#the hound and the vulture

[summervale]

「The Hound and The Vulture 」

Part 5 (and a half)

Third person reader-insert! After weeks—or had it been months now?— on the road north, the Hound and the vulture can finally withstand the cold rain no longer and turn to an inn for a single night of reprieve. And, of course, there is only one bed.

Contains: Reluctant pining, teasing, mature situations

Words:  4,871

Tags: @lunnybunny12 @supervalcsi

Notes:  The overused, cliché, worn-out trope of “and there was only one bed.” Let’s have it one more time, then, once more from the top. 

This is half of Part 5. Parts of the second half are already written, but I wanted to go ahead and get this finished, edited half out for everyone who has been so supportive and so patient! Thank you all for your kind words.❤️

The town was dismal at best. But still, there was an inn. Any respectable person from any respectable keep would have spat on both the inn and the town, but neither the Hound nor the vulture were in any position to turn away a warm bed. Even the thought of a damp straw mattress and a bowl of dubious brown stew warmed the vulture inside—just a little.

They plodded their way down what they could only assume was the main road of the town, though it was currently little more than a bog. The mud sucked at their horses’ hooves as they went; gods forbid the northern reaches of Westeros go more than a day or two without getting rained, snowed, or sleeted on, or any miserable, abysmal combination of the three. Sometimes they were met with all three in one day–those were the worst days, soaked to the core and chilled to the bone–but still, Sandor would not let them rest.

The rain had let up to a cold, ever-present mist when they reached the village. Everyone is staring again, thought the vulture. They’re always staring. She had half a mind to run the staring people down from time to time. Everywhere they went, the Hound drew stares. Children often fled, sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they asked questions. The adults were no better, and often the vulture found herself wondering how many times the Hound had been recognized. She half expected to be seized by the white cloaks themselves in the middle of the night. Sandor could fight them off, no doubt. She’d seen him do some serious damage in their time together.

And though he could defend himself blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back (of this the vulture had not a doubt), it was the people who stared who bothered her the most. The brute of a man was somehow too nice to send the staring children away with a “fuck off,” easy as it may have been. The vulture was less nice in this regard.

Wait. She turned in her saddle to look at him. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing—an expected interaction by this point. When did I start caring if they laugh at him? Why would I want to defend him? She’d had her moments of weakness, it was true. But she was not one to chase love unrequited. Especially not from a mongrel like Sandor Clegane. It had been the cold and the dark and the rain that had gotten to her before, or so she could tell herself. She would have wanted any man. And he saved her, too. No matter who he was, he had saved her and he had not forced himself onto her. It was a noble act. Of course she’d wanted him, it was almost instinct.

And yet…

“Boy, get over here.”

She was wrenched from her thoughts by Sandor’s voice. There was a boy a few strides away from the stables of the inn, shirtless and shoeless even in the cold, and dirty, too. Had he not had such a nasty look of revulsion on his face at the sight of the Hound, the vulture might have pitied him. But she didn’t.

“You the stableboy?”

The little cretin’s face twisted further. “No, I’m here for fun,” he japed.

Sandor paid the comment little mind. “Take these horses. See that they’re brushed and watered. And that they have oats.” Sandor began to dismount as he spoke, and the girl followed suit.

The ground was miserably soft and wet below, mud from the rain and muck from the stables. Her nose wrinkled as she swung one leg over the saddle to dismount, bracing herself for the ankle-deep plunge into the filth. Please hold, please don’t come apart, she prayed silently to her boots. If there was any place for her only pair of boots to be ripped apart by the mud, it would be this hole of a town, though, and the vulture was anything but optimistic.

“Easy there.” The Hound was aside her, suddenly, and before she knew what he was doing, the mountain of a man had lifted her from her horse. He took her with the ease an average man would use to lift a child.

The sudden act of kindness caught her off guard so badly that all she could think to say was, “What are you doing?” He held her, navigating the muck of the stables with the small woman in his arms. Without thinking, she draped one arm over his shoulder and held fast to his chest with her other hand, holding onto him as if for dear life.

“No point in both of us getting fuckin’ muddy,” he grumbled. It was, it seemed, to be the most begrudging act of kindness ever. But still, it was an act of kindness nonetheless, and the vulture found herself oddly fond of the Hound in that moment.

Said moment was cut short when the Hound unceremoniously all but dropped her back onto drier ground. The well-packed earth beneath the overhang of the inn rose up to meet her boots, and when she was no longer entwined in his arms (his big, strong, protective arms…) the young woman snapped back to reality.

“Thank you,” she said, still dazed. All she received in response was a grunt of acknowledgement—not that she’d expected anything more.

The inside of the inn was significantly better than the outside of the inn. Hells—it was better than the whole town. Or maybe it had just been that long since they’d lived like civilized people, sleeping in barns that had been put to the torch with only their cloaks for comfort, hiding out beneath crevasses in hillsides. The inn smelled of rabbit stew and hot spiced wine, and within moments of standing in the doorway it was undoubtedly the warmest the pair had been in weeks.

The woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

Before the Hound could answer, it was the vulture who stepped forward. “Two rooms, please. And two meals, and some wine.” She thought for a moment. “And two baths as well.” They had the coin to spare, after all, having sold their third horse to the farmer and selling the bits of armor the vulture was so good at scavenging from the many dead soldiers they encountered. Stark, Lannister, Frey…it was funny how the houses they died for didn’t matter anymore when they laid dead in the dirt with a woman ripping the armor from their bodies for whatever coin it might bring. A futile fight with a fitting end. Often it sold for a few coppers at best, but the stew and ale it would buy was worth a hundred gold dragons to the pair.

The innkeep eyed the Hound. “It’ll be double the cost of the bath for him,” she said. “I’ll have to heat and haul twice as much water.”

“Done,” the vulture answered for the Hound. She could feel the scowl he was boring into her head behind her.

“I’ll get you your food, have a seat. But there’s one problem,” said the woman, who was already shuffling off to the kitchens.

“Seven hells. What’s the problem?” The Hound finally found his voice, it seemed, and joined the conversation.

“There’s only one room. Big bed, though, even for the likes of you,” the woman never looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can share.”

Beside the vulture, the Hound huffed. “I’m sure we can share,” said the small woman, half-mocking the innkeep, half-teasing Sandor.

Her traveling companion, ever silent, said nothing. He strode off for the dining area, no doubt in anticipation of the promised wine. The vulture scowled. They’d shared a bed once at the farmhouse. Something inside of her fluttered at the memory. It hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and she’d be a fool to expect he’d feel any differently about her at an inn than he would in a farmhouse or a cave or a barn or anywhere else they had been or ever would be.  It was cliché, to be sure, having arrived at an inn with only one bed vacant in the whole damn place. But it made no difference. The vulture could strip herself of her clothes and present herself before him bare; she could climb on top of him, she could do and say whatever she wanted. The Hound would not have her.

The small talk they made over their dinner was as bland as the stew. The Hound wasn’t one for conversation, much less when other prying eyes and open ears were nearby. The stew was thin and watery and the cook had skimped on the rabbit. But the radishes and potatoes were cooked well, at least, and though the wine was more brown than red, it washed the stew down all the same and warmed them to their core. They mopped at their trenchers with bread that was not quite stale but would be soon. Yet, they cleared their plates. By the time they’d finished, a serving girl appeared at their table’s side.

“A bath for the lady?” asked the girl. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth from the Hound to the vulture to the floor, then back again. “It’s ready. The bath. For the lady.”

“A bath for the lady.” The vulture nodded in agreement. She drank down what was left of her wine in one swallow and replaced the cup to its original spot on the table. “Hear that? I’m a lady,” she said to Sandor.

He grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead she stood and followed the girl, who led the way up the flight of stairs and to a store room where a copper tub had been half-way filled. The water was tepid, as mediocre as the meal they’d been served and the wine they had drank, but just like the meal and the wine it served its purpose, and for that the vulture was grateful. The girl helped the traveler out of her clothes and into the tub. The vulture allowed herself to relax the slightest bit; the serving girl dutifully and silently washed her hair (a pity, as the vulture would have appreciated a good conversation) while the vulture set to scrubbing her body.

When all was said and done, the serving girl provided the vulture with a shift made from plain, undyed wool and promised that her clothes would be washed and dried before the night’s end—a service the woman had gladly allowed herself to be upsold on for two extra coppers. Warm and clean for the first time in an undetermined amount of time (even the vulture had since lost track of how long they’d been traveling) she retired to the room they were given. The last room at the end of the hall was where they’d been situated. It was a small room with a large bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed was large and sturdy enough to sleep four, there was a small square table with a single chair, and an iron brazier in which the innkeep had so kindly started a small fire. The innkeep had been right: they could share without problem.

After a moment’s time warming her hands at the brazier, the vulture settled into the bed, choosing the side closest to the wall. It was heaven. The Seven themselves surely had a hand in crafting this wonderful, glorious room in this wonderful, glorious inn. Never before had the vulture been so relieved and comfortable as she was here.

That was an exaggeration. It was a dank inn in a shithole of a town. The vulture knew this. But she knew that she was warm and comfortable, too, and she knew that she’d spent months sleeping in caves and barns and open fields even, and that this was better than anything. She closed her eyes. She was safe and warm. She was comfortable. And soon Sandor would be at her side.

Sandor…

Beneath the covers, her body was warm. Her mind was fuzzy. Sleep was taking her. He’ll have a bath, and then he’ll join me. Soon, so soon. She, in the moments before sleep when the mind is both the most absurd and the most honest, anticipated the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he climbed into bed beside her. She wanted the heat of his body beside hers. She wanted him to settle in and pull the blankets around them, to feel his chest rise and fall against her back with every breath he took. She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him...

The door closed quietly, but loud enough to wake her nonetheless. The world was dark. Outside the small window the whole sky was black and starless, so the only light came from the single brazier on the opposite side of the small room. It was raining. The rainfall made a quiet patter on the roof, in the same peaceful way the wind whipped against the wooden siding of the inn in the night.

Sandor stood near the door he’d shut. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” she said, though for how long she’d been sleeping she could not say. Long enough for the sun to go down, at least. She was comfortable, and though she couldn’t remember it now, she’d been having some sort of wonderful dream.

The Hound said nothing. He was just standing there almost awkwardly. The vulture sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and in the dim light of the room she could see he was squinting back at her. She realized at once that it must have been a foreign sight to him to see her look so…not feral. On the best of days she could easily be taken for a wildling, like some creature who’d come raiding from north of the wall or an escapee from a hill tribe. He’d never known her as the maid who loved to sing and dance, who baked bread and had once wreathed her hair with summer daisies. He knew her as what she had become. He knew her as the vulture. In their time together she’d huddled beneath a mourning cloak of black with her hood drawn, changing between the two skirts she had (both of which were also black and worse for the wear) with her hair unkempt and her skin hidden from the cold beneath her many layers.

The woman staring back at him must have been a stranger. Her hair was soft and clean and dry, as was her skin, and she smelled of soap instead of horses. Her black cloak was replaced with a thin wool shift. And for the first time, her guard was down.

Sandor was still Sandor, though, just a little cleaner than usual. This is probably what he looked like when he was one of the white cloaks, she thought, studying him.

After a long moment of silence, he said, “Throw me a pillow.”

That struck her as odd. “What for?” she asked, and though she gathered one in her arms, she hesitated on passing it to him. 

