s why his class has such a high drop rate…silly girls join, not understanding how harsh of a grader he is.”

You open your mouth to defend yourself but the next inflammatory remark he spews almost sends you to shock, “Though I bet, if you got on your knees for him, you’d be getting an A on those finals.” He laughs as if he was saying something particularly amusing, an undercurrent of spite coloring his words, “You wouldn’t even need me as your tutor.”

There are a million things on the tip of your tongue but no voice to speak them out. You want to ask him why he’s been so weirdly invasive, what his weird hang-up with professor Ackerman was, and of course, the casual sexism was really throwing you in a loop. Still, you have no doubt Armin could beat you to a bloody pulp several times over in a verbal lashing, and your mind was too fragile to deal with this.

You’ll sign up for a new tutor or better yet no tutor. You’ll get over your social anxiety and join a study group. You’ll go to all of Professor Ackerman’s office hours. Anything had to be better than this. You’re giving yourself this pep talk in your head but there’s no denying that your legs feel warm, and the self-improvement speech is withering away in your mind as it seeks to instead process how Armin fucking Arltert is touching you right now.

He pins you against the cushions, one hand locking both of your wrists. You’re shaking but your pupils are blown out wide.

He smirks, “There’s an excellent stress reliever for studying you know.”

You limp in his hold but the cocky attitude behind his words brings you back. You thrash under him, earning an annoyed growl from the blond.

“I’ve been so fucking patient with you, you know? Planning out your study guides, sharing my notes with you, proofreading homework, going over the mock exams—don’t you think I deserve a little compensation?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

He's right. He's right. Armin actually has done so much for you. Maybe it was too easy to take for granted because of how efficient he was, and how he acted like it was nothing. But right now, nothing really was everything.

He smiles. Yeah, this is who you were. Add just a little bit of pressure and you crumble. That flash of bravery from before was nothing but a petulant outburst from a child who didn’t know any better.

Armin coos, “Isn’t it a little embarrassing to be a virgin at your age?”

With unbridled precision, while he’s still holding your lower body down with the weight of his legs, he unbuckles his belt and ties it around your strained wrists. Red fills your face, and like always, you’re struggling to find the right words to respond. To say anything at all. Most of all, you can feel a wetness building at your core.

“I know the way you look at me, you know.” He kisses the dip of your neck, slender fingers splayed from under your shirt, “I know you’re into this.”

And because he is a scientist who must have evidence to back up his hypothesis, his hands find themselves under the waistband of your floral skirt that you foolishly wore, pushing the cure pastel underwear aside. You’re writhing in his grasp but maybe not as much as you should be, but it’s not your fault your movements are sluggish right?

“You have such a funny habit of not deleting your windows and keeping your bookmarks open.”

You freeze.

“This entire time I thought you were some prudish virgin even though you dress like a whore. Someone with who I had to be gentle. But all that fucking porn you read? Nasty. Is that why you need help in this class?” He punctuates slowly, "Because you're wasting your brain for something else?"

Immediately, you remember how you left your laptop on the table. You remember how many times he used your computer to double-check the notes, and you trustingly let him, forgetting that despite deleting your tabs, the hidden windows of steamy erotica were not yet erased out of their existence. Embarrassment violently paints your body.

He doesn’t wait or care for your response as he starts a vigorous assault on your clit with his slender finger, rubbing up and down in a vicious manner. The second finger prods at your entrance, feeling a tight cavern despite the amount of slick collected. Your eyes roll back in pleasure-is this what being with someone is like?

Stop. Get a hold of yourself. Why are you so fucking horny right now? It doesn’t matter what Armin said about you or how he called you out for the fiction you’ve read, because this is real life. But Christ, it’s Armin, the boy you’ve had a crush on since the moment he explained to you what a marginal abasement curve was. Stupidly handsome Armin with a gentle voice and too-blue oceanic eyes. Stupidly handsome Armin who coerced you into being under him.

You’re so fucking warm and tight, and Armin can’t wait to sink himself inside of you, can’t wait to humiliate you further. With nimble fingers he untied the ribbons of your dress like you were a Christmas present, groping your soft mounds and marking up your collarbone with teeth and tongue. Crystalline tears roll down the side of your face. You really shouldn’t be crying when you’re this wet.

“So fucking funny how you can’t look at me in the eye when we have a conversation but you read the filthiest fucking smut I’ve ever seen.”

taglist: @candy-hime

[drkeminity]

Hero leaned against the doorframe of the clubhouse, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his arms crossed as he took her in—the ghost from the past standing just feet away. Ten years. Ten damn years. It should’ve felt like an eternity, but somehow, seeing her now, it hit him like no time had passed at all.

“Wolfe,” he drawled, the name coated in a mix of disbelief and bitter familiarity as he pushed off the frame and took a step closer. His sharp blue eyes narrowed, studying her face like he was looking for proof she wasn’t some trick of his imagination. She looked different, sure—but not different enough to make him forget. He couldn’t.

“Identity crisis, huh?” He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot with deliberate ease. “Yeah, I’d say that’s one helluva understatement, considering most of us thought you were six feet under.” His voice was calm, but there was no missing the edge of irritation beneath it—sharp and cutting.

