#high functioning tipsy

[aunhinged]

Johnlock concepts: Sherlock gets tipsy/drunk 03

Sherlock keeps trying to explain deductions but they come out in the form of slurry words, grandiose hand gestures and mumbles;

Sherlock: John, obviously- obvioussssly….the man with the umbrella has- hassss.. an unspoken feud with the barista. I meann look at the foam art. a rageful flower-

John: Sherlock thats a leaf.

[possum-tooth]

mmen.....

[chimielie]

hockey player!iwaizumi x f!reader, tooth-rotting fluff, like sweeter than cotton candy, slight injury

When Hajime lost his tooth, he hated it.

He’d always privately had a little bit of a complex about his looks. Growing up best friends with Oikawa made it hard not to compare their looks and come up lacking. He tried not to let it get to him, never verbalized it to anyone, knew that he was still fine. Just nothing special.

They both grow up playing hockey—at least he can beat up Oikawa on the ice (and they always laugh about it off of it). Oikawa goes pro, right out of high school, and Hajime spends a little time dicking around playing college hockey in America before he gets drafted.

He had met you at the bars after a game; his first win after being traded to the team Oikawa’s played for for a couple years now.

The memory is clear: It’s great to be back together, but he feels some trepidation in the car the guys rented, some childish part of him reticent about the idea of going out and watching chicks swarm his best friend, just like their teen years.

He doesn’t even really have time to think about that once they’re in, though, because he, the newbie, gets sent up to order. While he’s waiting for the bartender to pour them the first round of shots, you tap him on the shoulder, touch so soft he barely feels it after getting pummeled on the ice. His right shoulder is tender because he’d slammed hard into the railing right after stealing the puck from Ushijima, sending to Tooru, who had pushed it neatly into the net. An assist on the first goal of the night, and he’d gotten a goal in himself by the third period too.

It twinges as he turns to face you, a clear question written all over his face. It’s not like he’s totally oblivious, like he’s never been flirted with. It just somehow always surprises him still.

“You’re fine,” you declare, already a little tipsy, your cheeks warming as he observes you in your night out outfit. He doesn’t notice a single other girl, talking to Oikawa or not, the whole night.

The next morning, you repeat it to him, curled up against his naked chest, eyes unclouded by drink but your words just as genuine.

It was the first time he’d ever thought of being fine as a good thing.

So when the tooth, his right front one, comes out, cracked by a hard high stick to the face, he almost doesn’t want to come home after the game. It probably doesn’t make sense to get it replaced completely—injuries like this are common in his line of work, and it’ll be a hell of a lot more trouble to keep replacing fakes. He opts for a partial denture, something he can take out during games, but the mold takes twenty-four hours to cure.

You attend as many of his games as you can, but he’d insisted that you head home on your own while the doctors checked him out. You’d ceded only on the condition that you’d have dinner waiting when he got back, something soft and good at room temperature so he wouldn’t aggravate the nerves.

He frowns when you see him, crossing the room and hovering your hands over his swollen cheeks and telling him how worried you’d been, how happy you are he’s okay.

“When’s it gonna be technically healed?” You ask, and his heart clenches.

“It’ll probably be sensitive for a few more days, but they’ll have a coverup ready by tomorrow,” he says. Before he can crack a joke like so you don’t have to look at this ugly mug too long, you’re looking at him with a contemplative expression, one he doesn’t know how to read.

��So… will it hurt if I kiss you?” You want to know. “I feel so bad, ‘cause it must have sucked, but you look so cute like this.”

His heart drops straight through the pit of his stomach in relief.

“Yeah, baby, it’ll be fine… Ow! Ow! Okay, little gentler.”

Still, he wears the flipper as often as he can once he gets it. He doesn’t like the way it looks, the gap, he reasons. Just because you say you do doesn’t mean he’s okay with showing up to functions looking even more like a scrub to your perfect ten. And yeah, he’d think you were beautiful with a paper sack over your head, but it’s just different.

He can hear you whispering before he even walks into the kitchen. You beam up at him, as beautiful as that night in the bar, and his face breaks out into a smile before he even registers it.

“Do you wanna…” you nudge your daughter, and she turns to him, smile just as bright as yours. His heart stops.

There’s a big gap in that smile, the right front tooth missing.

“Look, Daddy!” He catches her up in a big hug, hefting her up so he can inspect her face closely. “Now we match!”

It’s all crashing down on him. He’s bubbling up with it, the fizzy feeling you’d given him in the bar, the tears as he vowed until death do us part, the softness as he’d cradled her in his arms for the first time. You stand, leaning your head on his shoulder as your daughter tells him all about the loss of her first tooth, about the importance of being the first in her class to lose one.

“You’re so brave, kiddo.” He kisses her head. “Makes you even cuter. Want some yogurt?”

[catscidr]

// the fatui's alcohol tolerance and drinking habits //  

i. note — after writing this post i started thinking about how the other harbingers would tolerate alcohol and then.... but this is also because of a lovely commenter on ao3, thank u pookie for enabling me ♡ ii. includes — all of the harbingers + pierro and the tsaritsa. gn!reader iii. cw — not proofread, alcohol, various fuckery and headcanons. crack. that's it iv. wc — 1,2k

丑角/Pierro, The director. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.   -> habits: has an entire wine cellar in the zapolyarny palace and owns a vineyard southern of snezhnaya. one of his hobbies consist of wine-testing; he’s the kind of person to cleanse his palate with a small sip that he swooshes in his mouth, then swirls his glass to observe the coat, sniffs the wine, takes another sip- you get it. if you asked, he would recommend you a wine based on your taste. you want something sweet but not dry? try dessert wines. want something a little more on the bitter side? get yourself a malbec from argentina. 

he hates anything that isn’t wine. don’t even try to give him a beer, he’ll look down at you with the most vicious glare you’ll feel sorry for being born. 

队长 /Il Capitano, The first. 

-> tolerance: 10/10, very high.  -> habits: doesn’t see the point of drinking so he never has a glass in his hands from his own volition. if he’s drinking it’s either because some coworkers managed to get him to come out for drinks, because he caught one of his agents drinking on the job and decided to have a drink as well, or because you convinced him to drink with you. 

his drink of choice is literally just any hard liquor, he doesn’t really care for taste. everyone is under the impression that he can’t get drunk, but some people just take it as an invitation to try to get him shitfaced (it never works out). 

博士/Il Dottore, The second. 

-> tolerance: 3/10, very low.  -> habits: never drinks and doesn’t see the point in it anyways, because it’ll only hinder his cognitive functions (you tried convincing him that he can get different perspectives that way. you were swiftly rewarded with a flick on the forehead). on top of that, he just can’t really handle alcohol so why purposely leave himself vulnerable like that. he didn’t care enough to give himself a higher tolerance for it when he modified his body, apparently. would probably be the designated driver if he went out to a bar (if he were invited in the first place. if he accepted the invitation, second.) 

the kind of person to get weirdly tipsy after two white claws. 