Even in the darkness he was looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which he punctuated with an impatient huff. “If I’m going to give you the fucking bed, you’re going to give me a fucking pillow.”

“Give me the bed?”

“Though I have my doubts about it, you’re a woman. I’m not making a woman sleep on the floor.”

She stared at him. He stared back. “Why would I sleep on the floor?” she asked. “Why would you sleep on the floor?” The question only resulted in more staring.

“So you can have the fuckin’ bed,” Sandor told her at last though it clarified nothing and was circular reasoning at best. “Now give me the pillow.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.” She clutched the pillow more tightly to her chest. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor when this is the first time either of us have had a good bed in—”

“Seven hells, give me the pillow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

With a signature annoyed grunt, Sandor stomped the few short strides to the bed. “You’re a lady, you get your own fuckin’ bed. Give me that.”

“No!” She pulled back as he reached for it. “No, you beast!” He grabbed for the pillow, but she was faster, lurching backwards onto her haunches. Her win was momentary, though, as for the first time in their time together, he outsmarted her. He reached past her and around her, grabbing the pillow she’d previously been sleeping on.

He pulled away successful in his endeavor and tossed the pillow onto the floor. Sandor knelt, pushing the pillow against the wall and going to his knees to get comfortable.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she reiterated. “We’re paying good coin for this bed. There’s no reason for you to lay down there and catch a chill from the draft.”

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “Do I have to tell you to go the fuck to sleep every time we go the fuck to sleep?”

If he wants to be ridiculous, we will be ridiculous. The vulture swung her legs from the bed so suddenly that even Sandor looked surprised. No sooner did her feet hit the floor than she pulled the other pillow from the bed. She dropped it on the floor with a muffled thump.

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?”

“If we’re wasting money on the bed, we’re wasting money on the bed.” She let herself fall back against the pillow. It really is cold down here, she realized, suddenly unsure whether she had the constitution to win this game or not. She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to be warm in bed, but she wanted to be warm in bed with Sandor.

And seven hells did she hate admitting that.

“Get up there.” Each word the Hound said came out punctuated with evident frustration.

“No.”

“And you think I’m ridiculous?”

“Yes.” She was looking over at him, at his hulking form in the dark. The room was small save for the bed, so they were left with only two or three feet between them. Even with those two or three feet she could feel him thinking, scathing, fuming. If she was good at nothing else in this life, she was good at frustrating Sandor Clegane.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if he’d care enough to join her in the bed. He might just let her lay there and be cold. Even on the floor with no blankets, this was the warmest they’d been in a long time. They were in no danger of freezing, and if she wanted to make herself miserable, no doubt Sandor would let her.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when Sandor first pushed himself back onto his knees, then stood.

She watched him wordlessly. He closed the gap between them until he was standing over her. And then he descended on her.

“What are you—oh!” The vulture’s objections were cut short when the great beast of a man stooped and lifted her for the second time that day. Though helping her from the horse had been almost graceful, this was unceremonious but equally effortless.

The bed rose up to meet her when he dropped her. “Get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.” 

“You get in the fucking bed,” she told him. And quick as that, she was out of the bed again.

A game was afoot. He grabbed her, catching her in the ribs with his forearm. Her feet left the floor as she found herself tossed like a doll back onto the bed. In the brief pause that ensued, the faintest, most brief smirk played at Sandor’s lips. The vulture silently admired it. But the game was not so easily won, not for him at least, and in a blink she was up again. This time she anticipated his movement and ducked beneath his arm, dancing away from him. He whirled and grabbed for her, catching her by the elbows before she could take her spot on the floor again.

It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, she’d called it right from the start. The vulture didn’t even attempt to suppress the laugh that escaped her lips when he caught her. Though at first it seemed he was going to yell at her, her laugh changed everything. They stood there, Sandor holding her by her shoulders inches from him as she laughed and laughed in the darkness. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this? Had he ever seen her laugh? Had he ever seen her have fun?

Frustrated though he may be, he said nothing, instead lifting her again. He turned, and once more made to drop her onto the bed. This time she didn’t let go. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, a move he was not expecting, and he halfway toppled down with her when he dropped her weight. His knee buckled into the side of the bed and he caught himself with his arms, pinning one on either side of the small woman whose arms were still tangled around his neck.

She was laughing again.

“Fuck you, woman.”

And in the dark, with her face inches from his, with her arms around his neck and her chest pressed to his, she could hear her own voice ask, “Is that what you want? To fuck me?”

Why did I say that? A thousand thoughts rushed to her mind in an instant’s time. Why did she say that? Was it the wine? She could easily blame the wine. But the blame didn’t matter. He was him and she was her, and her attempts to sway him in the past had failed, and now she’d fucked up and he was going to pull away, and she’d ruined a perfectly nice moment, and—

And…?

He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t moving at all, actually. He was still there, still so close to her. He stayed that way, too, studying her in the dark. Without thinking, she silently and gently—so gently—brought one hand to the unburnt side of his face. With her thumb she brushed his hair from his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft, if not a little damp still from the bath, and so close together he smelled of soap and spiced wine. He didn’t stir, and she didn’t breathe. For a moment she thought he might kiss her.

“I’ll get in the fucking bed if you go to sleep,” he told her. He didn’t back away, though, and she watched his lips when he spoke.

You didn’t answer my question.

“Okay.” She’d been subdued. Don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, she thought as he let her go. He gathered their pillows from the floor and tossed them to her one at a time. She settled back into her spot nearest the wall, watching him move through the dark as he made his way back to the bed. Outside, the rain was falling harder as if to hush them.

Sandor’s movements were awkward but still somehow brusque as he found his way beneath the covers. The vulture remained still as he settled in, pulling the blankets this way and that to accommodate his size. When at last her companion was still too, she allowed her head to rest against her pillow. There were few ways to bother him now; the game was over and she had won. At this realization, she let her eyes close for a moment.

He didn’t pull away, she thought. He didn’t answer my question.

She kept her eyes closed, replaying their fight, however brief it may have been, in her head again and again and again. The way she’d laughed and spun as if dancing, the way he’d smiled, too. If her winning had meant the game was over, she’d rather have never won at all. When at last her fantasies were over and she could replay the scene no more, she opened her eyes again. Minutes had passed, but not too great of a time.

Even in the fading light of the brazier, she could tell he was watching her. Sandor was laid on his side facing her, which in itself was rare as he usually chose to sleep with his back to her when they huddled together beneath a cloak at night. She couldn’t see his eyes, as he was just a shapeless black silhouette in the night, but she knew nonetheless. She could feel it. She stared back.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

She was silent for a long time. You didn’t pull away. Try as she might, she did not have the courage to ask again.

It was Sandor who spoke. “If I want to fuck you?”

Her heart skipped a beat—or two or three or four—and she realized she was holding her breath, scarcely breathing at all. Had she not been laying down, the world may have gone sideways. “Yes.” Her face was hot, suddenly. Her whole body was hot.

“You think I look at you like some common whore?” That was not an answer to her question, though. He was avoiding it. Was that a yes? A no? What did that even mean? The answer frustrated her. She was not a whore, no, but she was no maid, either, and he knew that. She’d been married, however brief it may have been, so what did it matter now if it was a farmer or a hound whose bed she shared? She was no maid, no high lady, and no whore. She was nothing. She was a vulture, and he was a hound. And she wanted him, try as she might to suppress it.

This was not the time for anger; this was the time to get what she wanted. What she wanted, and what she knew he wanted, too. It was time to stop denying themselves.

“I wish you would,” she said. “Then you might give us what we both want.”

“Is that what you want? To be treated like a whore?” Through his aggression, the vulture couldn’t help but wonder if Sandor truly thought it was that unbelievable for a woman to actually want him.

“You’re making this awfully hard on yourself for someone with a woman trying to sleep with him.”

There was a pause. It was his turn to be at a loss for words, and she let him. After a moment, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

The question had been turned on her. “To fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Unlike him, she could answer. “Yes.”

He was still for a long time. Silent, too, saying nothing. He was silent so long, in fact, that the vulture thought he may have made the decision to ignore her. But still the tension festered, growing stronger and stronger as that one single word, “yes,” hung between the two of them. 

Sandor’s movement was so quick and hard that it was over by the time she’d processed what was happening. He brought one arm up and around her, pulling her body to his with fierce strength. Her chest to his, her head craned up to look at him. Instinctively, she parted her thighs and draped one leg over his as their bodies were pressed so tightly together, their legs entwining, one of his hands in her hair. She shuddered when his lips grazed hers, and again when she felt his thigh press hard and deliberately between her legs. 

His hand tightened in her hair when he finally kissed her–really kissed her, hard and rough, passionate; he kissed her with the fervency of a man who had been meaning to kiss her for quite some time now, who had been looking at her and thinking of kissing her, with all the passion of a man who laid awake at night at her side and wondered what it might be like to hold her this exact way and kiss her this exact way in the darkness. She kissed him back, too, and with her arms pinned to his chest, she grabbed helplessly at his tunic, as if she could somehow pull him closer than he already was, or never let him go at all.

When he finally pulled away, she tried to force herself closer, never wanting the moment to end. Sandor was unpredictable, and the possibility that he’d never kiss her again was real. But she wanted him, she wanted him so badly. At least he wanted her too, if nothing else. 

With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Yes.” 

“Yes,” she repeated dreamily. She would have said or done whatever he wanted in that moment; her Hound, her knight. 

“I want to fuck you.” 

She did not hesitate. “Then do so.” 

He was on top of her before she finished her sentence.

[janeelyakiri]

Decided to spend a few days and draw my main 12's pokemon i listed a bit ago lol.

[archangeltama]

[blackbackedjackal]

Geriatric Pharaoh Hound skull with progressive retinal atrophy (PRA). This is unfortunately a common genetic problem in the breed that causes blindness. The second row of images shows the extent of the damage. The cranium is very thin and delicate in those areas and has a lot of pitting. The middle image is a hole inside of the cranium that you can see from an external hole ;-;

[junipershouse]

Photographs of Gadun Fader (War veteran and Cow of the Stars) and Uoovalz the Qoosai (apprentice), dock management working on a certain deep space trawler

Fader is using a vintage-style personal atmospheric suit custom made for a Sadum Cow, filled with a highly acidic liquid made to mimic the waters found on Sadum homeplanet. It has two mechanical limbs controlled by Fader's upper fins within the suit, with detachable "hands" for all Fader's needs. There is a control panel below Fader's snout, which is controlled by a little stick held in the mouth. Scars cover Fader's body, and an eye has been blinded and gone dark.

Uoovalz is Fader's apprentice, and is roughly 1/10 the size of Fader. They are wearing a traditional Qoosai face covering and a green cape., as well as various necklaces and fingercovers common among Qoosai. Their skin is light blue, and their eyelids are a bright shining blue. They have four vanity feathers, which are brown and white with a blue central vein. They're drinking a bitter tea.

(Gadun Fader naked without the suit ft. unrelated hound below)

(Fader belongs to a sexually morphic species. Like humans, their species has an ovulator sex and an inseminator sex. However, Sadum experience a sexual morphism much more dramatic than humans.

The ovulator sex (roughly translated as "cow") lives life as a fully aquatic gas-breathing creature measuring roughly 15ft from nose to tail. They live in small packs together, moving through the highly acidic liquid of their home planet and hunting large sea creatures.