He paused a few steps away, hands slipping into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, the faint creak of it filling the silence. ��So, what’s the deal, Dani? You back to haunt us, or is this just a pit stop on your way to wherever the hell you’ve been hiding?”

The words came out harsher than he intended, but Hero wasn’t one to sugarcoat. Not with her. Not when the sting of her vanishing act still lingered in the cracks of the club’s fractured history. “If you’re looking for a warm welcome, you might’ve picked the wrong crowd. Ghost Riders don’t exactly do second chances, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Still, beneath the bite of his words, there was something else—something unspoken. A flicker of the old loyalty he couldn’t quite snuff out. Because no matter how pissed he was, no matter how much her reappearance threw him off, Hero had always been ride-or-die. Even for ghosts.

@sinnerssquarestart - open to all location: Outside the Ghost Riders dilapidated clubhouse notes: she's been gone 10 years, nypd deemed her to be dead after investigating her disappearance. if you play a MC member - they'd only recognize her if they were part of the club then, or if we have plotted something out since - hit me up if u wanna figure something out here xoxo

Daniela couldn't decide if looking at the clubhouse - her childhood home, felt nostalgic, or if the swirling feeling in her stomach was simply nausea. There was no changing her mind once she'd heard about what'd happened - the last decade of her life, and every choice she'd made to disappear - to die, was wasted on this. The looming building before her something of a ghost itself; reaching out to pull Daniela Wolfe from the afterlife itself. The all too familiar feeling of being watched however, wasn't enough to make her bristle. For years, she'd peered behind every corner, certain that she'd pinpointed every eye turned her way. All too aware of every move she made; she'd become someone else - but now, with the itch of eyes burning a hold into the side of her skull, whatever persona she'd worn quickly faded, "I'm a fairly patient person," she started, only pausing to offer a slight glance in their direction, "but it turns out I'm having a bit of an identity crisis right now, and if you don't stop staring and just spit out whatever it is you want to say...." Well, she didn't really know what she was going to do. Daniela Ramos and Daniela Wolfe were entirely different people.

[anhed-nia]

Recently, someone asked me where I draw the line with horror movies. She expected that we all have subjects or scenarios that are a non-starter because they're just too scary, disgusting, or distasteful. I had a hard time answering her question, because that's just not how I operate; like, it used to be that I wouldn't watch any pseudo-snuff fare like FACES OF DEATH, but then I actually saw that movie and realized that I like it. I guess I'm circumspect about movies that focus on sexual assault, because that's the most likely thing to offend me if its "handled wrong" in my rather mercurial opinion, but that still won't stop me. Some people (usually parents) can't stand seeing children in peril, but I definitely don't have that problem. Generally speaking, the more you threaten me with a bad time, the more attracted I am to the challenge of enduring it.

But, with all that on the table--and I have no idea what this says about me--I have a hard time with body horror. And by that, I mean a different thing than what usually comes to mind. Like, often when my personal lord and savior David Cronenberg sends a movie to Cannes, we get all these reports back of walkouts and vomiting in the aisles, and like…I would agree that CRIMES OF THE FUTURE offers one of the most transgressive images ever committed to film, but I can take that. (I'll take it and like it!) However, I'm really afraid of modern slaptstick comedy. It's not that I'm too good for lowbrow humor, but so many movies by folks like the Farrellys and the Zuckers just amount to torture porn for me. They're almost always "funny" mainly at the expense of the body: Somebody always winds up in a situation that's like something out of SALO: 120 DAYS OF SODOM, shitting and pissing their pants, suffering unwanted sexual experiences, eating or drinking something they shouldn't be, and generally being corporeally humiliated to the point that if it happened to you in real life, you'd never come back from it. To me, this kind of material escapes the bounds of actual-comedy and becomes some sort of grim purgative ritual for humanity's profound and enduring sense of shame. There's no joy in the laughter I've heard when I consented to watch such things in group settings, just this weird, shrill, pre-nervous breakdown anxiety that I don't find it at all fun or funny to be around, or to experience myself.

It may also be worth mentioning that I'm somewhat emetophobic. Like when I saw that scene in POLTERGEIST as a kid, the fact that the guy was throwing up at all was just as upsetting to me as the otherworldly reason it was happening. This is a fear that I just-barely have under control as an adult who is forced to live in a body that must occasionally, for perfectly healthy reasons, reject something I put in it.