少女/Columbina, The third. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What.  -> habits: o̴̻̒f̴̭͋f̵̣͝ė̵͎r̴̻̄ĭ̵̙ñ̶̥g̸͙͋ ̵̦͆ḫ̸̏e̷̺̊r̶̳̈́ ̴͖̓ä̷͖ ̷͓͆d̴̜̆r̴̡̄i̷̪͝n̵͕͂k̵̠̄ ̴͈̈́ŵ̵̭ȉ̶̺l̸̩̃l̵̲̈́ ̵͖͝ö̸̪n̸̘͝l̸̺̈ỹ̷̹ ̴͑͜ṡ̸̞p̵̪͆e̶͈̊l̵͈͌l̶̜͗ ̵̣̌y̵̢͒ŏ̴͔u̴̹͐ŗ̶̀ ̶͎̈d̶̥͑ö̷̧o̶͓̕m̵̘̃.̷̡̽ ̵͙̐ý̴̟o̸̻͝u̵̳͘ ̶̙́s̴̠̿h̶̡͋a̴̫͊l̶̮̾l̷̳̃ ̷͓͝n̶͕͝o̶̢̓ț̵̏ ̶̞͋w̷̹͝i̶̦̚ṫ̴̪n̸̖̉e̶̢͝s̸̝̕s̸͉͒ ̵̗̈́h̸͜͝ě̵̝r̷͙̉ ̶̭̃h̵͍͒o̶̠̅l̸̗͂i̴̞̕n̷͚̓ẽ̴͙s̵̙̀s̵̖̄ ̷̟͐ć̵͈ó̴̭n̴̙̾s̶̠͋ũ̷̙m̷̬̈́ì̷ͅn̶̯͛g̸̯̔ ̴̨͝t̶͙̕h̴̢͝e̵͔̋ ̵̖̀d̵̖͛ë̷͖́v̵̯͂ii̵͖̿q̵̯̽ŭ̴̺o̶͖̔r̵̠̒.̶̺͒ ̵̙͘l̵͑͜e̸̖͗a̷̞͝v̷̉ͅe̵̮̕ ̸̦̎h̸̩̎e̴̪̐r̸̰̀ ̷̩͠b̷̛̥ĕ̸ͅ ̸̪͒e̴̜͂l̸͖̄s̴͖̆ẽ̷̝ ̸̘͘y̸̹̋ô̴̺ṷ̷̓r̸̭̈́ ̸̜̅l̶͖̾i̵͇͘f̵͉̔e̵̜̚s̷̖̏p̴̫̈́ä̷̬́n̷͔͌ ̴̰̑w̵͝ͅȋ̶̫l̶̛̯ḷ̸͒ ̸̡̊s̷̹͠h̶̭͋o̶̹͆r̵̮͂t̵̥̽é̴̡ṉ̷͌ ̶͕̑ĉ̸̰ǫ̶̈́n̶̔͜s̸̺̃i̷͌͜d̸͚̂e̵̺͊r̸̺̄ą̸̆b̷̲͘ḻ̸̎y̶̠͂.̴̣̉ 

in her free time, she likes to practice her bartending skills, like making fresh piña coladas! 

仆人/Arlecchino, The fourth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: likes to unwind with a glass of wine in her office while overlooking a multitude of paperwork. never drinks enough to get tipsy, but she could if she were surrounded by the right company...? if she wanted to, she could probably enter a drinking competition and win, though. whatever that means 

has let some children of the house of the hearth try wine. finds the grimaces they pull after a sip very amusing 

公鸡/Pulcinella, The fifth. 

-> tolerance: 6/10, moderate.  -> habits: the kind of man to drink wine with his meals, but he won’t have more than one and a half—two if he’s feeling particularly pent up. his tolerance isn’t that good because of his weight, unsurprisingly.  he doesn’t get invited to go out for drinks because he always ends up indulging just a bit too much. he then acts like a disappointed dad to everyone in the vicinity.

0/10 don’t bring him to a bar unless you want to be scolded for breathing.

国崩/Scaramouche, The sixth. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: hates alcohol but is weirdly competitive when it comes to it, if he’s with the right people. sort of. although alcohol doesn’t affect him in the same way it does regular people, it still makes him feel gross enough to not want to be near it. if he had to pick a drink it would be something like an aperol spritz. he’d wait like thirty minutes before drinking it, letting the bubbles fizz out a bit. hates the “taste” of carbonation with a passion.

don’t even try to get him to try give him a beer, he’ll turn it into a molotov cocktail 

木偶/Sandrone, The seventh. 

-> tolerance: 4/10, low.  -> habits: similar to il dottore, she hates drinking because it impairs her genius mind, but she’ll go out if only to make fun of drunk people (it rarely ever happens anyways). if she’s stuck with a drink in her hands for some reason, she’ll make the dapper ruin guard that’s at her side dispose of it for her. 

will it literally throw it away or will it dispose of it in a less destructive way? don’t stick around to find out. 

淑女/La Signora, The eighth. 

-> tolerance: 8/10, high.  -> habits: similar to arlecchino, she enjoys a good red wine occasionally. the only difference is that she needs to have it while bathing in the most expensive bath salts accompanied by so many candles it would be a hazard for her lungs. the queen of being a diva, has perfected the art of swirling wine in a glass while listening to jazzy music. 

absolutely adores dandelion wine; she always buys crates upon crates despite the ridiculous import fees. has one from so long ago you’re surprised the bottle hasn’t disintegrated yet—the name Rostam is engraved into it. 

富人/Pantalone, The ninth. 

-> tolerance: 7/10, moderate.  -> habits: probably the only normal one out of the bunch (which says a lot). whenever he drinks he always ends up tipsy, and when he’s tipsy, that façade he wears crumbles at the speed of light. gone are the strained fake smiles for politeness’ sake, in are the loud, angry rants about annoying clients. he won’t stop until his voice starts straining from usage. 

his go-to drink is literally whatever expensive wine he can get his hands on; he’ll drink with pierro and analyze wines, on occasion. don’t join them, you’ll die of boredom. 

公子/Tartaglia, The eleventh. 

-> tolerance: 9/10, very high. Debatable.  -> habits: you wouldn’t believe that he can handle alcohol better than most people because every time he drinks, he always gets shitfaced. he’ll insist he’s just testing his limits and building a higher tolerance. don’t bring him out for drinks with il capitano, he’ll inhale 5 shots of fire water in a couple of minutes to “convince” the first that he’s strong. it never works. 

probably the best person to go to a bar with, if you manage to go on a day where he didn’t wake up with the urge to get so stupidly plastered that he’ll try to fight every single man in the building. don’t let him try to show off, there aren’t many bars left that haven’t banned him yet. 

Царица , The Tsaritsa. 

-> tolerance: ?/10. What²  -> habits: ṯ̵̿ḧ̸̤́i̷̹͊s̴̠͐ ̷̧̍i̵̦͝ṡ̴̼ ̵̪͛ä̶̙́n̵͙͆ ̴͆ͅȃ̶͓s̵̜̅s̴̫̀a̵͑ͅs̵̡̓s̷͇̈́í̷̹n̷͕͠a̷̛̱ṱ̴͘i̷̡̕ō̴̻ń̷ͅ ̶͍̃a̵̧͝ṭ̶͝t̶̮̏e̴͉͑m̵̮̈p̵̰̕t̶̼̔.̸̯͆ ̵̗̔y̵̖͝ó̶̡u̶͇͑ ̵̜͌ẁ̶̘ï̵̢l̶̥̈l̶̲͐ ̴̩̔b̴̪͋e̸͎͌ ̷̲̑p̷̲̋r̴̦͐o̷̙͐m̵̟͝p̴͔͛t̷͔̂l̶̪̏y̶̖͂ ̶͊ͅd̵͉̓ỉ̵͔s̵̩̕p̴͖͐o̶͈͘s̵͌ͅḛ̴͂d̶̺̊ ̴̯̓ơ̵̺f̶̠́ ̵̈́͜a̴͙̎t̵̠͋ ̵̲̈ō̵͉n̴̨̒c̸̭͛ê̵͎.̶͓͘ ̵͇̃y̷̡̆ő̵͍ű̸̮ ̸̙͌c̶͈̔ȧ̷̳n̴͍̎ṅ̵͖ŏ̷̪t̵͉͝ ̸̩̇r̷͈̈́u̷͍͝n̷͔̿.̵̮͘ ̷͕̈́w̸̼̄h̴̥̏ý̵̘ ̷͇̀d̶͉̋ii̷̭̎n̶͙̎k̷̢̀ ̵̢̐c̷̣̀o̴͖̍ḿ̵̹i̵̥͘n̵̲̈g̸̫̒ ̵̠̏iͅií̷͎ť̴̻t̷̛̠y̴̟͝ ̴͖̑c̶͔̎o̴̮̽r̷̬̐ñ̴͖e̶͙͒ŕ̵̥ ̴͈̾s̶̙͊t̶̛̫ò̸̲r̶̺͊e̶̮͆ ̶̣̃b̷̰͘ḙ̴͘e̸̖̕ṛ̸̏ ̵̖̓ẃ̷̞a̷͕͐s̶̳͆ ̵̘̾a̶͔̓ ̵̣͛g̴̰͐o̴͕̊o̵̲̾d̸̦̔ ̴͓͗i 