The inseminator sex (roughly translated as "hound") lives life as a semi-aquatic two-legged gas-breathing creature measuring roughly 4ft from feet to head. Living in highly complex architecture by the shores, they practice a hierarchal societal structure. The fins which in cows are wide and large, are greatly reduced in hounds.

The only time the two will meet is during copulation, childbirth, and puberty, which is done in shallow waters. The youth are semi-aquatic and live with the hounds until a sort of pupation, in which they will take the form of a cow or the form of a hound. All Sadum have a black endoskeleton, and their sharp teeth are pitch black.)

[xenotwinkipedia]

💀🥀vulturgender🥀💀

gender related to vulture culture ! this gender feels like yr collecting up dead things and honouring + decomposing. may be related to the culture of collecting or being the thing decomposing !

dark red-ish brown: the decomposing of meat while in dirt, nature and burrying things

lighter desaturated red: blood and flesh, decomposition

green: nature and plants growing from rotting things

white: bones, skulls and teeth

possible pronouns: it/its, rot/rots, vul/vult (i have a pronouns.xyz link to them), cor/corpse, death/deaths

skull png is from dinowcookie on deviantart !

- 🐶

[tikkunolamresistance]

27th January marks Holocaust Remembrance Day. When we think of the millions of lives taken by the Nazi regime. A regime that spurred a systemic white supremacist, ethnonationalist manifesto. A sepratist ideology of a supreme ethnicity, a supreme race, that had been festering across Europe for centuries. Millions of sacred lives, Jewish lives, taken in the name of supremacy. Of hatred and violence.

Millions of Jewish people, Soviet and Polish Citizens, communists, Rromani people, disabled people, Soviet prisoners of War and Queer people were murdered during the Nazi regime. Millions of lives were brutally taken whilst the Nazi regime convinced Germany, through a copious force of propaganda, that those lives were the real threat. That it were those lives who were inhumanely violent, were not just, they were deemed a threat to Nazi society.

Hitler and the Nazis promoted the idea of a master race— an Aryan, German race that needed to be protected as they thought that was the product of “racial purity”. And to Nazism, the Jewish people were the biggest threat to their sepratist, extremist ideology of racial purity. Initially, the Nazi leadership tried to force Jews out of Germany completely, with propaganda encouraging the dehumanisation of Jews to facilitate exile and the subsequent Holocaust of Jewish people in Europe.

“Rats, lice, cockroaches, foxes, vultures – these are just some of the animals the Nazis used to deride and dehumanize Jews. They used words too. In a new linguistic analysis of dozens of Nazi speeches, articles, pamphlets and posters, researchers show how this process of anti-Semetic dehumanization, which began before the Nazis took power and helped fuel the party’s popularity, was modulated to justify atrocity: in the years before the Holocaust.”

These lives, for purely existing, posed as a threat to the Nazis violently sepratist ideology. Propaganda subjugated German citizens with the power of deception; indoctrinating a people with the belief of superiority, purity and organic virtue. Simplifying the regimes ideological complexities to be palatable, unquestionable and targeting individualism. The ideological sepratism had indoctrinated millions into following the belief that Jewish people were sub-human— an undoubted threat to German people, values and society— and this was only achievable through the already pre-established rampant antisemitism that festered through out Medieval Europe, from Christian accusations of “killing Jesus”, to blood libel, the accusation of poisoned wells, and forcing Jews to chose either baptism or death.

“The mood changed markedly in around the year 1100, at the time of the First Crusade. Hordes of religious fanatics from all social classes, driven by a longing for redemption, set forth to kill infidels in the Middle East and to liberate holy Jerusalem. It stood to reason that they should also combat perceived enemies of Christ at home. Jews were hounded and forced to choose between baptism or death.”

The Holocaust happened because for generations, Europe failed to crack down on antisemitism. Christianisation spread through colonialism and with it, they carried antisemitism to new lands. The Holocaust happened because the Nazi party could convince millions of people of racial supremacy and purity. Far-Right ideology holds onto sepratist endorsement when they enforce anti-immigration laws, Islamophobic policies in France and the desperation of English nationalism. The Holocaust happened because Western superpowers only saw the Nazi imperial expansion as a threat to the Western hegemony.

The Holocaust of millions of Jewish people happened, and the effects of which are felt to this day. Every single day. The pain is carried through generations, for now there is a hole in every Jewish soul. We still feel the anguish, the pain. The frustration that this feels so never-ending.

And it is that pain, that fear, that drives us to say that with every last fighting breath, like the Maccabees who faught for our liberation, like King David who defeated a giant with a slingshot and stone and unbridled courage — Never again, for anybody. We will fight with all that we have. For such a magnitude of slaughter and pain should never touch this Earth for as long as we stand. We cannot carry forth our pain like a baton, we must hold it, a sword, to the enemy and ensure liberation of all feet that touch this Earth. They will not make our people, the Jewish people, into a proxy for their imperial expansion and sepratist Western values.

Never again, for anybody, for all life is sacred.

Never again, for anybody, and certainly not in our name.

Never again, for anybody, and that means Palestine.

[amazingabellini]

Every Single Thing 621 is Called on Rubicon

Dog Augmented Human C4-621 You 621 Intruder Illegal Enemy AC Merc Corp AC Registration number Rb23 Raven Callsign: Raven Mercenary Corporate Merc Corporate Dog Interloper Military Force Hostile AC Shameless Coral scavenger Independent Mercenary Hunter Sharp A local An Independent A merc who only kills for credits A real merc G13 G13 Raven Kiddo Freelancer Maggot Fake Redgun Tagalong Sewing club member Not a total amateur Not a pro Corporate Vulture Mere pawn Scavenger Hound of Walter Competition Good for nothing Good for something Wretched vulture Unidentified AC Damn Hyena Rotten Money-grubber Corporate scum Enemy backup One of the infamous Walter's hounds Wallclimber War buddies Comrade Buddy Intruder Doser Shameless Corporate Dog Greedy Mercenary Greedy hound Daring A symbol of resolve Only Other Person That Can Keep Up With Me You Again Old Augmentation Recalcitrant Mutt Vermin Pest The Pest of Rubicon Code 15 Raven the Wallclimber Code 31C Solo Independent Mercenary Pitiful Dog Gen 4 Fine hound Another dead dog Older type of Augmented Human Tourist No ordinary tourist Smart Cookie No slouch A cut above the rest Not afraid of anything Belongs in a museum Freak My favorite little Tourist A certain someone New friend The Freelancer from the dam raid Target Walter's Hound Solo AC Independent Merc Trespasser to Rubicon Walking Advertisement Mascot AC of Unknown Affiliation Suspected Corporate Hire Single AC Code 5, Unknown AC Independent Mercenary Assembly That AC Hostile AC Priority Subject for Termination One helluva merc Hired Operative Intruding AC Grunt Famous Mercenary Fine Soldier One Loose End Corpse Quick on the uptake Not like those savages Cur Scoundrel Oathbreaker Just an AC Patchwork AC Better than the other ACs Like a bird in flight Killer Menace to Rubicon Target for Termination Unknown Intruder Intrusion Attempt Menace Volunteer The Objective Just a Gen 4 Strong Worthy of your name False Alarm Impostor Impressive Pilot Wormkiller Threat to Planetary Closure 20 Iguazus A Real Redgun Not so Special Too Dangerous to Keep Around Not Afraid to Die The Only G13 Who's Managed To Live This Long Strong A Threat Dangerous Another Threat to Rubicon Veteran The Mercenary Who Took Your Name Rat Fool The Big One Corporate pawn Rather Extraordinary Gen 4 Augmentation High Level Threat Strong Candidate One of Allmind's The One Rusty was talking about Head in the Clouds Old-Gen Alive Handler's Hound Old Colleague Subject Beast of burden Guest of Honor The Key Smartass Freelancer Wonderful People Demon Miserable Relic Trigger for the Change to come Dog without a shred of intelligence Not worthy of humanity Stray Dog Obstacle Faithful Hound Biggest Threat Legacy Augmentation The Greatest Obstacle The Liberator of Rubicon The only one The Spark of War The Fires that Haunt Rubicon The Monster who Burned the Stars One With Allmind Aberrations to The Plan Trigger for Coral Release Irregular The Old-Gen Who Could Do It All

The Freelancer Who Had It All

[chestharrington]

Adult Education || Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve Harrington is really weird about the adult film section of Family Video, which really should change its name. After a lot of teasing about dirty movies and the people who rent them, you both take your fixation on dirty movies a little too far.

Couple: Steve Harrington x AFAB!Reader (GN Pronouns)

Category: Smut/Fluff

Content Warning: graphic smut, mutual masturbation, mentions of really bad 1980s adult movies

Word Count: 6.3k

Requests: Open!

For a Friday, the video store was pretty dead. You sat on top of the counter, grateful that Keith had better things to do than police your behavior. Usually, when he caught you, he’d go into a tirade about wasting employee time and loitering without making a purchase. 

Okay, so you didn’t work at Family Video and maybe you did intimidate some customers with annoyed stares when they interrupted your conversations. Still… free country and all that. 

Steve was doing his best to look occupied while you hounded him, an amused grin painting your lips as he blushed practically crimson. 

“C’mon, Steve, you’re a grown man!” You leaned forward, staring pointedly until he turned to meet your gaze. “You’re telling me you’ve never wanted to creep behind that partition and sneak a peek?”

He sighed. Deeply. “Technically, I have to go behind that partition and reshelve whatever the degenerates bring back.”

You grinned wickedly at that. “Watching porn doesn’t make you a degenerate, Steve. It’s totally legal now. Normal, even.”

Whatever effort Steve was putting into the pointless task of alphabetizing the candy bars on the counter was halted. Clearly, he couldn’t avoid the conversation. 

“Need I remind you that this store is called Family Video?” He whispered insistently. You peered around the empty store and raised a brow. “What’s with the hang-up on dirty movies today anyway?”

You shrugged, drawing shapes mindlessly onto the glass countertop. “I’m just curious,” you admitted. “Nudie mags are one thing, but movies… I dunno. They seem illicit and sexy to me.”

Steve did his best to run from the rest of the conversation, taking the cart of movies to be reshelved on a stroll through the store. It would’ve been a nice respite from being cornered behind the counter if you weren’t always two steps behind him. 

He reached up, shelving the constantly rented VHS of Sixteen Candles where it belonged while you watched curiously. His shirt rode up slightly, and you had to bite your lip to keep from grinning at the sight of a happy trail. 

“Need something?” He asked impatiently. 

“All good,” you replied with a cherubic smile. “Just wondering why you’re so shy when talking about this with one of your best friends.”

As if on cue, Robin appeared from the back rooms with new standees and merchandise to put on display. “Ooh, talking about what?”

Steve’s eyes went wide, and his jaw clenched as your smile grew. You could see the threat in his gaze. Don’t you dare.

“I can’t say,” you replied sweetly. “Stevie here’s shy.” You winked and sauntered towards the counter, picking through the new promotional merch like a vulture on a carcass.

Robin furrowed her brows, glancing between you and Steve quickly. “It’s the porn, isn’t it?” 

You sighed in relief. “Yes! It’s weird right?”

“So weird. Especially about reshelving.”

Steve scoffed loudly from the drama section, peering over the shelves to glare. “I’m right here, you know.” He rolled his eyes, and you couldn't help but burst into laughter. 