Anyway, TRIANGLE OF SADNESS is very good, and it has a point to make, and as someone who is not in the luxury yacht class of people, I have a feeling I should enjoy watching a bunch of rich parasites weeping and screaming while basting in their own juices. And as a devoted fan of the horror genre, whose purpose in life is to show you the thing you don't want to see, I should be the target audience for something that evokes such a crystal clear vision of hell. But honestly, I don't know how well I was able to appreciate it while my brain was just going, "Yup, this is pretty much the worst thing that can happen. The worst thing there is. And it's still happening. God I hope this never happens to me. Is it still going on? …yeah, it's not over. I wonder how long this can happen for. I wonder if this happened to you, if you would go through some kind of permanent psychological change. I wonder if that happened to the people who were trapped on that stranded, contaminated cruise that was in the news a while ago. I wonder if that's happening to me now, just because I'm watching this movie. Wait, is it still going on? …Yup, I guess so," etc. I started to get sympathetic cramps, and I felt my face tingling in a way that I only associate with having consumed poison. I started sifting through memories of other movies that made me want to slam on the breaks: certain of the Guinea Pig films, CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST, STREET TRASH, NEKROMANTIK 2 when they club the seal, the interminable rape scene in IRREVERSIBLE, Craig Zobel's devastating COMPLIANCE, the grand finale of CENTIPEDE HORROR… I think all of the competing candidates involved extreme violence, which I guess tells you something about how I rate the yacht segment of TRIANGLE even though there are no rapes or murders involved. As it dragged on, I wasn't thinking anymore about how great it was that all the selfish, destructive rich people were having their thin veneer of bullshit dignity ripped away; I was just thinking about how unhappy I was, and how it seemed like I wasn't going to be feeling better any time soon.

Actually I worried that I might have nightmares about TRIANGLE OF SADNESS, and I did. I had a dream that some friends and I saw it at a festival where there was mass sympathetic vomiting, and we later learned that Ruben Östlund had learned some things about human neurology that ensured that what he showed, and how he showed it, was guaranteed to make any viewer vomit no matter what--sort of like the mythical "brown note" that's supposed to make you shit your pants. In the dream, I wasn't sure if I admired his level of calculation, or if I just felt totally manipulated and ripped off by being forced to have a bodily reaction that had little to do with my thoughts and feelings or appreciation for art. And like, maybe option #2 is how I really feel about this movie!

That's not to say that the movie doesn't have strengths besides the extreme horror of being doomed to a human body. It's funny (in other ways), it's got a bunch of great performances, it looks good, and it's reasonably smart. But on that last note, I scanned a bunch of reviews from prominent critics that denounced it as a lite, too-easy version of this form of social criticism, and that may be true. I may not be intellectually equipped to really address that, but it could be that the movie's initial, visceral shocks overwhelm one's assessment of how sharp its philosophical commentary actually is. I'd say this matter requires further examination, but I can almost guarantee that I'll never watch TRIANGLE OF SADNESS ever again as long as I live. And I've seen CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST more times than I choose to admit.

PS I wanted to say something about how weird it is that we've all been sharing this collective dream about extremely rich people experiencing a personal apocalypse on seafaring tourist expeditions--I mean am I the only one who feels like they're going insane from the bizarrely close concentration of a whole bunch of movies and shows that do this exact thing? But now I'm just exhausted, so somebody else will have to work that out. I'll be too busy doing some soul searching about why I find movies that are drenched in blood, guts, and misery so much easier to take than what happens in TRIANGLE OF SADNESS.

[f1nalboys]

Hello! I stumbled upon your goretober post w Billy n Stu and may have become a lil unhinged bc it's so good (and it feels kinda rare to find genuine gore in slasher fandom? Lol).

Anyways since you are opening requests could I possibly get something in the same vein; an afab gn reader x poly Billy n Stu where they find out about the boys being Ghostface and are really into it instead of being scared. Like being Very horny over blood and guts and wanting to watch/help them kill (perhaps blow off some of that post-murder steam :3c ).

Anyways thanks for your work! 💚

FUCK FUCK FUCK I LOVED THIS REQUEST!!! I'm so sorry about the wait and I hope you like this >:) I'm ngl, i def focused more on the gore than the actual smut so i apologize lmfao

WORD COUNT: 1997

WARNINGS: nsfw, gore, lots of gore like a lot of description, blood, slight blood play, slight knife play, dark!reader, billy and stu are fucked up, snuff film, this is overall real fucked up just a fair warning.

You weren’t supposed to come home yet. They thought they had plenty of time, at least another hour, to finish up and hide away all the evidence of what they had done. But you came home, wanted to surprise them with an early visit, but then you saw them.

They were in the bedroom, half undressed, their clothes and arms covered in blood. You swear you can see bits of god knows what on their shoes. “Y/N… what are you doing home?” Billy asked, his voice not wavering in the slightest. He was talking to you as though he wasn’t covered in gore. You don’t respond, your eyes darting between both men and the blood that was beginning to soak into the carpet. You felt your stomach flip.

“Y/N. I asked you a question.” His voice was sharp now and you can’t help but flinch, looking back at him to see that he had moved in front of you, a few steps closer now. You can see specks of blood on his face that had dried brown. He looked pretty like that, somehow. “Answer me!”

“I wanted to surprise you both… wanted to get dinner and maybe see a movie.” You respond quickly, your heart beginning to thump in your chest. Stu had begun to move closer to you now, slowly, afraid if he moved too quickly you’d bolt. Billy looks over at him and then back at you. “Is… who’s blood is that?”

Billy tsks, walking behind you and slamming the door shut, locking it. You were trapped here now. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to that, baby,” Stu says lightly, licking his bottom lip quickly. The closer they got the stronger the copper smell got, burning at your nose and eyes. Billy was behind you, his back pressed against the door.