drinks wine with la signora and arlecchino sometimes! their girls' nights only happen once in a blue moon and she doesn’t drink much, but she enjoys the slight buzz from a good red wine nonetheless. 

[identitty-dickruption]

Is there anything that you see when someone writes addiction/alcohol addiction specifically that really annoys you? As someone trying to write something related rn, having someone who actually knows about it's perspective is really useful :]. Obviously no pressure to answer! Have a nice day <3

oh absolutely yes. I've seen some truly shocking things of late. and also in general very happy to bitch about it for a bit

it may sound obvious but don't. like. blame the entirety of a person's addiction on a single factor or act like "if only they had access to x piece of information, they wouldn't be an addict!". in candy house by Jennifer Egan, one of the characters became an addict because of her dyslexia and her inability to find fictional characters who Truly Understood Her. don't do that.

try not to smooth them out into a singular dimensional person. or even a two dimensional person (where the two dimensions are addiction and trauma or whatever). an addict is a human being. weirdly difficult for people to conceptualise this

NOBODY gets withdrawal right. withdrawal is Not a couple shakes and then you're good. withdrawal can last weeks, if not months, depending on how dependent the person was on the substance and depending on what the substance is

similar to the above, if someone relapses while they're experiencing withdrawal, the withdrawal symptoms do not immediately disappear. if you're throwing your guts up you won't be magically fine the moment you get your substance in you. you will still feel incredibly shit for a good couple hours Minimum

implying that addiction is inherently irrational, or selfish, or stupid. addiction is a response to a set of circumstances that make sense to a person at the time. nobody becomes an addict for shits and giggles. there is always something else going on

likewise, the "high functioning alcoholic" trope has. problems. like I spent an entire year being tipsy non-stop while I was also doing alright in university and whatever. very definition of high-functioning alcoholism I guess. but I think those characters are done Poorly a lot of the time in that the nature of the interpersonal issues they have never feels Quite Right

"I got sober for love" shut the fuck up. "you saved me from myself" go away. "one real human relationship fixed my dependency on substances" no it did not. if love cured all ills, I would be the healthiest guy on the planet. it simply does not work that way <- falling in love makes it easier to love myself and have hope for the future but at the end of the day I'm still a traumatised bitch who struggles with shit

the entire concept of an intervention. addiction does not end with One Grand Event that will make everything better. forcing someone to go to rehab barely ever works. interventions are not one-off events, they are a series of kind and compassionate conversations that occur over a long period of time

sorry this ended up being a lot more than I thought it would. I think if you asked me again tomorrow I would have five to ten more things to bitch about. idk. people get the complexities of addiction wrong A Lot and I've read/seen more bad rep than good rep. but oh well. it's important to me that people are out there trying their best to do better! so thanks for asking

[morgluvsconnie]

BOUND, c.springer

chap.3 | language, kinda short (will make it up!!!) | chap.2

“when yo birthday again?”

“two days.” you sipped your margarita while looking up at connie. both of you were drunk, high, and out of it. you were at the bar spot once again, leaning against the counter. he did the same, looking down at you.

“you want sum?” he tilted his head.

“not from you.” you looked at connie through your lashes, smiling a little. he had a straight face for a few seconds, but started to smile. “don’t say ian ask you, ight?” he raised his brows.

before you could reply, a random guy came up to you.

“wassup.” he looked you up and down. connie frowned a little, backing up. “i guess ian here then.” he said under his breath, looking to the side and drinking from his cup.

“you fine, i saw you from over there.” the guy pointed backwards. you glanced back and looked at him. you had no damn idea where he was pointing.

“okay.” was all u said, taking a sip from your bottle.

“just tryna make sure you ain’t got no boyfriend. you pretty as hell.” the guy smiled. you smiled back and laughed. “thank you, but i got a boyfriend.” you tilted your head. connie looked at you with a confused face.

“ion see ‘em.” the guy looked around then at connie.

he looked back at you. “this him?” he frowned.

you looked at connie and connie looked at the guy. “if you ain’t cut off our conversation you woulda knew that.” he mumbled, looking him in the eye. the guy stared at connie for a second before squinting and looking at you. “ion believe it.”

“fuck you want us to do, kiss?” connie frowned again.

“he is my boyfriend. better luck next time.” you pat the guy on his chest, softly pushing him away. “you, you gotta work on your temper.” you pointed at connie.

“my temper? youn recall when you came to get that tattoo? and you welcome for helping you. shit.” connie shook his head and blew through his mouth. “crazy.”

“well ion remember. so.” you shrugged, taking one more sip from your margarita and turning around to go. “hol up, where you goin?”

“home.”

“you high. and drunk.” connie squinted.

“no i’m not.” you crossed your arms.

“look at yo eyes.” connie stared at you. you pursed your lips together. “i can’t cus i don’t have a mirror.”

connie scoffed. “you tryna get off, ight. go home if you want to.” he shrugged. “i will if you gimme my keys.” you held your hand out. connie looked down at his pocket and took the keys out. “these my damn keys.”

you looked at them. “oh.” you mumbled, reaching in your purse to get your keys. you laughed lightly at yourself and hummed. “okay, ima see you later.”

“you not driving home like that.” connie rested his eyes at you and grabbed your keys, walking off. “boy what the hell?” you frowned, quickly following behind him. “gimme my keys” you pushed him. “no.” he walked to the rest of the group. “aye sash. take y/n car home and catch mikasa back.” he tossed sasha your keys.

you frowned up at connie then looked over to sasha, furrowing your eyebrows. sasha shrugged her shoulders with a smile, making you roll your eyes and groan, and being forced to follow connie outside the club.

“you high too! you can’t drive me home.” you stopped at the door and leaned on the brick wall. “i can function when i’m high. ian even smoke as much as you. so come on.” connie kept walking.

you stayed in the same spot, making connie turn around and narrow his eyes before looking up at the sky and closing his eyes.

“every time you get drunk.” he mumbled.

“it’s not every time. i’m not drunk i’m just tipsy. i’m talking perfectly fine.” you looked the other way.

to you, you were talking perfectly fine. but to connie, it sounded stupid. real stupid.

“okay, you not drunk, you tipsy. now bring yo ass y/n.”

“noooo” you whined, turning away as connie walked over to you.

that’s when you felt yourself being lifted off the ground, and tossed over connie’s shoulder. “you so fuckin stubborn.” he mumbled, walking to his car.

as much as you felt like arguing, you just let it happen.

an attitude was planted on your face as connie drove you home. he’d glance at you every few seconds, making sure you were good. “stop lookin at me.” you mumbled, staring out the window. you picked up your phone to check the time.