———

The next time it comes up is a Tuesday, when you’re sitting behind the counter with Steve and an old man with burning red cheeks places a VHS tape called Pleasure Olympics onto the counter for a return. 

“Don’t say anything,” Steve said firmly after the man was gone. 

“I wasn’t going to!” You replied, which was a lie. You were absolutely gonna razz him about it. “It’s just… is it weird knowing that geriatric guy was jerking off to it? Kinda makes you not want to touch it.”

He gives an exasperated sigh, letting his head fall into his hands. “I just said don’t say anything. Gross.” His lips fall into an exaggerated pout and you genuinely feel a swell of pity for him. 

“C’mon, if it bothers you so much I’ll go put it back,” you offered. “And I’ll stop teasing you about the porn since it’s bugging you.” You pause, biting your lip for a moment before the words spill out. “It’s just… aren’t you at least a little curious?”

“I’m not.. I mean I—“ He was tripping over his own tongue, his cheeks burning, blazing hot. “I’m.. I—“ He shut his mouth firmly for a few moments to collect himself. “Maybe a little.”

And his eyes looked so warm and sheepish and earnest for a second that you wanted to melt or puke. It was sickeningly sweet. “C’mon let’s put this back and see what we’re working with here,” you said. With a swift movement, you snatched up Pleasure Olympics and made your way towards the partitioned room. 

“Hey, I don’t… I don’t know if we should,” Steve said, helplessly following you. “I mean, someone’s gotta man the desk. So like… maybe we shouldn’t, and I can take that back there.”

You blinked a few times, confusion furrowing your brows. “Stevie, it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. I think we’ll be fine for like, one minute.” Before he could physically hold you back from the illicit back room, you slipped behind the curtain. 

“Oh,” you sighed, more than a little deflated. It wasn’t some erotic, mysterious liminal space like you’d been imagining. It was just a room. Albeit, a room filled with graphic erotic images on VHS cases, but still. “This is so boring.” Steve skidded to a stop beside you, swallowing audibly as you circled the room like a predator searching for prey. 

“Where does this one go?” You asked, holding up the old man’s tape. 

“Uh.” Steve swallowed again, his eyes glued on the sight of bare tits on a cover in front of him. “Um. New— uh, new releases.”

“Heh, release,” you muttered under your breath, shelving it without much thought where he had said. You doubted that anyone back here cared about organization that much. “So… see anything you like?”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide with affront. “Hey! That’s… We are not going to talk about…” he waved his hands wildly in a gesture to what you assumed to be the entire room, “This.”

You held up your hands in surrender but kept your eyes glued on the cases curiously. It was your turn to swallow hard, feeling like your mouth was simultaneously too wet and completely dry like you were hot all over. 

Maybe, just maybe, you’d taken the teasing too far. 

“Oh, so now you’re the one who’s shy about all this,” Steve said, almost victoriously. You frowned, insulted by the idea that you would be prudish and shy about anything. Fuck. That. 

“Nope,” you said firmly. You let your eyes wander the shelves for a moment longer before you snatched a tape up and held it out. “I want to rent this one.”

   He blinked at you dumbly, his brain not computing the sight of you holding a dirty movie and the innocent-looking outfit you wore. His mouth hung open for a few moments too long before he firmly shook his head. “No. No, I’m not renting you that.” He insisted. 

“Why not?” You asked defiantly. “I’m a customer, right? Keith likes to remind me of that all the time.”

“Yeah, well, you’re also you and one of my best friends so I’m not going to rent you…” his voice went quiet and a little pitchy, “porn.”

A huff of indignation flew past your lips as you realized that the two of you were clearly at an impasse. “For someone who can’t shut up about all the sex he has, you are such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude!” He said insistently. “If anything, you’re the prude and I’m… the opposite of a prude.”

“So let me rent…” You paused to glance at the title in your hand, “Erotic Detention II, and see what the hype is about. And then I’ll never bring it up again. Pinky promise.”

He sighed, running his hands through his carefully styled hair. Just the fact that you had gotten him to do that annoyed him. “You’ll shut up about the dirty movies forever if I let you take that home?” He asked pointedly. With a sickeningly sweet smile, you nodded. He swore under his breath, and you knew he was gonna cave.“Fine. But I don’t want to hear about it.”

You grinned. “Of course not, Stevie. You’ll just have to live the rest of your life wondering what happens to people in erotic detention.”

He rolled his eyes. “If I had to guess, I’d say sex.” He pushed past the privacy curtain, back into the main shop, and, of course, you were right on his heels to continue pestering him about other matters.

———

Steve called your private line every night that week. “So, have you watched your perverted movie yet?” He’d ask, trying his best to sound like he was teasing instead of morbidly curious. 

By Friday night, you had grown tired of his weird act. “For someone who didn’t want to hear about it, you sure seem interested.” He stumbled through a reply, which made you grin. “I’ve got the house free this weekend, so tomorrow I’ll finally put the sinful movie in the player and cement my place in hell. Plus I don’t want a late fee.”

He scoffed, or choked on air. You really couldn’t tell which. “Yeah, well, have fun with that,” was all he could manage in reply. 

“Steve, can you just admit that you’re curious about the movie and stop acting like a total puritan?” You sighed, twirling the cord of the phone around your finger. “This is all strictly to satiate my curiosity. I’m not going to be like… touching myself or anything while I watch it.”

“Jesus Christ, (Y/N).” You could hear his breath heavy on the other line. Huh. There was a pause, heavy and weirdly intense as both of you scrambled for something to say. “Do you really think you’ll be able to control yourself?” 

Huh.

“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow, and I promise you won’t hear about it. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.”

———

Almost exactly 24 hours later, you were in your basement, hands sweating as you put the tape into your VHS player. After hyping the mere idea of dirty movies up so much with Steve, you felt strangely unprepared to press play. 

A shaky breath escaped your lips, and you felt hot all over. There was something weirdly erotic about the entire act, something sinful about having a physical tape of people fucking in your possession. 

Steve’s words echoed in your mind and you wondered, could you control yourself? 

It was weird how insistently you pestered him about pornos. It was weird that he had called to ask if you’d watched it yet. It was weird that you had even brought one home and let it get to this point. 

As you were considering taking it out and returning it to Family Video with your tail tucked between your legs, there was a knock at your door. 

A yelp escaped you, and the shame of it all made you want to hide for the rest of the night. In the deep recesses of your brain, you were convinced some sort of porn police was at your door ready to lock you away for being a degenerate. Reluctantly, you tiptoed up the stairs and into the foyer, where you saw a recognizable silhouette behind the glass of your front door. 

Steve Harrington.

“What are you—?” Before you could finish asking, he’d pushed the door open further with his foot, sidestepping you to make his way in. “Alright, be my guest.”

He smiled back at you, making his way into your living room with an armful of pizza and sodas. “Wanted to stop by,” he said with an easy smile, like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. “You weren’t busy, were you?”

With a simple shrug, you closed the front door. “No, not all, Stevie, make yourself at home.” He immediately sat down on your couches, the plastic covers crinkling. It didn’t matter that they were almost as old as you were, you doubted the actual fabric would ever see the light of day. 

“No Robin?” You asked, settling on the floor in front of him, eager to dig into the pizza boxes. A delighted smile spread across your lips at the sight of your favorite toppings— he knew you so well. 

“Does Robin have to be here for me to hang out with you?” He asked, reaching over you unceremoniously to grab the piece with the best toppings. 

A scrunch formed between your brows as you considered it. “Typically? Yeah.” You grabbed a slice and leaned back against his legs, sighing contentedly at a hot meal after a day of canned soup and random shit from the pantry. “What’re you doing in my neck of the woods anyway?”

“I was just… around,” he said around a mouthful of food, though you could hear a hint of restraint in him. “Any plans tonight?” Goddammit, he was so obvious.

“Nope,” you replied. “I mean, I have Erotic Detention II queued up downstairs, but that can wait. I want to spend time with my best friend Steve Harrington.” You turned to face him with a wide, notably false smile. He swallowed hard, his cheeks an adorable if not annoying shade of pink. 

“Oh… that…” he trailed off in a very poor mimicry of nonchalance. “I, like, totally forgot you even had that. That’s… that’s crazy.”

“Steve, be honest… Do you want to talk to me about my lord and savior or something?”

“What? No!”

You turned to face him, sitting back on your heels with a curious expression. His fists awkwardly rubbed along his thighs— he could have either been wiping off pizza grease or clammy hands and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Gut instinct told you it was the latter. More than that, he was struggling to even meet your gaze. 

“I’m an idiot,” you said on an exhale. “You wanna watch it, don’t you?”

“No!” He said insistently. 

“So… you want to watch me watch it?” You asked, brows furrowed. 

He swore under his breath and you wanted to grab him by his shoulders and just shake until something that made sense popped out. “Look, Steve. Robin says they’re like… super cheesy and poorly acted and dumb. So let’s just rip off the proverbial band-aid together.”

His eyes went wide. Robin? You wanted to roll your eyes but he seemed like a frightened little rabbit who might spook at the first sudden move. 

“Fine, but the second things get weird, we’re turning it off and watching Saturday Night Live.”

You put your hands up in surrender. “Deal. We probably won’t even make it past the opening credits.” With an easy laugh, you grabbed the pizza and hurried down into the basement. 

You vaguely waved to the couch as you heard Steve join you, muttering something about getting comfy while you pulled the TV trays from the corner in front of the couch. Satisfied, you placed your pizza boxes on one and nodded for Steve to put the sodas on the other. 

Perfect. It’s like a fucked up version of thanksgiving.

“It’s pretty nice down here,” Steve mused, wandering around your basement while you grabbed a blanket from the old chest that used to be in your bedroom. “Why don’t we ever hang out here? It’s always Robin’s or Family Video.”

“My parents. They’re in that midlife phase where they’re obsessed with feeling young again. Makes having friends over pretty weird.”

With a contented sigh, you looked at your work and felt like you had done all the stalling possible. Steve settled into the couch, stretching out lengthwise so you’d have to squeeze to fit at all. But you’d cross that bridge later. There were more important matters to attend to.  

You settled on the ground in front of the TV set, daunted by the simple task of pressing a single button. Your mouth felt dry as you sat in front of the VHS player. The inside of your lip felt raw from all the biting you had done since you made it downstairs. 

“You have to press play, by the way,” Steve piped up. How had he gone from a blushing, bumbling idiot to the smug asshole behind you? 

“Shut up, I know how a VHS player works,” you muttered. Your annoyance finally gave you the strength to press the stupid play button, which left you scrambling to the couch before the film began. 

After a brief MPAA title card warning you about the contents of the film, the worst jazz music you had ever heard filled the room. Erotic Detention II was plastered across the screen in a garish red script before the names of the actors scrolled across. 

Nothing too bad, you thought as you tucked your legs beneath you. I can definitely make it through this. 100%. And then the credits ended, and the onscreen fucking began just as abruptly. 

No story build-up, no introduction to the characters— just two very naked people fucking on a squeaky desk while more horrible jazz music played. 

“Huh.” You cocked your head and furrowed your brows at the sight. 

“Huh? Huh, what? What are you ‘huh’-ing about?” Steve asked quickly. 