You nod slowly and let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. Did… did they deserve it?” Stu’s eyebrows scrunch together but he ultimately nods, answering your question. “Well… that’s good enough for me.”

“What?” Billy spoke this time, moving from his spot behind you until he was standing beside Stu. “You find out we killed someone and you’re alright with it?” When he puts it like that it sounds wrong. Maybe it really was wrong. But coming into the room and seeing them covered in blood, a crimson covered knife on the dresser and the smell of death clinging to them, it made your stomach flip. It made your legs clench together and your heart beat faster. It made you want them.

Nodding, you take a slow step towards them, reaching your hand out and grabbing ahold of Stu’s hand. The blood covering him was still warm. The feeling of it on your skin, knowing that it belonged to someone who wasn’t here anymore, it was… you weren’t sure what it was. All you knew is it felt powerful. “I… I like it, I think,” You look up at them and can’t suppress your smile at their dumbfounded look. “Trust me, I don’t quite get it either. All I know is that this,” You motion at their blood covered bodies. “Gets me so fucking horny.”

Billy grabs ahold of your wrist and pulls you into him, pressing you against his body tightly. Stu was quick to come up behind you, trapping you in between them “Yeah? You think us covered in someone else's blood is hot?” He questions, holding up his blood soaked hand and resting it on your face. Billy smears the blood over your cheek and watches your reaction. He was waiting to catch you in your lie, waiting to see you cringe away from the feeling of the liquid, but you don’t. Instead, you lean into his touch.

“How’d you do it?” You ask quietly, your eyes closed, face pressed into Billy’s palm. Stu was behind you and had started to rock his hips against your ass, his erection evident. Apparently you weren’t the only one who found it hot. Billy’s smile grew and he looked at Stu, cocking an eyebrow like he was sharing an inside joke with the taller man.

“Wanna hear about how we killed the fucker?” You nod. “Mmm, never would have expected that from you. Guess you’re just as fucked up as us, aren’t they, Stu?”

“They sure are, Billy.” Stu laughs, gasping softly when you grind back against him.

Billy kisses you again and when he pulls back he forces three of his fingers into your mouth. The metallic taste almost makes you retch as it hits your tongue but you recover quickly and, while staring Billy directly in his eyes, begin to suck. The blood had cooled now and had dried against his flesh.

His gaze is burning and yet disinterested, like he was watching the news. That just wouldn’t do. You take his fingers in further until you gag but you still hold them there, flat against your tongue, and it’s only when a few tears slip from your eyes that he takes his fingers out of your mouth.

“We called him. Scared the shit out of him, made him paranoid. And then we broke in. Chased the asshole around a bit and then we caught him. And then…” He backs away from you and walks away. Your head turns to follow him but Stu grabs ahold of your hair, forcing you to stare straight ahead.

When Billy walks back into view the knife is in his hand. He waves it in your face slightly before placing the tip of the knife against your cheek. The metal was cold and it sent a shiver down your spine. Tracing down your jawline slowly, carefully, Billy continues. “We took this same knife and stabbed him. Over and over again, in the stomach, chest, everywhere we could get to. He was crying, begging us to stop. We gutted him. Pulled his organs out one by one and showed them to him.

“We played in his blood and we liked it. The last thing he saw was this knife going into his stupid fucking face. You should’ve seen him. His head was all bashed in. Stu got a few good stomps in before we left.” His smile never faltered as he spoke and his knife never stopped moving over your face, thin lines etched into the drying blood he had left. “Is that a good enough answer for you?”

“Did you get any pictures of it?” Your question catches them off guard and Stu lets out a strangled cough. You were full of surprises today. This was wrong and you knew it but you didn’t care.

“I might’ve taken a video or two. Why? You wanna see?” Stu asks and you nod, swallowing hard. You’ve never seen someone die before, never even felt the blood of another person, and yet here you were. Covered in it and asking to see your boyfriends snuff films.

Stu lets go of you and this time Billy grabs your waist and pulls you with him to the bed, sitting you on his lap while Stu grabs his camera. He plugs it into the tv, fiddling with the remote before walking over and sitting beside you and Billy, his hand resting on your thigh. Billy’s feet had hooked around your ankles and forced your legs open further.

The tv lights up and you’re greeted to the sight of a floor. A white linoleum one, probably in a kitchen, covered in blood. A puddle of it was coming from off screen and there was a drag mark through it. It’s silent for a few moments before the sound of a slice and a muffled scream come from off camera.

Stu turns the camera to his right and you finally see the reason for all the blood. A middle aged man was sitting leant up against the kitchen island, his mouth duct taped shut. Blood was covering most of him, his shirt completely soaked through. Billy was crouched in front of him, donned in the Ghostface costume, the same knife he held at your stomach right now in his hand.

“Watch how I can make him scream!” You hear before he raises the knife and sinks it into the man's gut. Another muffled scream and the man is thrashing around, struggling against whatever they had used to bound his ankles and wrists together. The closer Stu got, the more wounds you could make out on the man. You weren’t sure how he’d even survived this long.