“it don’t matter how many times you pick up that phone, it’s still gon be dead.” connie smiled, just to mess with you. you squinted and slowly turned towards him.

“shut the hell… up.” you blinked quickly before turning the other way.

of course he didn’t care about you being rude. you were drunk. he knew, obviously, how you acted when you were drunk. but he still had to let you know,

“ion know who the hell you talkin to like that.” he raised his eyebrows, eyes still rested on the road.

“you.” you rolled your neck and him before rolling your eyes.

connie leaned back, slowly nodding with a small smile. it was funny when you were mad. apparently.

“right here.” you pointed to the house nearby.

as he pulled in the driveway, he put the car in park and put his hands behind the seat. “get out.”

you look at him.

“i’m just playin, damnnn. big head.” he laughed, unlocking the car. as you got out, you closed the door behind you, walking around the car and looked back at connie, throwing up a middle finger.

connie smacked his lips and let the window down. “damn, no thank you?”

you walked to your door and got your house key out, which was with your mailbox key, and your moms house key. fumbling to find which one out of the three it was, you dropped them, getting frustrated.

you snatched them off the ground, stumbling back over to the car and passing connie the keys. “i can’t see which one says H.” you mumbled, waiting for connie.

he glanced at you and chuckled a little, giving you the right key. “don’t drink again.”

you waved him off and walked back over to your door, looking back at him. “thank you.” you said, unlocking you door.

“you good.” connie said back, letting the window back up.

chap.4

[justalildumpling]

chapter 2: the story of us

wc: 706

You noticed that Jaemin had finally moved out of his parent’s place that night.

That was a lie. You had already heard about it a couple of months ago as a passing remark from Jisung and Chenle. How weird it was for him to move into an apartment by himself rather than moving in with his now-fiancee ⎯ the fiancee who had been begging to move in together for the last few months which he had brushed off with the excuse of the housing market being too expensive to move out of his family home.

But here you were, standing outside the sliding glass doors of Jaemin’s apartment with a bottle of champagne in hand, exhaling deeply. 

Jisung shared a sympathetic gaze with you as he approached the intercom, “You know, it’s not too late to back out Y/N,” he placed the box of apple ciders on the ground, “I can drop you home if you want.”

You sighed, shaking your head, “Hyuck would kill me.” 

You nudged Jisung’s arm in reassurance, ushering him to call his unit number in which a loud voice crackled through the speaker shortly followed by the sliding of the doors. Your best friend pouted, furrowing his eyebrows at you as he picked up the box once again. 

“You’re not coming to his party just to see him again, are you?”

You couldn’t quite meet his eyes when you dismissed his question, merely pushing him into the elevator with a huff. Jisung chose to remain silent for the remainder of the walk to Jaemin’s place. Maybe he had sensed your growing nervousness towards the looming event or maybe because he had received all the confirmation he needed to prove his point. 

Jeno had opened the door for you, greeting you with a tipsy grin as he crushed you into his arms. It had been around a year since you’d last seen Jeno – even longer for the entirety of your high school friend group – but it was like nothing had changed.

You discovered that Mark still stuck to his beer cans at any drinking function just like how Donghyuck refused to end the night without a round of tequila shots. Chenle still brought his bottle of European whiskey and Renjun, much to his dismay, held the vomit bucket at all times.

It wasn’t like you were actively trying to avoid their occasional nights out. In fact, you recalled many times when your fingers hovered hesitantly over the keyboard, writing out and deleting your invitation to hang out that week. But one problem had always stunted your ability to press send, that problem being the fiance of this party.

Jaemin stood against the kitchen island with a glass of what you assumed to be a poorly ratioed vodka lemonade. A group of bright-eyed girls surrounded him, with one lovingly leaning into his figure which you recognised as Minju.

Despite the chorus of cheers and giggles that resonated from the circle, Jaemin held a rather blank look on his face, aimlessly swirling the contents of his drink around. 

Besides the broadening of his shoulders and the restyling of his hair, you realised too that not much about the Na Jaemin you knew had changed. He still kept to his close circle of friends at social gatherings, still unable to mix his drinks properly, and still able to pinpoint you in a crowd.

It was like time had paused for a moment as you met his gaze, your breath hitching and your grasp on the hem of your jacket getting tighter as Jeno called him over. Jaemin remained motionless for a few seconds before maneuvering around the drunken crowd to you.

“Long time no see Y/N.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

A beat passed before you cast your attention to his beaming fiancee at the back, “Congratulations on the engagement Jaemin. I’m glad you’re happy.

Jaemin only nodded in response, taking his last sip of his drink before patting Jeno’s shoulder and made his way back to the kitchen.

Despite the seemingly uneventful interaction, you knew the odd ways of Na Jaemin – and maybe, just maybe, you had caught a glimpse of his frown as he took that last sip of his drink.

masterlist || previous | next

pairing: jaemin x reader

synopsis: after the messy end to your relations with jaemin, it seemed like you were the only one unable to move on from your past. but with a few slip ups in between the planning of his wedding, you realised that maybe he too stayed right where you’d left him

warnings: swearing, jokes about death, mentions of alcohol

note: damn i rlly made jisung anti jaemin in this fic fr😭

[artdcnaldson]

I want to talk abt stepbro!patrick but im afraid i have nothing to say 😔

Doing anything but having sex bc THEN it would be wrong

But shot gunning smoke into your moth, spitting tequila in his, going skinny dipping and staring, get naked and not doing anything just lying together. The worst is playing house when your parents are gone cooking dinner watching movies

RAHHHHHHHHH

I love thinking about them getting so intimate and close without ever actually fucking. Cuddling in his bed in just your underwear because “it’s so hot”, but then you’re all pressed together, still sweaty, and you slowly slip off all of the other layers until it’s just bare skin against bare skin 😌 just all close and sticky skin and it’s comfy and neither of you are going to make it weird haha 😁

My personal favorite is just sitting on the edge of the tub or outside of the shower while the other is taking a bath 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ I think Patrick loves perching on the edge of the bath while you sit in a comfy bubble bath. Loves to talk your ear off while you sip at a smoothie and eat comfort snacks 🙂‍↕️ and you love yapping while he’s in the shower too, handing him soaps and things while he’s in there, and definitely NOT sneaking peeks of his body, just like he does NOT peek at your tits when you’re in the bath.

auuayyfggghgg shotgunning <3 getting high and touchy and giggly. You’re all over each other, a little kissy and handsy, but never below the belt. Patrick’s the worst like this. Warm hands slipping under your shirt, maybe cupping your tits. Mouthing at your throat, mumbling against your skin.

PLAYING HOUSE!!!! You’re cooking and Patrick is mostly just observing. Handing you different ingredients and utensils as you need. It’s food he shouldn’t eat— too dense and not what he needs for the day on the court tomorrow, but he accepts it happily. It’s the best thing he’s ever eaten.

Ok last thought— going to the fancy rich people functions and galas and charity balls <3 you’re both all dressed up and a little tipsy off of the champagne. Sneaking out to share a cigarette outside, maybe skinny dipping in the country club pool while everyone else is distracted inside. Coming back to the party with wet hair and ruined makeup and smelling of chlorine and cigarette smoke.

RAHHGH!!!!!!!!

[jungkoode]

I was enjoying off label, but the latest chapter felt icky! There was no discussion of power play, our mc is still full of alcohol, it felt like no true consent could be given! With my experiences boundaries have to be throughly discussed prior! Hobi threw up when he learned she truly didn’t know what was going on with him previously, what changed?