“Huh, like is that really what people look like when they’re having sex? It’s so… I don’t know.” Embarrassing? Weird? The awkwardly lit, overacted passion on screen made you want to make a renewed vow of celibacy. “Like… look at the tan line on his ass. I’ve never thought about the guys I sleep with having tan lines on their asses before.”

He huffed, affronted. “I’m not looking at his ass.”

“It’s basically all they're showing,” you replied with a scoff. Your eyes went wide at a graphic shot of the literal penetration happening, your lips turning into a frown. “I stand corrected.”

You weren’t exactly sure who was getting off on videos like this. Maybe it was the novelty and risk of watching, or maybe some people enjoyed watching sex even with the weird camera angles and fake moans. There had to be a better way to do it, but you weren’t sure what it was. 

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw that Steve was totally glued to the sight before him. His dark eyes were wide— glossy and reflecting the screen a bit. His mouth was slightly ajar, lips wet from his tongue darting out to swipe across them. Did he like it? Were you just watching it wrong?

The realization hit you suddenly— you needed to get out of your head if you were going to actually gain something from watching it. You tried to forget that Steve was there, tried to forget about the shitty jazz music and that it was an elaborate film production at all. You were simply a voyeur peering in on something illicit and sexy. In a totally consensual and normal way, of course. 

There was something about the way that the woman on the screen arched and gasped with each thrust, the hunger in her eyes when the man leaned down to kiss her. Teeth dug into your bottom lip as you sat up a little straighter. 

And the way they talked was unlike anything you’d ever heard. All your hookups had been quick in the back of cars or weren’t worth making any noise about at all. The carnality and hunger that they spoke with made desire burn in the pit of your belly. 

You felt yourself slipping in the way you shifted in your seat, the way your mouth felt dry and you had to keep swallowing or licking your lips to feel comfortable. It was like you had never truly been awake within yourself before, and your body was springing to life, little by little. You were annoyingly conscious of the feeling of your tits beneath your cotton T-Shirt, the way it rubbed against your nipples. And you regretted the decision to forgo actual pants and just wear some of the boxers you got to sleep in. 

Everything within you was desperate to break the tension with some snide comment about the bad lighting or make fun of the guy’s ass tan lines again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Despite your greatest efforts (which, really, weren’t that great at all), you were really fucking turned on. 

Onscreen they switched positions, or acts, or whatever. You couldn’t think well enough to really describe what they were doing. But she was on her knees with a dick in her mouth, eyes wide and tongue out. You wanted to fucking whimper. 

Holy shit, you thought. I’m watching this with Steve.

It was that moment that you glanced over, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, but must’ve only been five minutes. His cheeks were a pretty pink, and he was so wired-in to whatever was happening on screen that he didn’t even notice you watching him. But you were, and he was doing his best, you had to give him that. 

It didn’t feel very friend-like to notice that Steve was visibly hard. Your entire face, ears, and neck went flaming hot like you’d been suddenly thrust under a heat lamp. His hands were firmly splayed out on his thighs, unmoving, though the occasional twitch in his fingers said he really fucking wanted to move them. 

And holy fuck, you wanted him to move them too. 

You looked away quickly, partly knowing you should end whatever this was then and there. But you liked it. Maybe that made you a deviant sex freak degenerate or whatever Steve had said (and based on the looks of him, he was the same fucking thing), but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

If there was some sort of manual for this, you would have been frantically flipping through pages to the one titled, “how to politely tell your best friend that they’re allowed to get themselves off while you sit beside them, and that you kind of want to do the same, and it’s totally normal and friends can do that because it isn’t weird unless you’re touching right?”

You wanted a lobotomy. Maybe you could use your Nana’s old knitting needles that were sitting in the corner. 

Onscreen, the scene had totally changed and you didn’t even notice. Frankly, you didn’t even think they were in detention anymore, and you weren’t sure how they had managed to squeeze in that plot point while you were debating telling Steve that he could totally jerk off if he wanted to. 

“This isn’t right,” the girl onscreen gasped while her onscreen partner kneeled between her thighs. They were in library stacks, apparently. Definitely not detention. “We shouldn’t.”

But they did. 

“Steve?” You said, your voice sounding strange in your own ears. He made a weak noise in response, something between a hum and a whimper. Jesus Christ. “This is… I mean you can… if you want.” Not how you wanted that to come out. “I mean, if we don’t touch each other nothing will be weird.”

He swallowed and you glanced over at him, looking over at you for the first time since the movie started. His pretty brown eyes were dark and hungry, his cheeks flushed and his mouth so pretty. “Mhmm. Totally. It wouldn’t be weird if we don’t touch.”

“Yeah,” you gasped in response. “Yeah, it’s okay.” 

The dam broke totally then. Anything that might’ve been holding you back was now utterly and totally washed out by how ridiculously horny you were. 

A contented sigh escaped your lips as you let your fingers slip past the waistband of your boxers, too pent up to tease. You were soaking wet, coating your fingers as you let them circle your entrance before replacing them on your clit. Soft circles weren’t good enough. You wanted to fuck yourself into sweet, blissful oblivion. 

“Fuck,” you gasped, throwing your head back. Half of you wanted to forget Steve was there so you could really focus on yourself, but the other was completely honed in on his presence. 

The softest of noises were slipping past his lips, his hand rubbing along his hard-on through his jeans. It was cute, the way his hips shifted and thrust into his own touch. God, he was cute. 

“You don’t have to do it like that,” you said quickly before you had a chance to regret it. “You should get to feel good. Really good. I won’t mind.”

“Yeah?” He asked. You nodded quickly and he gave a gratified sigh. “Fuck, yeah, okay.” He sat up quickly, tearing his polo over his head and tossing it over the back of the couch. At your confused expression, he gave a sheepish smile. “I don’t like making messes.”

Oh. You swallowed hard. “Okay.” 

You shouldn’t have kept watching, really. It was all rapidly devolving past things friends do, which, if you were being honest, had probably started the moment Steve walked in the front door. 

His fingers were fumbling with desperation as he popped the button of his jeans, quick to tug down his zipper and offer himself a bit of respite from how ridiculously tight his pants were. He practically shoved his hand into his briefs to get some actual relief, desperate and needy. 

Onscreen, the girl gripped onto shelves to ground herself as her partner feasted between her thighs. His eyes wide, peering up at her from where he was latched onto her pussy, her thighs dimpled beneath his fingers from his tight grip. 

It was hard to do much of anything with your shorts still on— making any sort of below the belt touching awkward. You couldn’t exactly make yourself cum with limited mobility. Fuck it. You lifted your hips off the couch just enough to tug the boxers down your legs, kicking them off to the side. 

In your mind, Steve was both present and completely irrelevant, which was horribly contradictory. Sort of like a Schrodinger’s Steve situation where if you wanted him there you were totally cognizant, while also having his presence melt into nothingness when you weren’t focused on him. You needed it to be like that for you to retain your sanity and keep from having a total meltdown.

But then he made a soft, needy sound in the back of his throat, and oh boy was he on the forefront of your mind. You glanced over and his gaze was on you— on the desperate movement of your hand between your thighs, on your parted lips and heaving chest. 

Both of you should’ve turned away, but you wanted to watch him, you wanted him to watch you. You moved your free hand to your lips, pushing two fingers into your mouth, and he moaned. You felt like you’d seen heaven. When you moved those fingers between your legs and pushed them inside of yourself, he looked totally wrecked. 

As you curled your fingers and grazed delicious spots within yourself, you were struck with the sudden fear that you would cum too fast and reality would come crashing down around you. There was nothing you could do anymore, no way to squeeze the toothpaste back into the proverbial tube. 

Might as well make it count. “I wanna see you,” you gasped out, meeting his gaze with lidded eyes. “Please?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah, okay.” You wanted to kiss him on his stupid, cute mouth. If this was the effect that pornography had on people, you weren’t surprised why so many politicians wanted to ban it. It was turning you into some sort of hormonal monster. And you weren’t even upset.

The sight of Steve with his dick in his hand felt like a religious experience— the sort of thing that makes you want to change the trajectory of your life forever. The self-imposed no-touching rule felt sacrilegious, and you had never hated your own words more in your life. 

“You’re so pretty, Stevie.” The words slipped past your lips like a prayer. The moan he gave in response was all the answer you needed. “And so big. Wanna feel you.”

You weren’t super coherent at that point— any filter you had was gone, and all of the words that you kept under lock and key on any given day came spilling out.

His blush deepened. You felt like you were on fire all over, practically riding your own fingers as your finish neared. The movie was forgotten at that point. You had both turned towards each other, letting your eyes rake over one another’s bodies. 

It felt like a rubber band had snapped when you finally came— all tension leaving your body as your fingers worked you through your finish. Your head fell back against the cushion, eyes fluttering closed as utterly delicious waves of pleasure washed over you. 

You were partially aware of Steve then, the moans falling from his lips, the comforting feeling of his presence near you. You didn’t open your eyes until your breathing had returned to normal, suddenly overcome with bashfulness as you tugged your shirt down and chewed on your lip. 

An arm had been thrown over his eyes, his chest heaving and glistening in the dim basement light. Ropes of cum cooled on his belly, his cock still twitching with aftershocks. 

The movie felt horribly graphic, with the loud, overdramatic moans and the weird music. You stood up on legs that felt like jelly and made your way to the TV, which you quickly powered off. 

Your shorts were a little ways away from the couch, so you slipped those back on too, hyper-aware of Steve’s gaze locked on you. 

“What?” You asked, raising a brow as you hopped back onto the couch. He was making quick work of trying to be presentable, mopping up his tummy with his shirt, quickly buttoning his pants. 

“Hm?” He asked, looking quickly at you, then away. “Nothing. Just, uh, great movie.”

“So good,” you lied. “Five stars.” 

“Do you, uh, want to wash that shirt now?” You asked, trying not to sound as awkward as you felt. “You can borrow one of mine while you wait.”

“Yeah,” he replied quickly. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.” 

“Washer’s over there.” You gestured vaguely towards the back wall. “And there’s a small bathroom if you wanna clean up more. I’ll, uh, go grab you a shirt.”

Escaping to your room had never felt so good. You were quick to shut the door behind you and pull your phone into your closet, the springy cord sandwiched between the frame and the closet door.

The number you dialed was muscle memory, and you were eternally grateful when they picked up after only one ring. 

“Hello?” Fuck. Parents were the last thing you wanted right now.

“Hey, is Robin home?” You asked, trying to sound casual. “Tell her it’s a friend emergency.” The adult on the other line grumbled, and you heard muffled commotion and movement as the phone was passed to someone else. 

“Jesus, it’s late for a friend emergency,” Robin mused into the line. “Everything okay?”

You sighed deeply and cupped your hand around the phone. “I fucked up,” you said quietly. “Steve came by and—“

“You and Steve?” She asked quickly. “Shut up. Did you guys like… do it? Wait! Don’t tell me that, but I also really wanna know.”

You shook your head quickly before realizing that she couldn’t see. “No! We didn’t touch each other or anything, I just feel like we’ve kind of crossed a big line that we’ll never come back from.”

She sighed on the other end. “That’s pretty vague. And confusing.” You were about to vaguely go over a little bit of what happened when you heard Steve call your name from the basement. 

“Shit. I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, I think.” Before she could say anything, you hung up the phone and grabbed the first shirt you found on the way out of your closet. 