His knees were broken, one bent in the opposite direction and the other looking like it was barely hanging on. You could see some of the man's fingers from behind his back and, from the bruising, you can tell they’re broken. Shallow cuts littered his face and arms and you can just barely make out a shard of glass sticking into the side of his cheek.

“Do you wanna know what your insides look like?” Stu asks and another shiver goes through you. His voice was darker. Evil. It shouldn’t turn you on the way it does. The man's eyes widen, his head shaking hard as Stu approaches and grabs hold of the knife Billy had left in his gut. He passes the camera off to the other man and Billy records Stu as he yanks the knife down.

The sickening sound of flesh and muscle ripping fills the room followed by the man's scream. It almost hurt your throat to hear how loud he was trying to yell. The sound of Billy and Stu’s amused laughter join into the chorus of screaming and the wet noise of organs falling from the mans body.

The camera zooms in on Stu’s hands as they dig through the man's stomach, entrails and organs being pulled out haphazardly. Blood, so much fucking blood, was filling the room, covering Stu and Billy’s clothing, but their mood didn’t dampen. “Aw, guess he finally decided to check out,” Billy said from behind the camera, turning to show the man's grey, ghastly face. His eyes were wide with fright and you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to forget them. “Surprised he lasted as long as he did, fucker got the shit kicked outta him.” His voice was light and it reminded you of what he sounded like when he was telling you a joke.

The camera cuts off and the room is plunged into silence. The knife had dug into your stomach just a bit, the cold metal biting into your flesh, a bead of blood falling from the wound. Your shirt soaked it up immediately but not before Stu could shove his hand under your shirt and collect some of your blood with his finger.

“Was it all you could’ve hoped for,” Stu asks and you turn towards him. Despite his smile you can sense the darkness behind it, hidden within his eyes. You nod, placing your hand on top of his that still rested on your thigh. “You’re fucked up, y’know?”

“Guess so.” You lean over and kiss him, tangling your hands in his hair, grinding down on Billy’s lap. The two men groan simultaneously and their hands roam your body, tugging at your limbs and clothing, blood smearing across your skin.

Billy pulls back from your neck where five hickies were already beginning to bloom, and he watches you. You were covered in blood, some of it your own but most of it not, and he decides right then and there that this is a sight he wants to see more. You looked beautiful. “We’re gonna fuck you like this, covered in that guys blood, and you’re gonna like it, aren’t you?”

You moan into Stu’s kiss but force yourself to pull away long enough to nod and say the one thing they were hoping you would. “Fuck me and I’ll join you both next time,”

You didn’t have to ask twice.

[vecnuthy]

Steddie AU where they're both at a military school

3.2k

Steve landed there because his asshole father finally got tired of being disappointed and his mother was of the mindset that Steve would be better away from his father, regardless of what that looked like. Maybe Steve would find some purpose and direction from being at the school. How romantically flawed of her.

Eddie ended up there a little later through an ultimatum handed down by a judge after he was arrested for selling drugs to an undercover cop. His choice was either jail time and a record to show for it or military school with no record. It absolutely destroyed Wayne the day Eddie left, but he held on to the hope that Eddie would be okay, that the school wouldn't snuff out the light that he worked so hard to cultivate and shelter after everything that happened with his father and mother.

The first thing that went? Their hair. Steve's locks, his defining feature, the one thing he felt he had total control over, lay shattered across the floor at his feet. A ragged breath escaped from his throat as he was moved along without ceremony, without feeling, and shown the bunk where he would call home for the next several months.

When Eddie sat down in the chair, his eyes were almost dead, completely checked out other than the slight wince he gave when the clippers buzzed to life. As more and more of his scalp hit the air, all he could think of was how on brand all of this was, just another entry in the book that was his shitty life. Dead mother, deadbeat father, trailer park trash, and now a delinquent stuck in a what was sure to be a hell hole because of a judge that saw things only in black and white as a way to keep this young adult, who couldn't even graduate on time, from going down the same road that his father had. A road that he had been dragged down by his proverbial shirt in his father's fist, mind you. It wasn't a longterm thing. The drugs were a means to an end, and that final deal had been a fluke anyway, completely different from what he usually did, but it didn't matter now. At least he knew what it felt like to have his hair buzzed, but it wasn't his choice this time. It felt wrong. He felt wrong.

The whole institution felt wrong, breaking them down to build them back up as machines best suited for military service after the program's completion. Forced conformity loomed over Eddie yet again, but this time it was more severe, and rebellion was absolutely not tolerated. Compliance was the only option.

Steve was a jock and coordinated, so the physical training they went through wasn't too far off from the conditioning he did for basketball. Eddie, although he could move quickly and was surprisingly strong for his build, struggled quite a bit. To be fair, very few students had the physical training element come naturally, and even Steve struggled through some of it. It was grueling, it was degrading, it toughened their bodies but made them mentally pliable for faculty to form them into what they wanted them to be.