This is a disappointing ask to receive, and I’m going to respond with as much patience as I can manage—but I do think it’s necessary to correct some fundamental misconceptions about consent, intoxication, and power play dynamics that you’ve presented here.

Your assertion that “no true consent could be given” due to alcohol consumption is both misrepresentative of the text and not universally true from a legal or psychological standpoint. In Chapter 9, it is explicitly stated that Y/N is tipsy, not drunk. Her speech is not slurred, her motor functions are not impaired, and she is in full cognitive control of her choices. The narrative makes it clear she is aware of her actions and pursuing them enthusiastically.

Legally, in many jurisdictions, intoxication negating consent applies in cases of incapacitation, meaning a person is unable to comprehend the nature of the act, unable to communicate their refusal, or physically unable to resist. None of these conditions apply in this scenario. From a psychological standpoint, studies on alcohol and sexual consent (e.g., George et al., 2009; Abbey et al., 2011) indicate that while heavy intoxication can impair judgment, lower inhibitions, and increase risk perception errors, mild-to-moderate alcohol consumption does not inherently nullify consent. In fact, research in sexual decision-making under the influence suggests that individuals retain agency over their choices unless explicitly impaired.

Thus, from both a narrative and psychological perspective, the claim that Y/N “could not consent” is factually incorrect.

Your statement that boundaries must be “thoroughly discussed prior” to engaging in power play is a misconception of how real-world kink and dominance/submission dynamics often function. While explicit boundary negotiation is critical in formal BDSM dynamics (e.g., 24/7 Dom/sub relationships or high-risk scenes), not every power play scenario requires a contractual negotiation session. Many relationships operate within implicit boundaries established through repeated interactions, behavioral cues, and ongoing consent.

Y/N and Hoseok already have an established history of power play. She is actively pushing his boundaries in this scene, deliberately provoking him, aware of the consequence-based nature of their dynamic. This is a punishment scene, which, by definition, presupposes that she knows she is being “corrected” for a violation.

Research on non-verbal sexual communication (Hinds et al., 2020) demonstrates that in long-standing sexual dynamics, a large portion of consent and boundary establishment happens through non-explicit means—tone, body language, prior experiences, and implicit understanding. This is why assuming every power exchange must have a verbal contract prior is an inaccurate generalization. To put it simply: Y/N knows what she is getting into. Hoseok knows she wants it. The scene functions within their pre-established dynamic.

And if you’re looking for a “let’s sit down and formally outline our power dynamics before every encounter” conversation, you’re welcome to go read Fifty Shades of Grey—but that’s not what we do here. I pride myself on realism. Not everyone needs a bullet-pointed contract to understand the dynamics at play. Many real-life power-exchange relationships rely on history, experience, and established understanding, not an explicit TED Talk every time they fuck.

Your argument about Hoseok’s reaction to Y/N’s past vs. his actions in this scene misinterprets his character development. Hoseok’s previous reaction (vomiting upon realizing Y/N didn’t understand his emotional turmoil) was due to his own unresolved guilt and shame. He wasn’t repulsed by the power dynamic itself—he was shaken because he realized she had been interacting with him without knowing the full picture.

By this point in the story, Y/N has that context. She knows what he can offer, she seeks him out regardless, and she provokes him intentionally to elicit a reaction. Hoseok, in turn, is now acting with full knowledge that she understands what she’s asking for. So the assertion that “what changed?” is easily answered: her knowledge changed. His self-awareness changed. The entire dynamic evolved.

Finally, and most importantly, this ask conflates personal triggers with narrative flaws. While it’s completely valid to feel uncomfortable with certain story elements, that discomfort does not equate to poor writing or problematic themes. I explicitly warn readers about the themes in Off-Labels in both the author’s introduction and my ‘Read Before Sending an Ask’ page. It is your responsibility to decide whether this content aligns with your comfort levels.

Also, by the way, studies on fictional media and psychological triggers (Black & Barnes, 2017; Keen, 2007) emphasize that personal experience shapes interpretation, meaning that what feels “wrong” to one person may not be perceived that way by another. When engaging with darker themes in fiction, it’s crucial to differentiate between:

Personal discomfort (“this doesn’t work for me”)

Misinterpretation of intent (“this isn’t what I thought it was”)

Incorrect factual claims (“this is non-consensual” when the text explicitly shows otherwise)

If this scene crossed a line for you, that is absolutely fair. But that is not the same as it being irresponsible or lacking consent. It means it is simply not for you. And that is something you, as a reader, must be accountable for.

This response is not meant to invalidate your discomfort—but it is meant to correct the factual misrepresentations in your ask.

Y/N is not too drunk to consent. The text explicitly states this.

Power play does not always require prior explicit verbal negotiation. Many dynamics are established through previous experience, and Y/N knowingly provokes Hoseok.

Hoseok’s reaction to her past and his actions in this scene are not contradictory. The context has evolved.

Personal discomfort does not equal narrative failure. If you don’t like it, that’s okay—but don’t misrepresent the text as something it is not.

I encourage you to engage with stories more carefully before making sweeping claims like this. If this wasn’t for you, that’s completely valid—but that is your responsibility to manage, not mine.

If you’re looking for an author to manipulate into self-doubt, look elsewhere. I write with thorough research, and I stand by my work. Misrepresenting my work to create controversy will not be entertained here. This is a researched, intentional narrative. If it isn’t for you, move on.

This is my final response on the matter. Engage with my work responsibly or don’t engage at all.

[aunhinged]

Johnlock concept: Sherlock gets tipsy/drunk 02

Sherlock's first experience of drunkenness in front of John would be nothing short of the social experiment of the year.

It starts out innocently enough, Sherlock dismissing alcohol as a "pointless social lubricant". Insisting it won't affect him because his "metabolism is far too advanced." A few glasses of wine later, he's half-draped over the armchair, lecturing John on the "intellectual merits of bees."

Sherlock: John, do you ever stop and think about bees? The perfect little systems they have. Communal, focused, productive. Unlike humans. Unlike me... mostly you, though.

At some point, John realizes Sherlock’s actually slurring, but Sherlock refuses to admit it.

Sherlock: I’m not drunk, John. I’m..re-evaluating my diction. You should try it, ‘diction,’ fascinating word... dic-tion.

He stumbles on his own feet mid-sentence.

Sherlock attempts to analyze John’s facial expressions

Sherlock: You’re frowning, and that means you’re... either tired, or hungry, or... worried I’m about to fall again. Unnecessary concern, John. My balance is fine.

Seconds later, Sherlock nearly knocks over a lamp.

John’s trying to get him to stop talking about everything and nothing at once, but Sherlock is now recounting every minor injustice from their cases in the past year. Including Lestrade "insulting his coat" and how Molly once “offered him average coffee.”

Mid-rant, Sherlock suddenly pauses, swaying slightly, and looks at John.

Sherlock: You know, John... I used to think I could do this whole detective thing on my own. But that was before you. I mean, I was great before you. But now... I’m...exce..exceptional.”

Johns trying not to choke on his tea with that one

Eventually, Sherlock begins confessing that John has a very "soothing aura."

Sherlock: John, you’re like... a very calm... tree. Tall, steady, good to lean on.

John, smirking: A tree, Sherlock?

Sherlock, dead serious: Yes. Quite.

Round 1 am, Sherlock begins a grand speech about the failures of the British government, which somehow ends in a tearful realization that he really likes John’s jumpers.

Sherlock: John, you don’t understand, I envy your knitwear. It’s so... reliable. Like you.

By the end of the night, John gets Sherlock into bed, but not before Sherlock decides to muse about how “annoyingly decent” John is.