Steve stood at the foot of the stairs, a can of Coke in one hand and a box of detergent in the other. “I can’t figure out the washing machine,” he explained. 

“I’ve got it,” you replied, trading him the clean shirt for the detergent. “Just go turn on Saturday Night Live or something.”

“Right,” he replied, sounding a little more than dejected. He sprawled out on the couch and powered the TV on, which immediately made shitty porn blare over the speakers. He scrambled to the floor, hurrying to turn off the VCR and put it back on cable. You both laughed forcefully before returning to your respective tasks. 

You started the wash and returned to the couch hesitantly, settling on the very far end opposite of him. The cushion between you could’ve been miles— at least, that’s what it felt like. 

“I like this new guy,” Steve piped up, gesturing at the screen. “Robert Downey whatever.” You didn’t feel like saying that this season’s cast wasn’t your favorite, so you just mindlessly nodded. 

The awkwardness was killing you. You wanted to just word vomit everything you were feeling, but it was so much easier to just sit in silence. Halfway through the episode, though, he reached out for you, nodding to his outstretched arm. “C’mere, dork,” he teased with a hopeful smile. 

You felt yourself relax at his offhand term of endearment, despite how weird you felt about what you had done. But was it weird? You were both so into it that you couldn't bring yourself to regret it at all. You scooched across the mile-long cushion and settled against his side, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“You know you’re one of my best friends, right?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Mhmm…” you trailed off, turning to look up at him. 

“But that was pretty hot.”

“Really hot,” you agreed with a smug smile. “You’re like… pretty well endowed actually. I never would’ve guessed.”

He furrowed his brows, mouthing never would have guessed with a confused expression. “Thank you?”

“I mean it,” you said insistently. “Like you come off as a guy who’s all talk, but, wow, you are not.” 

“Alright, alright!” He said with a sheepish laugh. “No more talking like that or I’ll get turned on again.” You raised a brow, trying to fight a grin. Gonna tuck that away for later. 

It got quiet again as you turned your attention back towards the TV, where you both laughed at the occasional good joke or rolled your eyes at the frequent bad ones. Steve's hand was warm against your skin as he absentmindedly traced shapes along your arm. "Can I admit something?" He asked suddenly. 

"I don't think there's a lot you can't do around me anymore," you replied with a laugh. 

He exhaled nervously. "I totally watch tons of porn all the time," he said quickly. "Like, I sneak movies like that out of the back room practically every shift."

Your eyes went wide as you sat up, shoving him playfully. "You fucking pervert! I knew there was something weird going on with you and the porn! You're, like, addicted or something, like they talk about on the news." You sat back down against his side, feeling victorious for catching him on it. But... you paused, furrowing your brows. "So... why were you so weird about me watching it?"

"I wasn't being weird," he said defensively. "I just... didn't think you were going to go through with it. Whatever, my secret is off my chest, and now you know. Do not tell Robin." You mimed zipping your lips and snuggled closer.

He was definitely being weird about it before, but you weren't going to push him. You were pretty sure you knew why.

———

You woke up drooling on Steve’s shoulder, blinking lazily at the sight of morning news playing on the screen. Steve was warm beneath you, burning like a furnace. You sighed, wiping your mouth on the back of your hands.

“Steve?” You said, voice croaky with sleep. 

“Mmm…” he didn’t bother opening his eyes. His hair was messy with sleep, falling into his face.

“Didn’t you have work today?” 

He stood suddenly, the shirt he’d borrowed from your closet riding up to expose his stomach. “Shit! Shit. I’m due in…” he trailed off, glancing at the cat-shaped clock on the wall. “20 minutes. And we’re about a 15-minute drive. Keith is going to murder me.”

“Uniform?” You asked, frantically cleaning up the pizza boxes and empty cans. 

He nodded, scrambling aimlessly. “Vest’s in the car, and uhhh… shit.” He frowned over at you from the washing machine, holding up his very wet polo. “Fell asleep before I dried my shirt so I’m stuck with—“ he peered down to look at the shirt you’d given him. “'Hawkins High Theatre Troupe '85.”

“Aw, you’re so cute when you're wearing my clothes, Stevie,” you teased, throwing him his keys. “Spare toothbrush in my bathroom. You know where my room is.”

“Thank you,” he said quickly, crossing the room to plant a kiss on the top of your head. “I’ll see you later, alright?” 

You wrinkled your nose and pushed him away teasingly. “Alright, big guy, get going.” He made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped suddenly and came back down. “Almost forgot.” He popped out the VHS tape and held it up victoriously. You rolled your eyes as he ran upstairs. 

A few minutes later, you heard the telltale sounds of the front door slamming, his car radio blaring, and his tires squealing away. 

What a weird week.

———

Sundays were the worst, but Robin was genuinely looking forward to Steve walking through the doors after her strange call with you the night prior. She spun around on the chair behind the counter, twirling a pen between her fingers, sighing heavily as she looked at the clock. 

Fifteen minutes after his shift was supposed to start, Steve practically burst through the door, looking frazzled and panicked. And… holding a porno in his left hand. 

“Hey, dingus,” she greeted. “Nice of you to join us today.”

“Robin,” he gasped, leaning across the counter, a dopey smile on his lips. “I think I’m in love.”

[newtabfics]

soft astarion getting sentimental during sex after a rough battle and ends up being extremely touchy and loving but he's totally "i don't like you. you're crazy. that's silly" still

"Not Like I Did Yesterday." Summary: Tav gets badly hurt which makes Astarion realize a few things suddenly. He can't quite explain it but in that moment, he knows it's her he needs. Takes place after Tiefling Party before Act 2 because I love the Underdark and is lightly inspired by the lyrics from "I Don't Love You" by MCR. Triggers for Canon Typical Violence. Some Angst. Frantic/Needy Smut. Spoilers for Astarion's story quest.

"Shit!" He hissed as his arrows ran out. "I'm empty!" He announced to the others as the monster closed in on him.

He tensed as he gripped his blade. He was ready to fight to his last breath if he had to.

Then a stone struck the beast in the face, cutting its vulture-like face before hissing in her direction.

Astarion felt a coldness wash over him as the beast charged and swung.

The Hook Horror tossed Tav aside like a ragdoll. Her body was beaten and broken as she tried pushing herself up, squinting at the monster as it charged at her.

There was a roar that she couldn't quite make out.

She barely saw the flash of white before Astarion was on the creature.

"Oh shit," Shadowheart said, seeing Astarion losing it as he attacked the monster. "Tav!" She called out. "Get away from him!"

Tav shuddered as she pushed herself up slowly as the rest of the group eliminated the rest of the monsters. Astarion kept stabbing at the dead beast beneath him.

"Astarion," She called out to him, staggering.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Shadowheart barked out.

"Stop," Karlach said firmly. "She's got this."

The two watched as their leader staggered towards Astarion. She hobbled as her eyes focused on him.

He was plunging the blade down again. His back heaved as his soft growls could be heard.

He was losing himself.

Gotta help him, She thought to herself as her legs buckled. She collapsed into him as she hugged him tight from behind.

His arm froze in the air.

His breath came in broken shudders.

Her scent flooded him.

She's here…She's alive, He repeated as he lost its grip on the knife.

The metal clattered to the ground as he slumped in her hold, hands gripping her arms tight. Alive, he told himself again as he let out a shaky breath.

"You're okay," She whispered into his shoulder before her body went limp.

Astarion's eyes widened when Tav suddenly dropped to the ground beside him. "D-Darling?" He asked as he turned to her.

Shadowheart hurried over in that moment, focused on healing their leader. 

Tav was blinking hard, looking a bit dizzy. She was alive. "I'm okay," She mumbled.

"The hell you are!" Shadowheart snapped. "That was reckless! I don't care that he's an ally. When a vampire goes feral like that, don't fucking touch them!"

Tav grimaced and gave her a look. "I wasn't gonna let him lose his mind!" She defended.

Astarion could only watch as the two bickered while the cleric healed her. His heart thudded wildly as she looked annoyed by the woman's scolding. When her eyes met his, she smiled softly and crossed her eyes in mock irritation.

He couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped him as the action earned her another scolding.

Tav carefully got up with Shadowheart's help, stumbling forward. His arms were there to catch her, holding her upright as she sighed.

"You should carry her!" Karlach beamed. "Like a princess!"

Tav blushed as the vampire almost immediately complied and lifted her. She looked up at him and hummed. "Not gonna lie; this is new."

He studied her as his hands tightened on her. 

"Let's get back to camp," Shadowheart sighed. "You need rest."

She nodded in response as Astarion carried her the whole way.

The silence wasn't deafening but it was worrying for her. She watched him practically stare off into space as he carried her to safety.

As soon as they'd arrived at camp, Tav was hounded with questions of her well-being to the point she asked Astarion to set her down. He was hesitant to do so but when Halsin brought her his cushion to sit on, he amended.

He waited patiently, studying her.

She's alive.

It was like he needed to keep reminding himself of this.

His heart ached as he watched her be healed. Why did it irritate him to see Halsin healing her? That's what he's good for. For healing!

She was smiling at Wyll as he playfully messed with her hair. When did they get all friendly?

He knew she was good friends with him but what about him?

Tav blinked when Astarion suddenly stormed towards his tent. 

The sun had set when Astarion heard the tent flap move. His eyes, trained at the ceiling of his tent, slid over to Tav as she sat beside him, looking down at him. Her hair fell from the ponytail, messily framing her face as she looked down at him.

She gave him a gentle smile. "Hey."

"...hey." he raised himself to his elbows. "You alright? Everything still…fully functioning?"

Tav smiled at his awkward question. Nodding, she said, "Yeah. I'm okay."

A beat of silence passed between them before she slowly asked, "Are…you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Good. Great."

She watched his jaw clench as his fingers drummed on his knee nervously. The vampire was avoiding her eyes. Heart thudding in his chest as he tried to think of how to begin.

Should he apologize? Explain himself? Did he need to do something? 

He had to say something, for certain. 

He inhaled sharply as he tried to speak quickly.

"Astarion–"

"Darling, I–"

They stopped as their voices overlapped. Tav giggled softly as he looked away with a smile. Another pause settled before he finally took a deep breath.

"I don't know what happened. I saw you and…and I lost it," he sighed. "I've never blacked out like that. And…when you collapsed…"

Tav watched him for a moment before cupping his face. "Hey," she said gently. She turned his eyes to her.

His heart lurched up into his throat as he studied her features. She was alive, his mind whispered again.

"Darling," he finally breathed as he leaned in and kissed her.

It felt…different somehow, he realized as he laid her back into his bedding. Her fingers tangled into his hair like that first night. She was kissing him sweetly, just as greedy as him.

That's all this is, he tried to tell himself. It's only physical. She gives blood. He gives orgasms—a fair trade.

Except this wasn't an exchange.

Tav's hands cupped his face, pulling him closer and protecting him almost as he frantically shed her clothing.

His ruby eyes scanned over her body. He bent, licking and kissing at every bruise on her body from the fight. Every scratch or scar he could find was vulnerable to his mouth.

She gasped out breathless moans as she gripped his hair, scrambling helplessly to reach his belt.

"Not yet," he whispered against her stomach as he kissed down, pulling her trousers with him. "Need this."

Her cheeks went hot as she watched his kiss along her inner thigh. His teeth lightly nipped, fangs pressed gently near the artery.