Students were grouped together alphabetically, so it took a while for Steve's and Eddie's paths to cross. The first time it happened, Steve and some of his other teammates had been knocked down into mud in the rain during a morning training exercise as a result of their unsynced attempts to move through the course. "Team work, team work!" echoed around the field over megaphones as the rain splattered around them and members from other teams helped them up: if the whole company didn't finish together, they didn't finish at all. Steve grimaced and hissed words to himself as he took the hand that was offered to him and pulled him up, not even looking at him when he said, "Thanks, man."

"Harrington?" the other boy said incredulously, then their eyes connected. Steve looked so different with a buzzed head and almost unrecognizable in his drenched, mud-covered, tucked-in activity uniform.

"Yeah?" Steve said, wiping his other muddy hand off on his shirt. He didn't recognize the other soaked boy in front of him, who started to say something but was cut off with a thunderous "MOVE MOVE MOVE" from the megaphones, and the two scrambled back to their teams to finish the course. Eddie couldn't help but huff bitterly to himself: of course Steve didn't recognize him, even though he literally sold him weed a few times and his friends tried to make his life hell. Who would care to remember him?

Steve couldn't deny that Eddie looked familiar, but he couldn't place him. It's not like Steve wasn't used to being recognized, since he was the most popular guy at school, and he wasn't surprised that somebody else from Hawkins had landed at the school, given how close it was. He started noticing the boy more, though, as way to hold on to some semblance of familiarity.

Every now and then, the school would allow family to come and visit. It almost killed Eddie every time he saw his uncle, and he wanted nothing more than to cling to him whenever the man's sad blue eyes met his. This time, Eddie couldn't help it. The emotional strain of basically being institutionalized in such a cold place that was doing its damnedest to snuff him out and make him into something that was so against his constitution was too much, and he crashed into his uncle's arms, shaking as sobs tore through him.

"Son, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," was all Wayne could manage to say through his own tears as he held his boy.

Steve saw the whole exchange from afar after looking up from his chemistry homework during the free period. He saw a lot of students with their families, actually, and swallowed thickly at the sight, unable to stop how "must be nice" ran through his head. His father hadn't come at all, as if Steve would have wanted to see him anyway, but not even his mother had shown up after the initial visit a couple of months ago.

"Harrington's here," Eddie mumbled thickly as he pulled back and wiped his face.

Wayne was surprised at first, but then his expression darkened. The Harringtons were big in Hawkins, and the town talked. Their son being here made sense, in all the cruelty of that realization, and Wayne felt a warm wave of venom course through him. He hated that Steve was pushed off to here of all places because he was basically seen as an inconvenience. Wayne knew the Harrington boy was popular at school and had heard about his crew's less than ideal treatment of Eddie and his friends there, but still. This place was where kids were sent to be broken. No kid deserves to be broken.

"Eddie, you hold on to yourself."

"I'm trying, old man," he said with an attempt at humor as he pivoted away with a humorless laugh, water still pooling on his lashline.

Wayne frowned a little, but moved along, asking about his classes, telling how surprised he is with how Eddie had already started to bulk up. The visit was over far too soon, and Eddie had nothing to show for it other than the small care package Wayne had left him with another cassette for his Walkman that he had been sneaked in and some of Eddie's favorite snacks and candy.

Eddie finished the rest of his free period journaling on his bunk and chewing on a Twizzler until commotion from the hallway caught his attention. Raised voices echoed from further down, and when Eddie rounded the corner, he saw two boys shoving each other, then one slam the other against the wall, who then got a fist rammed against his side in retaliation.

"HEY," Eddie barked, sprinting toward the two and pulling them apart along with another guy that had come from the opposite direction. "What the hell is wrong with you, Miller?" he said to his teammate.

"He fucking tri--"

"I don't care what he did," Eddie told the other with a definitive look down his nose. "Is it really worth the whole team getting punished?" His brown eyes burned into the other's. "Hm?"

Miller wilted, letting the fight leave his body. "No. . . no, man."

Eddie looked back over at the other two, happy to see that the other guy, Higgins, he thought his name was, was getting dressed down too. Oh-- by Harrington. Eddie did a double take, and Steve caught his eye and nodded, which Eddie returned, before Steve turned back and pushed Higgins down the hall back toward his bunk, saying something like, "Do better," which caught Eddie a little off guard.

Weeks melted by and left stains on the concrete that was becoming their constitution. Both Eddie and Steve tried to focus on their classes, but the structure was stifling and oppressive, and they struggled to float by. The good thing about the school was that there were decent tutoring resources, and after the the second barely-failed chemistry test, they both found themselves with a handful of other boys in a remedial class during a free period. Eddie was with some guy named Tompkis, Steve with another named Wilks, until Wilks threw up and Tompkis threw up because Wilks threw up.

"Munson, Harrington, finish the assignment together," the instructor ordered as they radioed the med wing about the incoming patients and got custodian on the way.

Munson, Steve repeated in his head, then it hit him. Oh damn.

It only took a couple of months for their paths to properly cross, but there the two of them were, hovering over liquid and soil samples to determine the ph and analyze how they interact.

"Jesus, that's acidic," Steve said as he watched the strip turn bright orange.

"Probably the tap water here," Eddie mumbled as he jotted down some notes.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Steve commented through a chuckle and switched out samples. "You're Eddie, right?"