Sherlock: You’re... you’re a very difficult man to ignore, John Watson. Always here, always... there. What’s it like, to be so... solid?

John just sighs, pats Sherlock on the head, and says, Go to sleep, you git.

The next morning, Sherlock wakes up and absolutely denies everything.

Sherlock: I did not discuss the intricacies of your knitwear, John. You must be mistaken.

John: Sherlock, you called me a tree.

Sherlock, frowning: I would never compare you to vegetation. That’s preposterous

[marrowfrog00]

You Stir My Natural Emotions

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

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

wc: 13.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Steve ignored her.

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

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

“Sorry,” Lucas and Mike responded in unison.

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

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

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

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

“Stevie!” you squealed. 

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

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

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

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

“You’re looking at it, Stevie.”

“Your arm, Teenie! Your cast!” 

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

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

No, he wasn’t happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about ‘im?” you shot back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

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

“Ed, man, shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve felt ready to let Nancy go. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” Steve said, pointing at you.

“What if he had?” you questioned honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

“Steve?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ste-”

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

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

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

(⁠๑⁠♡⁠⌓⁠♡⁠๑⁠)

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

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

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

Maybe he should buy you an obnoxiously large teddy bear? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you said shyly. 

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

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

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

Steve pushed the door shut and walked over to you. 

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

The confusion on your face deepened. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All set,” he said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you said, simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ew, no, Teen.”

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

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

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

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

And you knew. You knew he meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two more tiny, furtive steps toward him.

“Or being born.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Game on then, baby,” Steve said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snickered. “My eyes are up here.”

You giggled at him, flicking his nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?” he asked.

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

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

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

Both of you had done so much waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your skin was pasted to his with sweat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart did a little dance in your naked chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve smiled at your confirmation. But also in bemusement.

“The night me and Nancy-”

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

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

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

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

“I never stopped being yours, Stevie.”

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

“I hope you never do.”

“I never will.”

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

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

You clocked it immediately, you little mind-reader. 

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

“I'm not going back, you know.” 

His eyes shot to you, suddenly way more alert.

“How-”

“Creel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gestured vaguely into the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He breathed your name in a dulcet huff. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I pee my pants?” 

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

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

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

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

You had your friends.

You had Steve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scratched lines up your back as he answered.

“Can’t wait.”

(⁠/⁠^⁠-⁠^⁠(⁠^⁠ ⁠^⁠*⁠)⁠/

[moodymisty]

Sorry for this 5am longpost. I just got jolted awake by a really intense nightmare and while waiting for my heartrate to chill, I had a daydream vaguely based on your tag about Sanguinius being down bad for Horus lover. I hope this doesn't get cut off by tumblr due to length.

Mortarion is my favorite right now, and of course the fungus took over. I am a sucker for a cynical bastard falling for someone who secretly has a heart of gold despite appearances.

I was thinking of Horus' lover being a princess for her foreign planet, but she's unknowingly a low level psyker or something. Somehow, someway, she can always without fail tell when a person lies. This sort of thing plagues her life terribly, everyone from the lowest servant to the most noble lord constantly lying straight to her face and she has to try and not show that she knows.

Horus is the one to conquer her planet, and a situation like Fulgrim and his wives happens where she is offered to him for marriage, as is typical on her world. She is silently a bit miserable, she is now a prop to a man's ambition(as having a wife would probably make Horus seem more human, more relatable, making him less 'other' to baseline humans and he would be very aware of that) and watching him lie to so many people's faces at big events, or even political talks, is just soul-crushing to her.

At some big Terran event different primarchs are taking turns meeting Horus' new wife, and telling plenty of fibs about how excited they are to meet her, how lovely she looks, so on. And then she meets Mortarion.

I am new to the books so far, but Mortarion seems so blunt. Like he doesn't waste the effort to lie. And I feel like that may be one of the (many) things that made him difficult to get along with, even for his brothers.

I am autistic, not entirely high functioning, and lying is difficult to me. I can't do it well at all. So I don't bother. And boy do I know that people hate when you're truthful with them. So maybe I am projecting onto him lol.

So Mortarion bluntly says some rude but truthful comment to her, like "This is a waste of time." the room gets quiet, and instead of being angry she SMILES. She thinks it is genuinely impressive he just said exactly what was on his mind despite the expectations placed on him. And in front of such a crowd, too.

At some point, a serving person does an oopsie and drops a drink, some of it getting on her, and Mortarion is just stanking it up in the corner waiting to see her berate the poor soul. Typical entitled nobility.

But she gently reassures them, and even goes so far as to help them wipe up the little mess. He's surprised, but his cynical side wins out and he just files it away as her pretending to be kind.

In the future, at another event she is sitting alone and brooding in the gardens a bit tipsy from wine. Morty has the same idea to escape the banquet and notices her. They have a heart-to-heart about how fake their lives feel, having to put on little shows and shows of force for social gatherings and parades. How the upper classes are all snakes lying to each other, and ruining the lives of regular people in their little games.

After seeing she isn't just a spoiled little girl with her head in the clouds putting on airs, that she laments the suffering of the "lower" classes, maybe he starts catching feelings.

This is as far as I got lol. My brain skipped ahead to Mortarion being uncharacteristically deferential with her at some other big gathering, like getting down on one knee to gently take her hand and greet her and his brothers all being flabbergasted. The drama would be hilarious. It'd be like an extra middle finger to Horus especially. Fulgrim would have a field day.

The extra angst of Morty finding out she is a low level psyker would also be interesting! He'd be struggling to reconcile the monstrous image he has of psykers with the gentle nature of his lover.

ANYWAY I got strangely inspired!! I've never written anything just for fun before, so I know I wouldn't be good at it, but maybe I'll try? It's like I've got this thing in my brain screeching at me to at least attempt it lol.

(By the way, I hope the crazy weather yesterday missed you! That shit was scary.)

This is fantastic, I fucking love this. I've been wanting to write more for Mortarion but I struggle to find a good idea sometimes, this is really really good. I also think that Morty wouldn't have the energy or care to lie, and that seeing someone who doesn't flaunt their stature, and even treats him kindly would make him catch feelings.

I've already gone so off the rails doing random writings that I held myself back from doing this one, but once i get a few more requests done I hope you don't mind if I come back and write this. Unless you wish to keep it only to yourself ;3

the worst of the weather missed me, but it was still pretty intense, the wind was like 60mph. i hope you were safe as well!

[the-nexverse]

@thicc-pirate *non judgemental but very aware gaze*

Agnes: mostly a silent and lonely drinker, lets herself get lost in the dumps, but if she gets disrupted while drinking, she won't hold back and will let go of all the rage that boils inside of her. has caused lots of brawls and is banned from several bars because of this. high tolerance

Ryan: ah, booze! what a joy and respite from his everyday struggles! pretty chill, easily cracks jokes and laughs. what a great time he has! nothing else to worry about in the world! medium tolerance

Lisabel: prefers to be sober and have her partner be drunk. she's the kind of person to take advantage of someone inebriated. when she drinks, she does it alone and takes it easy, simply to enjoy the buzz on her own. it's more of a quiet, self-care moment to her, unless she's purposefully drinking with someone else, then it's frisky time 7w7. low-medium tolerance

Eric: warm and loud! very touchy (hugs, grabbing someone's shoulder/arm and shaking them, slapping someone on their back, etc). has the strongest, heartiest laugh you'll ever hear. sunshine all around. medium-high tolerance