Tav gulped and nodded her consent and he was diving in.

His tongue lavished desperately over her clit. His soft moan made her gasp as he suckled on the bud eagerly. 

"Still so fucking delicious," he groaned, tongue flicking gently.

"Fuck, Star," she gasped out, gripping the blanket beneath her. His hand was splaying over her stomach as fingers prodded at her entrance.

His body shuddered as he pressed himself against her leg. He bit his lip as he pumped and curled his fingers before adjusting to sit up. His eyes were trained on her face as he watched her writhing from his touch.

"That's it, Darling," He whispered encouragingly. His eyes darted to her hands gripping the blankets. "What do you think you're doing?" He asked.

Tav felt her body heat as his eyes flicked up to hers. They were full of challenge and desire. "I…"

She blushed when he pulled her hand into his hair, nuzzling her thigh gently. "You're supposed to be gripping it," He murmured before licking lazily at her folds. "Supposed to be clinging to me like before. Darling."

He sounded breathless and needy as he kissed up her body. He watched her melting under him as her hand slid from his hair and to his face. Then, she sat up and kissed him gently.

His hands trembled as he gripped her waist as she held his face to hers. "Star," She whispered against his lips before her hands scrambled to tug at his shirt as her cheeks went hotter. "Don't make me beg for you."

"Why not?" He asked. It had meant to be a taunt, but it sounded little more than a desperate whine. "You sound so pretty when you do."

Clothes were shed and tossed aside in the tent. She gasped as he pressed in. His hand threaded with hers, pinning it by her head. 

His ruby eyes kept watching her, taking her in.

Tav lay there, flushed and clutching his hand and bicep. She was whimpering for him. "S-Star, please."

"Fucking beautiful."

Every movement felt too intense, too desperate. Their breaths mingled as he kissed her. His free hand, once gripping her thigh greedily with every thrust, tangled into her hair.

His tongue slid along hers. His cock pressed into her, rubbing everywhere she needed it to. His hips refused to move away from her, keeping him deep inside.

Her eyes watered as he bent and kissed her neck. His face was pressed against her skin as his hand tugged lightly at her hair.

"Tav," He whispered, shaking now.

Too intense. Too much. 

Everything inside him screamed with confusion as he let himself get lost in her. Her sweet gasps in an attempt to keep quiet. Her scent. The sound of her heart pumping wildly.

She bit her lip when his tongue licked up along the vein and teeth pressed gently in the bruised bite marks from his last feeding. She braced…but nothing.

His teeth simply gripped at her as he whimpered softly into her ear, making her shiver. It was so unlike that first night. He was gasping softly now and then but his moans were like a symphony.

A practiced one.

"Shit, ah," He whispered against her skin. "Darli…Tav."

That did her in. Her back arched up and he held her tight to him, topping into the orgasm with her. His lips crushed against hers as he shuddered and clung to her.

Alive, His mind whispered before fading entirely in the fog of pleasure.

A long moment passed as the kiss grew gentler, bodies trembling still. Tav's eyes blinked up at him as she smiled affectionately to him.

"Did I scare you that bad?" She teased lightly.

His cheeks flushed a slight as he cleared his throat. "No?" His eyes darted from hers as she giggled, still high on the euphoria.

Her hand slid up to cup his face, pulling him close. "Admit you like me," She whispered to him.

Anxiety flickered through him as he smirked. "I'll never admit a damned thing to you," He said playfully as he watched her eyes flutter. "You need your rest. You took quite the beating today."

"Worth it," She hummed, smiling.

"How?" He asked as he pulled away carefully. He frowned as she curled into him. "Tav, my bedding isn't quite comfortable for you–"

"You are," she hummed, resting her head on his shoulder.

He blinked, watching her. "I'm comfortable?" He asked slowly.

His frown made her smile as she cuddled herself closer to him. She hummed softly in confirmation. "And worth it."

His heart stuttered again.

He's worth it. He's worth…her injuries.

Before he could respond, she was sound asleep against his shoulder.

He held her, idly drawing circles on her back and petting her hair to ensure she slept soundly. He could slip into his trance, reflect a bit but…

Looking down at her, he realized that would mean a bit of time from her. Time alone. The thought of slipping away in that moment filled him with a strange dread.

Instead, he lingered on his thoughts, holding her sleeping body to him as a comfort for himself.

It took a long while for him, cycling through his memories, his feelings, everything this woman made him feel.

Her japes.

Her taunts.

The way she rolled her eyes affectionately at his wise cracks about their companions.

The way she laughed at his jokes.

The way she listened to him.

The way she was.

She was alive.

And he wanted her.

Panic began to rise in his chest as he glanced down at her. She looked so peaceful. So blissfully unaware of his thoughts.

With a shaky breath, he decided to push this down. This was just a fluke. It had to be. It couldn't be anything else.

It was just a fluke.

[taereaderwriter]

Game of Thrones - Recommendations

Sador ‘The Hound’ Clegane

The Hound and the Vulture (ongoing?) - @summervale

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

P1 note: Third person reader-insert! A wandering widow and a wanted warrior. They're no "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but they're close enough, right? After saving his life, the scavenger is half tempted to sell him out and half tempted to have her way with him. The dog is half tempted to throw her in the Trident and half tempted to throw her in the Blackwater Rush. 

if he’s as bad as they say, then i guess i’m cursed (complete) - @diorstarr

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: It starts like most bad things do. Because Joffrey finds it funny. Or, you get married to The Hound. 

Love? (complete) - @justallamaimaginingthings

“A/n: That was not even requested, but after 8x05 I needed some Sandor fluff, so there you go. Hope you enjoy it and don’t hesitate to drop by my askbox whether it is to request anything, leave a comment or just to chat”

Sandor Clegane x Reader (Wildling) (complete) - @lunnybunny12

“A/N: The reader is a wildling in this story and has never heard of the hound before.”

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death and no fluff

Listen to me (complete) - @myfictionaldreams

Request: “The reader is a fighter an she almost gets killed in battle but sanders saves her once the battle is over he finds her in her room and they get into an argument that leads to rough smut with biting marking and dirty talk if you don’t mind”

The Hound’s Wedding (complete) - @myfictionaldreams

Summary:  King Joffrey needed a way to send a message to your brothers in Winterfell. What better way than marrying you off to the bloodthirsty Hound.

Warnings: +18 readers only, Loss of Virginity, Size Kink, Reader is a Stark, Size Difference, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex

The Teasing Game (complete) - @myfictionaldreams

Summary: There was nothing you loved more in life than teasing Sandor Clegane. What happens when he can’t take it anymore and he finally snaps?

Warnings: 18+ readers only, smut, teasing, size difference, jeaousy, mentions of masturbation, choking, biting, marking, rough oral sex (male receiving), rough sex, multple orgasms, dirty talk, hair pulling, threats of violence

Sandor Clegane/ The Hound NSFW Alphabet (complete) - @brrahbrrahcharacterimagines

The Lamb and The Hound (complete) - @brrahbrrahcharacterimagines

Part 1 | Part 2

P1 Warnings: Light attempted rape mentioned (not by Sandor), Battle of Blackwater, fire mention

P2 Warnings: Sex, Dom(M)/Sub(F) dynamic, maybe a size kink, sharing a bed, boner?, cursing, loss of virginity, possessiveness, breeding kink, cum

Tormund Giantsbane

Cold Hands (complete) - @author-morgan

Summary: After the Battle of Castle Black, Jon needs someone to ensure their wildling prisoner makes it through the night. Because Tormund's the type you just want to rage fuck and I've been looking for an excuse to write for him since like 2017.

Lord Robin Arryn

Grown Up (complete) - @brrahbrrahcharacterimagines

Chapters

[janeelyakiri]

Oh my god this is gonna be a tagging nightmare-

Ducky and Decoy had to patch through to help my Undertale OCs see the fight, and send their Hopes And Dreams to Alive @tatatale

Took bout a week but i'm real happy with this! Biggest project I've done in a while 💙

[zorlok-if]

Sneak Peek at First Battle Scene:

[Spoiler warnings for Episode 1]

Episode one opens with a scene between a freshly memory-wiped Zorlok + Tommy then (after a time jump) leads into a battle scene (against a being I refer to as the Lost One). There is a lot of customizability within this scene and I have been having so much fun writing these choices and the variation within the different routes. To showcase just a little bit of this variability, here are some different versions of the same few choices within this scene plus a sneak peek at the testing cheats screen that I currently have to use when playtesting by myself.

CHOICE ONE: You are sitting on a swingset and noticed a being watching you from the forest. You decided to slowly reach for a weapon.

The following passage (selected the knife, used to body, + Z wears glasses)

The following passage (selected the machete, not used to body, no glasses, + snake hellhound)

CHOICE TWO: You decided to call out to the Lost One while showing off with the weapon.

The following passage ("modern" Z, not used to body, snake hellhound, wielding machete)

The following passage ("old" Z, used to body, wolf hellhound, wielding knife)

Dialogue choice results

old Z, used to body, knife, wolf hound, "asshole" response VS. modern Z, used to body, machete, cat hound, "asshole" response:

old Z, used to body, crowbar, bat hound, glasses, "order" response VS. modern Z, used to body, machete, raccoon hound, no glasses, "order" response

old Z, used to body, machete, vulture hound, glasses, "lurk" response VS. modern Z, used to body, crowbar, snake hound, no glasses + no brimmed hat + long hair, "lurk" response

old Z, used to body, knife, wolf hound, glasses + wearing a brimmed hat, "guest" response VS. modern Z, used to body, machete, raccoon hound, no hat + long hair, "guest" response

And these are the choices around the bottom of this passage type:

BUT, if Zorlok isn't used to this body yet...

modern Z, not used to body, crowbar, cat hound, "lurk" response VS. old Z, not used to body, knife, bat hound, "order" response

And this is what the choices around the bottom of this passage type are like:

Bonus, my Testing Cheats Dialog Box:

TESTING CHEATS

USED TO BODY |  NOT USED TO BODY

MODERN |  TECHNOPHOBE

CROWBAR | MACHETE | KNIFE

CLAWS  | SHARP NAILS |  LONG NAILS  | SHORT NAILS

GLASSES  | NO GLASSES

COWBOY HAT  | NO HAT

LONG HAIR  | SHORT HAIR

THEY/THEM ZORLOK  | HE/HIM ZORLOK  | XE/XEM ZORLOK

GESTR (THEY/THEM) - WOLF NADJA (SHE/HER) - BAT CROWLEY (IT/ITS) - SNAKE DARCY (HE/HIM) - CAT TERROR (XE/XEM) - RACCOON SOLAS (HE/HIM) - GOAT MOROS (THEY/THEM) - VULTURE PRETZEL (HE/HIM) - PUG DIONYSUS (EY/EM) - HYENA

[ef-1]

Re:2022

When I think of Daniel's time at McLaren, I think the entirety of it is epitomised in the moments after the checkered flag in AD22.

Daniel gave his whole teenage and adult years to the sport and in the end he was disposed of so callously, without the finality or dignity of retirement nor the certainty of return. Instead after he sold and cultivated the popularity of the sport, after he spent his whole career hounded by cameras- he found a quiet corner on a dark track and did donuts alone to celebrate the remnants of his legacy, now literally only known to himself after his reputation was so thoroughly dismantled.