Eddie looked at Steve with a blank expression and considered him for a moment, then said, "Yep. Took you long enough."

"You look really different," Steve added, opting not to hold Eddie's look.

"You do too," Eddie parried, sticking a strip in the new liquid.

"What brought you to this concrete paradise?"

"Oh, you know," Eddie started with a bitter smile. "Just your typical judge with an ultimatum and a righteous streak. You?"

Steve grimaced, not ready to bring himself to admit that he was enough of a disappointment to be unwanted and done away with by his parents.

"Don't worry about it," Eddie offered, which Steve appreciated, then they continued with their labs and went their separate ways.

But something of an orbit started to form, which grew tighter as time went on. Eddie and Steve found themselves in each other's company more and grew closer as a result. They shared trauma by sharing trauma and enduring it together, and they hashed out old differences. Wayne's visits became as much for Steve as they were for Eddie, which made fond pride bubble in Eddie's chest every time, especially after finding out how completely absent his parents had always been. This was Eddie at his core: taking in the wayward and giving them a safe space. Wayne grew to adore Steve and was happy he could give the kid something he obviously craved and deserved.

But those brief moments of affection were fleeting and left them both with a short-lived afterglow as the days cranked on.

"Steve, I'm not made for this shit," Eddie practically whispered to mask the emotion threatening to spill from his eyes after a particularly difficult run in with faculty with his team. His hands rubbed against the freshly-buzzed velvet on his head.

"Hardly any of us are," Steve said, panning around the complex at the other boys who lived rigid half lives right along side him and Eddie.

"Nobody fucking cares," he said. "They expect us to fall in line with no questions asked, it's insane. This isn't life. This isn't how people should be made to live."

"I know, man, I know," Steve said with a soothing hand on Eddie's shoulder that did more to ground Eddie than he cared to admit.

And then one day, brown eyes met brown eyes with flecks of green, and something shifted. Where hands were once steady, they shook. Throats went dry and skin flushed when looks lingered a bit too long. Dreams revealed a bit too much to handle in the waking world, and oh - oh god when Eddie invaded Steve's personal space "innocently" with that dumb, wide smile of his, Steve had to leave. He just had to go away, run laps, polish his shoes, something.

Steve was terrified. First, he was enough of a disappointment to be gotten rid of by his own parents and made an institutions's problem, and now he was primed to achieve next-level disappointment by falling for another guy -- a fucking high school flunky drug dealer from a trailer park, to boot. As soon as the thought hit him, he hated himself for it, because he knew Eddie was so much more than those perceptions. He let what little remained of his mother and father's prejudices die and decided that he would live for himself since nobody else would, and let himself feel.

Eddie was more secure in himself, but Steve had him second guessing the concept because this was new. Was it because he and Steve were each other's only link to the outside world? Because they had gotten so close? Because they had gotten close. Defenses didn't stand very much of a chance against Eddie because he was just that good at connecting with people, and, of course, Steve was a charmer, which Eddie started noticing more and more.

And, yeah, Eddie bit.

Touches lingered, Steve's space was his space, and he found out that Steve turned a particular shade of pink whenever Eddie gave a cheeky grin, so he wore it out. Steve, on the other hand, noticed how dazed Eddie looked when he looked annoyed and parried Eddie's cheek with a bit of sass, and he definitely caught Eddie staring at his arms, which now had a decent bulk to them, one day. Steve didn't catch Eddie looking at his butt and thighs, though, which is funny because Eddie was looking almost as much as Steve was distracted by Eddie's neck and back. It was hot out, but the lack of clothes to cope during down time was decidedly not helpful, which occurred to Steve as he stared slackjawed at the sweat beaded and trickling down Eddie's curved back as he sat next to Steve on the grass, leaned forward and hugging his knees to keep Steve's damn thighs out of his line of sight.

"Goddamnit," Steve involuntarily slurred out loud.

"Hm?" Eddie grunted, making his body lurch forward a little bit, snapping Steve out of his trance and making him blush beet red once he realized what he'd done.

"It's too hot out here," Steve said in an attempt to misdirect, leading Eddie to peep over his shoulder and his eyes blow large.

"Steve, you're way too red," he said with a bit of alarm as he jumped up, grabbed Steve's hand, and hauled him to the bunkers, saying, "We shouldn't have stayed out here so long," as he made a beeline to the showers. "Cold. Now," Eddie ordered, shoving Steve under the shower head.

Steve just stared at Eddie, awestruck.

"Hey. Steve," Eddie said, snapping his fingers in front of the boy to no avail, because Steve's eyes were focused on Eddie's lips, which Eddie missed because he was too busy lunging towards the handles to get the water flowing, which was unsuccessful, because Eddie was now pinned against the wall of the narrow stall with a shocked look on his face.

"Are you having a fucking stroke?"

"No," Steve spat as if it were obvious.

Clarity soon took the place of confusion on Eddie's face, and his eyes heavied, the curves of his mouth crooking up. "Then what're you doin, Steeeve," Eddie asked in a low tone dragging out his name.