Léan: disqualified. given some apply juice instead

Rask'r: being an argonian means being resistant to poisons, and that sadly includes alcohol. he either has to drink a lot or drink very strong stuff to get tipsy, and both options require quite the coin. so he goes for social drinking and then kinda lets the placebo effect take place on him. but when he actually gets drunk? gets completely careless. bumps on everything and everyone, stumbles around, drops things, falls over, etc. and his lycanthropy also shines through his body language. don't know if actual alligators can get drunk tho. i'll need to research that for his transformed form lol. max tolerance

Raz: rarely gets drunk because he fears he might lose control, transform and hurt someone/many. so he only drinks when he's completely sure he'll be alone. another sad drinker, he goes down nostalgia road and will likely end up sobbing and crying about his past. which tbh, valid. he's had it rough. low-medium tolerance

Donovan: liquids are like, the one thing he can "safely" consume bc he needs to keep his body hydrated, but i'm not sure how alcohol would affect someone whose liver or intestines haven't functioned in centuries. i'm sad to announce he can't physically get drunk 😔

Lee: eep time

Vreytus: as a chimeralma, he has the choice of letting alcohol affect his body or not. he chooses not to. but if he did, low tolerance

Bug: will challenge the biggest baddest meanest looking guy in the bar for a drinking contest, bet all the money they can and then win, because chimeralmas can't get drunk, but they don't know that lol. sometimes they do let the booze do its job, but since it fucks up with their perception of their surroundings, it also means that they kinda lose control of their physical shape. and believe me, having a shapeshifting monster that can't settle on a form and doesn't know where it's walking towards is not a fun experience to anyone involved. low tolerance

Voirdity/voirds: immune

Chad: loud, bratty and annoying. all his inhibitions leave his mind, so he behaves like a fucking prick. no filter to what he says whatsoever, will blurt out the stupidest takes anyone has ever heard. also a fighter, will consider any threat towards him as a personal invitation to brawl. at least his muscle memory still works when drunk, so he's still a very competent fighter. medium-high tolerance

Lewis: oh Lewis, my dear Lewis. he gets sappy very soon, also physically affectionate, needy and emotional. he WILL cry for at least an hour after watching Toy Story 3. low tolerance

hey Cy. Cy.

[mncxbe]

Just an Ango thingy I decided to write because I miss Paris !! season 2 spoilers

5:40♧

𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒐 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: slight angst/ happy ending

The rattle of the rails reverberated through the entire tunnel, announcing the arrival of the midnight subway. It was a chilly autumn night and you were heading home from work. Just like every night, you were going to take line 14 from Châtelet to Saint-Lazare, then switch to line 13 to get to Saint-Denis, a total of 12 stops. This half hour trip to your crappy apartment was usually spent listening to music or reading the awfully long book you started the day you arrived in Paris two months ago; but not today.

As soon as the automatic doors of the subway closed behind you, your eyes landed on the poster glued to the tube's metal wall. It was a picture of the Ookagawa river in Yokohama, its banks lined with blossomed cherry trees. A sudden wave of nostalgia took over you and the memories came flooding in, echoes of the life you left behind.

You usually avoided thinking about your hometown and the people there; the memories were so fresh, the pain so vivid.

Only four months prior you were sitting on one of the high, rotating chairs at Lupin, celebrating Dazai's birthday with Oda and Ango, the people you considered your closest friends; your family. The drinks came one after another and except for Ango, who had his usual tomato juice, you were all tipsy.

"Ey Dazai. You've got enough to cover the bill, right?" you half laughed as you heard Dazai whine.

"But it's my birthday. Why should I be the one to pay?"

"Don't worry, birthday boy. I got you." said Oda in his usual calm voice.

You gently nudged Ango's arm, causing him to tense "You sure you don't want anything to drink?"

"No. Someone has to drive you home anyway." he replied without taking his eyes off of the glass in front of him.

Ango was the newest addition to your group; quite a reserved and stoic guy but you still liked him. He would often give you a lift after you had a few glasses at the bar.

"Alright. Suit yourself then."

That evening you parted ways, promising eachother to meet more often. Dazai left with Oda and you with Ango; the latter opening the passenger door for you.

"Angoo" you whined as you dropped onto the cushioned seat "My head hurts"

"Of course it hurts. You've had a lot to drink" he said in a slightly amused voice.

You noticed a few weeks prior that Ango would often let his guard down when it was only the two of you. It was a subtle change but you still noticed it: his shoulders were less tense, the line between his eyebrows would almost completely fade and he'd laugh more often.

During the ride home you looked at his profile. You were mesmerized by the way the city lights reflected in his glasses.

Without thinking, you reached for his glasses and snatched them, causing the man to almost crash into a nearby car. He managed to pull over in an empty parking space.

"Jesus, Y/N. I almost hit someone what are you doing?" he questioned in a harsh voice; but all his anger dissipated when he saw you propped against the door, adjusting his glasses on your face.

"Looook Ango. I'm pretty just like you now" you blurted out while smiling from ear to ear. A slight blush tinted his cheeks as he seized his glasses, earning another whine from you.

You were both quiet for the rest of the ride and by the time he pulled into the parking lot of your building you were almost asleep.

"Wake up, we're here" he spoke, gently shaking your shoulder but you only shurgged.

"Don't wanna go"

Ango looked at you for a few minutes, debating his next actions. He could let you sleep in his car, but that meant he'd have to spend the night in the parking lot. Or he could carry you to your apartment, which is exactly what he ended up doing.

Luckily the building had a functional elevator so he needn't walk you up the stairs to the 16th floor. He unlocked your door and walked inside your flat, placing you on the bed. Even in this drunked state you were pretty; laying on your side, your flushed cheeks like ripe apricots.

Just as he was about to leave you opened your eyes, calling out his name.

"Stay Ango please. Need to tell you s'mthing" you uttered while patting the bed. He cautiously took a seat and you pulled him down next to you, your arms wrapping around his torso.

He tried to protest but to no avail; you wouldn't let him go. Instead, you shifted closer to him, your face finding its way to the crook of his neck as you whispered a soft "I like you Ango" before drifting to sleep.

From then on you started seeing the man more and more often, the relationship between you growing by the day. It was still complicated; Ango was secretive and distant but you compensated with patience and trust. He eventually gave in and in three weeks time you started dating. It was one of the happiest months of your life; the usual missions were followed not by lonely nights, but by wonderful evenings spent in the comforting embrace of your boyfriend. "You did great today", "I'm really proud of you" he'd praise you, his fingers tracing random shapes along your thigh.

You'd often go on small dates: walks in the rain, late night talks under the starry sky on the top of his apartment building, a glass of wine in your hand, quick runs to the bookstore and occasional visits to different art museums; other times you'd simply join Dazai and Oda for drinks at Lupin.

But regardless of what you did in your free time, you did it together, your lives and routines slowly bleeding into eachother.

Your relationship ended abruptly on the day Oda died. When you found out about his involvement in your friend's death you fell to pieces. Although Ango begged you to stay, claiming that he never knew what would happen, that he didn't mean to hurt anyone, you couldn't be with him any longer. At least not now. No, you didn't blame him for Oda's death but he still lied to you and you felt betrayed.

The decisive factor in your resolve to flee the country was Dazai's disappearance. When you received his note saying that he'd left the Mafia and was going under the radar for a while, you booked a one-way flight to Paris, packed your few belongings and left.

Your recollection was interrupted by a loud chime that echoed through the subway, followed by the familiar mechanic voice that announced your arrival at the last station.

You quickly stepped out of the tube and navigated through the maze of tunnels until you reached the surface. A light drizzle had started while you were underground so you hurried home, eager to be confined in the comfort of your apartment.

When you opened the front door, the unopened envelope that lay on the ground caught your eyes. You picked it up and immediately recognized the handwriting. Without wasting a minute you tore the cover and procured the letter inside, your eyes scanning the paper.

Dear Y/N

I thought about whether I should reach out to you or not but I think it's time I did. Since you haven't been returning my calls I decided to write you a letter. It's been two months since Oda died and things are rough here; I just want to know if you're okay and safe. Please come home soon, I miss you.

Ango

You stared at the written piece of papern, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, clouding your vision. A few minutes later you neatly folded the letter, placing it on the countertop.

Maybe you were going to answer him, maybe you were going to go back to Yokohama, to him, but maybe you should think about these things tomorrow. But...

By the time you fell asleep, the night sky was already giving way to the rosy colours of the sunrise. The warm rays that entered the room through your large window fell onto your sleeping figure, illuminating the screen of your phone.

Suddenly, its display lit up and a blip announced that you had a new message:

I see my letter got to you, thanks for texting me. I'm really glad you're doing okay. Whenever you decide to come back I'll be here for you. ~Ango

[thecumuluslibrary]

Chapter 12: Drinking

“This is bullshit! How the fuck can a prophecy given by the Gods be broken by the person who was chosen by said Gods?! Wasn't there some sort of safety system in place to prevent crap like this from happening?!” Stumbled a rather tipsy Cha, who had bottles upon bottles of spirits and liquor all around him and Jinsung. 

Typically, rankers could only get drunk from high drunk, but if someone were to drink dozens of bottles of booze without food or breaks, even a high ranker can get at least a bit tipsy. 

“Look, Cha. I understand where you're coming from, I really do, but I really don't think getting plastered is the best idea right now.”

The former Hidden Grove leader slammed his umpteeth bottle of premium soju on the kitchen table. 

“Don’t tell me what to do you damn Ha!” Cha slurred, waving the half empty bottle in front of Jinsung’s face. “If I want to drink until I pass out, then so be it!” 

Cha took another gulp of the soju while Jimsung took out the last cigarette from his now empty pack.

He really should switch back to lollipops. 

“Ok, first off I gave up the Ha name centuries ago,” Jinsung lights up the cigarette and takes a puff. “And second, I’m only suggesting you stop drinking because you chose today of all days to get buzzed up,” Jinsung motions to all empty bottles. “Just how many bottles did you drink?”

“How the hell should I know?” Cha replied, slumping back onto his chair. “Just go smoke somewhere else and leave me be. I got better things to do than talking to you.”

Jinsung’s patience was now starting to wear really thin. “Look, Cha. I understand your frustration over everything that happened since that day, but we need everyone to be fully functional when we leave.”

Cha waves Jinsung off. “Relax, Jinsung. We have an hour or so until departure. I’ll be up and about before you know-bleugh,” Cha doubled over as chunks of breakfast and booze spewed out of his mouth and all over the kitchen’s floor. 

Jinsung pinched his nose to avoid the awful smell of kimchi fried rice mixed with booze.

“Great,” Jinsung muttered, stepping over the puddles of vomit. “Just what we need right now.” 

Cha’s complexion was now a few shades paler than normal as the man barely managed to mumble a sentence. “All good…Need water.”

Jinsung let out a loud groan. “You need a lot more than water to sober up, buddy.” The Ha family slaughter stated, picking up the drunk Cha and dragging him into the bathroom to splash the man’s face with cold water from a shower head. 

The last thing Jinsung needed, before leaving on a mission that will determine the future of the Tower, was to babysit a drunk.

Then again, who can blame the man for wanting to dull the pain of seeing the one you swore to serve and protect go against everything you fought and sacrificed for. 

“Hey, Jinsung ...Do you think the old Bam is still in there?” Cha asked. His mind much more clear and coherent thanks to the cold water and all the booze he vomited. 

Jinsung placed the shower on the hook and leaned on the white bathroom wall.

His eyes gazing towards the ceiling as he finishes his cigarette and flicks the butt into the sink. “I liked to think that the Bam who risked his life to rescue me from a Great Family, is still there waiting for someone to wake him up.”

Jinsung smiled softly. “And, I want to be the one to help wake up the Bam we all know and love.”

“Ah, I see. So, that's the reason you took on this mission. Huh, I didn't expect you to be the optimistic type,” Cha slumps off from the edge of the tub and pulls a towel off the towel bar on the wall next to him to dry off his hair.

“Yeah, I guess you're right. Taking care of kids for so long really did make me all gooey and bright-eyed for the future,”Jinsung gives off a weary sigh. “Wish I could say the same for those very kids.”

“Then, let's remind them what it's like to dream again.”

Jinsung smiles as he pulls Cha up from the bathroom floor. 

“That sounds like a swell idea.”

[loominggaia]

"...The room exploded into cheers as a maenad walked on stage, enthusiastically waving and blowing kisses in all directions. One side of her naturally pink hair was bleached blonde, and all of it was lifted into a voluminous bouffant style. She wore star-shaped sunglasses and a loud, colorful pantsuit sparkling with rhinestones. Her extra long fingernails were each painted a different color and decorated with more rhinestones.

She looked just as cartoonish and over-the-top as she sounded when she squawked into the microphone, “Hello, Sky Cruise! Ah, it feels good to be up here! So high in the sky, so far from my parole officer…Did you know the first aircraft was invented by dworfs? True fact! Imagine being so insecure about your height that you invent a flying machine about it. Now who’s looking down on who? Haaaw!”

Laughter echoed through the room. The comedian paced around the stage as she continued, “So anyways, I’m Hilarity Tonguelash, nice to meet you. Bit of a presumptuous name, isn’t it? Hilarity. Who says I was destined to be hilarious? What if I turned out to be the most depressed person on Gaia?" Letting out a dramatic sigh, she mumbled, "Then again, Mama always did call me a joke..." She pretended to hold back her tears as the audience giggled, then suddenly perked up with, "Hey, how many nymphs are with us today? Make some noise, sisters!”

Feminine cheers swelled up from the crowd. Hilarity added, “No, no, I said ‘nymphs’, not ‘nymphos’! You sluts sure are a long way from Matuzu Kingdom! What about trolls, do we have any trolls on board?”

A handful of gruff voices bellowed in response. Hilarity said, “Ah, there we are! I knew I caught a whiff of shit in here! Haaaw, just kidding! It’s sort of my job. Speaking of jobs, how many satyrs are in the audience? And no, that wench slobbin’ your knob under the table doesn’t count. We all know you smuggled her in! Those tickets cost a horn and a hoof, what else can ya do?”

Near the stage, a tipsy minotaur tried to squeeze between two tables and knocked several dishes to the floor. The comedian was relentless. She pointed out the scene and squawked, “Uh oh! Mooove over, folks, there’s a bull in the pottery shop! Watch your step, Patty, I think I saw some gnomes fighting rats for scraps down there. Sheesh, this place went downhill quick, didn’t it? We gotta wrangle up some goblins to tackle this mess, there’s no excuse for this when you have to ransom a noble for entry! Look over there, we got wrappers on the floor already! Guys, we’re only two minutes into the set and this place looks like downtown Rhine! That’s what happens when you let commoners into the function, I’m telling you! A piece of trash falls out of their asses with every step they take. Step, litter, step, litter! They're like vending machines. Money in, garbage out, it's crazy! Why can’t you guys be more like Damijani vending machines? Money in–aaand you’re constipated…”

--Hilarity the comedian roasting everyone and everything in the upcoming story "Sky Cruise".

She's a lot funnier when you imagine her with a thick Jersey accent...

*

Questions/Comments?

Lore Masterpost

Read the Series