Steve moved away and turned a little, bare, hairy chest visibly rising and falling as heavy breaths passed through his nose and a hand ran over his buzzed head out of reflex. "I don't know, man," he finally said, not looking at Eddie.

"You sure about that?"

Eddie's tone made Steve's stomach drop. "Don't -- don't do that," Steve almost pleaded.

"What, the voice?" Eddie asked smugly.

"Jesus," Steve said under his breath, shuffling aimlessly and still turned away from Eddie.

"See, I think you knew what you were doing."

God, Steve could hear the smirk in his voice. They both knew it was over. He turned back to see a fully-smirking, toned, glistening, half-naked, buzz-cut Eddie Munson casually leaning against the back of the shower stall, eyes blown, obviously unashamedly affected by the situation. Steve literally gulped at the whole picture and the atmosphere, ears roaring with blood that pumped furiously through his veins.

With two quick paces, he was back in front of Eddie with the slightest of height advantages that he hadn't noticed before. His jaw clenched as his mind raced. Was he really about to do this? Was this really about to happen? He had one false start with him leaning into Eddie's space before pulling back, but Eddie, completely focused on Steve's blushed lips and his stupid freckles and moles, brought him back into his with his hand on the side of Steve's face and a hesitant thumb softly pressed against Steve's lips as he said, "You should finish what you start."

Their noses were millimeters apart from each other as they breathed the same tangy, sweaty air. Steve's forehead pressed against Eddie's as he tried to overcome his last sliver of restraint, wondering why there was any restraint in the first place. He'd dreamed about this plenty, daydreamed it even more, but here it was actually happening. With one little dip of his chin, Steve's lips finally met Eddie's with a sharp intake of breath and a tender hesitance that quickly turned into a taught fervor that broke loose in a mess of sighs, moans, teeth, and tongue as Steve pressed Eddie against the stall and Eddie pulled him impossibly close.

Obviously, this development didn't suddenly transform an oppressive military school into a paradise. Fuck the repsect and discipline, the pride and honor that the school touted. There was nothing respectful, prideful, or honorable about what happened around them and to them, causing students to lash out on other students, which just led to widespread punishment. Whoever thought that brute force, yelling, and strict rules were tenets for child reform? Half of these kids already knew they didn't work through firsthand experience. Eddie and Steve having each other to lean on on a higher level made the time pass more easily, though. Because of the other's presence, the grey of their respective existences had slowly, so slowly had color leech through and stain their surroundings, coming from the softest of pastels to the most gaudy, binding neons, and, my god, it was so difficult to buck the whole damn system more than they already wanted.

But they both held on to Wayne's words: Don't lose yourself.

With each other's love and support, they didn't.

[anthrcpophagi]

"Yeah, I guess so." His words are comforting, even though she knows they're not entirely true. But Trent means well, so Maren doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong. Instead, she decides to believe him. For now, at least. When the sun began to rise and all the sadness seeped back into her bones, she'd reconsider.

“And now? Have you done it?” She glows red at her own boldness. The question is inappropriate, not to mention sinful, and she’s quick to snuff her curiosity. “Nevermind, you don't have to answer that. That was rude of me, sorry.” CShe raises her thumb to her mouth to chew on her nail, fighting to swallow the wave of guilt that rises in her chest. Maren can still taste lingering bits of the last man she ate, small fragments of skin and blood still caught beneath her fingernails. There was only so much scrubbing that could be done in a truck stop bathroom, but she’d done her best. It felt like karma, though. The remnants that remained would prove to make her feel awful, terrible, monstrous until the hunger outweighed any guilt and the cycle repeated itself.

“Okay.” She perks up, shifting on the bed. “I dunno what kind of things to ask, though. Asking who in the circle you wanna kiss seems like cheating under the circumstances. Unless you wanna pick the monster hiding under the bed.” Maren cracks a smile, the lilt in her voice giving her away. She knows it didn't matter whether it was just them or not. Maren knows her answer wouldn’t have changed if there were a thousand other people in the room.

Unless Lee were there, she supposed. But Lee was gone, a flash of a memory in her mind. Trent, though, was real. Flesh and blood and bones. “You go first.”

"That's all you can really do anyways." He assures. Just like the nightmares make him appreciative of waking up to the life he has, when he looks back on his childhood a little too long, it only makes him like his life now more. He wasn't an unhappy child, he's just happier now.

Trent has to take a second to consider how much he should divulge. He has a, maybe warranted, urge to separate himself from his 13-year-old self, a portrait of lanky limbs and an eager to please grin. Brimming with so many questions and no answers. "If there were girls it was a little tamer. Who in this circle would you kiss? If you had to choose any teacher to get with, who'd it be?" He can hear the chorus of ewws, the choirs of barked out laughter, part unadulterated joy, part just-turned-teenage awkwardness.

"If it was just guys, it was which girl in the school would you wanna have sex with Which is wild 'cos none of us had ever done it before." But at thirteen, it was practically all he thought about, the only outlet to talk about it being late-night games of truth or dare, where it wouldn't relieve nothing but at least he'd get a sliver of solace, found in knowing that he wasn't the only one feeling that way. Still, he finds that sometimes it' practically all he can think about. "You wanna play?"