He then got out of the car and smiled at the cameras again and those wretched fucking vultures who built careers off of him asked him if he'd even fit into an f1 car if a seat was available next year and all he said in return was "I've been having trouble keeping weight", also with a smile.

[phramboise]

only lovers left alive — simon”ghost”rileyxfem!reader

Death, gore, MDNI, smut, established past relationship, vague comfort?, 3.3k words.

: you’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

...

A fish, and a man. Both on the surface of the dirty water, both reek of ammonia and disturbed flesh. Both rotting, and stomach inflated, but the man’s are clearer in sight, vivid. More violent, primal, disgusting. As if all the colour is dulled around for him to put on a show of his defeated stage. Skin unnaturally yellow, arms sprawled out, the body still intact with his skeleton in blisters. Deranged, a man who stains the water he’s in. And a fish. Both dead, but the fish saddens her more. Both are dead, and both by her, but the fish saddens her more. 

For she didn’t even notice it as she killed it, for love is violent and much kills, but she was young enough, or maybe such emotion is foreign, novel to her. She killed it anyhow. The fish obliges, tastes the attention, in a symbiotic affection with her. But it swims more around the edges on the tank as days go by, swims higher on the surface, until one fin lays smooth on its side, not moving, until it can’t swim straight, and until it dies. 

The man is still in the water, his face down. She can see what he would look like in a few weeks, that he would decompose slower in cold, no vultures around to dig on his skin. She can imagine the soapy glaze his flesh would have, and the green, and the violet. Hypothermia. Petrification. Bisection. And a hound, it’s mouth wet and sticky, dribbling in red and saliva. She can see the skeleton sneaking out the flesh as the hyenas around shake their furs, off the blood and the water. Loyal and starving, a rabid dog in need of someone to find its way back to —

Her machete, on the other hand, is very much so alive, painting red rivulets on the snow-white ground. Sharp colour stripes off the chrome, turns into a deep velvet on earth, her hair is soiled, and her body is covered in red splotches, on her knees as she eyes the handiwork, trying to stay conscious, alert. She kicks her feet to clean the bits of the man off herself too. A roar in her ears and her temples feel like it’s her brain that’s splintered with a machete inside, eyes twitch as she stares at the man’s gouged one. And she tries to cough it off, coughs and coughs until she starts to gag, looking away from the scenery which she is the master to. She rubs her palms, rips the dead man off his gloves for hers are soaked in blood. 

She’s better a gun than she is a person. Horror in her bane, she’s a better swordslayer than she is human. A little girl with fish food, or another with a rusty machete, she’s both. Can’t say she takes pride in neither, but the man doesn’t upset her in anyhow.

;;

It takes one more night to look up without a ceiling, before you get your way back, before the static of your comm buzzes again, the familiar voice, and the authority he embodies mercilessly. The Lieutenant. A pleasant sizzle follows his voice through, your eyes shot close as you feel through the gear with both hands to reach the radio, pressing the cold plastic to your ear. He disperses the smoke in your mind that dwells about the throes of your own demise, the thought of if this is how death will feel for you. He guides you, the way through the fuming howl of the tundra, becomes your sun chariot, your servant of peace and light, meeting you halfway, and when you encounter he doesn’t ask you to cradle you, does it naturally as he sees you. Sleight of hand, you don’t bother. You need a trace to make you believe in him, a keepsake of the times where he had done it so willingly. Something to hold you back to routine, to life. You’ve been sleeping long enough, he notices. He wakes you gently, rocks you kindly with hands you’re sure that has seen much more than yours did. But he wakes you kindly, a soothing hand lands on your nape, steadies you into this realm. You don’t pull back, and you don’t notice the build-up, the tension on you. But only the release.

You don’t know why you cry. He doesn’t say it to you between countless mantras over and over of how he thought he lost you, again, but you know it eases him to see an emotion on your face, and you feel it too, however ugly you think you wail. You need to breathe to cry. You breathe to cry. You said you don’t want him anymore, but no one would breathe in your scent like he survives on it with his head heavy on your shoulder, no one would kiss the dried blood on your brow and your matted hair. You know no one would blow warmth on your cold-stiff palms, not like he does. No one would waste himself, on you. No one would lend their blood to heat yours. You never said someone would anyway.

Adrenaline imperceptibly loses its grip on you, subsides and alters into pain. It creeps under your skin, trembles on your chin and prickles your eyes, making its presence known. Your step loses momentum as you lend your weight on him, and he grabs you with very capable hands.  

After wails turn into mulled cries, and they turn into woeful moans, he lifts your head off his chest, leans his forehead against yours, gives you a few breaths, gives your forehead a kiss, stays a few moments until your heart thumps steadily to his, then pulls back. He nods slowly as you loosen your grip on him. Pulls his mask down again, he walks you through the icy terrain in hasty affection, shelters you in the safehouse.

;

First thing he does after he settles you on the fur seat, is to take off the foreign gloves off your frostbite fingers, throws them in the rusty barrel’s fire, burns it clean. Blood sticks onto his fingers and he wastes no time taking his gloves out his pocket to wear it on your hands. Its lengthy fingers swallow yours, and you look down at the thick fabric that adorns your hands as he wipes the blood off your face. You notice he wears no gloves, and you wear his now. A silent compliance in the way you sit, you only hiss when the dried clots pull the strands of your hair as he drags the cloth slowly along your skin. He reaches, taking each hand of yours in his, examining carefully, running his fingers over the lines of your palms. A futile tremor goes through him as he kneels before you, letting out a slow, shaky sigh as he disrobes you off your soaked wet gear, clads you with his spare. He doesn’t ask for a thing in return, and you only watch the tail of his tattoo through the exposed skin of his wrist as his hands hover over your elbows. He lowers his gaze, frees his messed hair out his balaclava, his throat bobbing as he swallows. He bites his cheek in thought, and you slither your palm to his cheek. He goes still before he looks up at you, big brown eyes and fanned lashes melt golden under the fire burning at the middle of the room. He blinks, then his bare fingers skate between yours, interweaves his fingers through the gaps between your own, he nudges at the fabric that coats your wrist, pushing the cloth up with his nose so his lips meet the inside of your wrist. You let out a faint breath, and it flutters his hair as he lays his head gently on your thighs, sitting on the concrete.

You play around with the little beads of the metal of his dog tags, and he moves his unoccupied hand around the side of your leg, pressing his cheek further onto the warmth that slowly comes back to your body. Under your imperious gaze, he rests his eyes, and you sink back onto the mattress, finally breathing the way you should.

;;

The plume of the dusty covering tightens your nose, and you wake with the scent of the bitter miasma of the bloodied gloves in the fire, scorching the sticky liquid, churning in your nostrils. The air is heavy, and the interior is plain. The cold outside whispers through the uncaulked edges of the wooden window, and you rest your eyes a moment longer before searching for the abandon of Simon’s warmth,

Only to find him sitting on a log next to a woodpile outside, elbows nested against his knees, minding the floor as he smokes. Silent as you walk towards, you cut him off his smoke as you reach your hand over his shoulder, behind him. He twists around to watch you circle behind him, eyes on you as you slide your fingertips along his neck, not letting you out his sight as you sit on the smaller log next him.

His cigarette toys you between his lips, and you lean to brush your lips right above his jaw. He turns a bit more to your side, slides the log you sit on closer to his. And when you take his glove off your hand to give it to him, he only takes one to wear to the hand that’s not close to yours, and holds your bare hand with his unclothed one, then drapes his arm along your shoulders, that holds the cigarette. Moving it to your lips, eyes fixated on you, he has two vices again. You and the smoke. But you’re only here to get your only one back. Hand clasps the collar of his coat, this one is longer, a proper kiss, an impossibly slow caress on his cheek, closer to his lips this time. One that says thank you. You see his throat move when he hitches, leaves a long breath as he can’t contain it. He dulls the ember of the smoke in a second, then his hand finds your face, holding you to him by the pull of his arm threaded behind your shoulder. He steeples his fingers under your chin, moves his head, leans in, and stills when there’s only a breath’s width between your longing lips. And before he closes that, he looks at your expression. This close, you’re realer, truer, and ever so far still. Closed-eyed, waiting, wanting. He draws in your whine, holds it a second longer for his mind to never forget this moment too, along many others with you.  

How easily you got him wound up.

When he brings your lips together, his breath shudders. He surges forward, the cold tip of his nose digs on your cheek, and you taste your name as he groans it on your parting lips, hand on your chin winces, and reaches to your cheek, angling your head deeper onto him, his lips slip on yours without friction. Your hand on his collar falls down to his knee, and he turns fully towards you as you slither it up to his thigh, kissing as you hook your bare thumb around the clasp of his belt, feeling the band beneath the trousers. The rough surface sends frictions between your thighs when he pulls you towards him on the log you sit on, and you cling onto him tighter.

He parts with a sound of your wet lips separating, for a moment, brushes his thumbs on your gentle eyelids, warm cheeks. Searching for any sign on your face that disapproves, that doesn’t want this as much as he does. You only slip your cold palm under his t-shirt.

“God…��

A firm grip encircles your waist, and he scoops you bodily, rushes back in the one-room safehouse in tenacity.

You’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. And a grasp, he pulls you forward, insistently rocks you off your sleep.

“Come here.”

Teeth on teeth, they clash and clatter and a candy floss tongue coats the cold, his arms finally find you. Both hugging you to him and soothing the windblow, but your skin is warm now, and you ache for a different fire. He devours your whiny hums, leads your hands slowly on where he wants it, where he knows you want to touch. The fire in the distance heats the side of your face and a shudder runs down your body as a soft noise escapes your lips, he keeps his eager lips on your neck, his shaky breath ruffles your hair as the hand on your back spreads his fingers, reaching to the bottom of his cloth on you, his thumb flicks the clasp of your bra, his little finger traces the waistband of your jeans, fumbling through skin and fabric. You help him, out his clothes, and stagger yourself forward to his broad chest. His eyes twinkle in the low light, and you feel your knuckles on where his belt meets his abdomen, running slowly towards, up his chest, then it’s not only knuckles, kissing as you move your hand up to his throat. He tilts his head as he takes you in, your hand with amused ardour, looking down at you, lips brushing your temple as he whispers your name onto your hair, a soft, breathy chuckle of surprise.

Until he misses your lips again, and when he does, he rises his hand to your jaw, turning your head up to him. Moving his hand back to your hair, and a little tug, he leans down.

He presses you forward without resistance from you, and you feel the worn mattress on your back, his kisses trail down your face as he follows down, feeling you with you, in a way that your past affairs feel like mockery to you. The arms around you move, are his fingers shaking?.. He’s tense, his cheek glides down your breast, plating a firm kiss on your chest, you hold onto his back and his hand dives down, under your jeans, feeling the cotton of your underwear. His forehead brushes against your jaw as he lets out a withering whimper, feeling your heat through your clothed core, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on the slick flush of your parted lips, rolling your bottom lip between his as he presses his open palm on your sopping cunt, pressing the heel of his palm on your swollen clit, tugging you in him, tugging your jeans down roughly, the button of it pops out and he almost rips the zipper, and he swallows your gasp, kisses you until your jaw can’t keep up.

Forever, just one more try than never. Maybe there is a way for you, not one of pleasantries, one without him if you try hard enough. For now, though, you stay engrained in the facets of his life, between whorls of his fingertips and everything else that caresses you of him. There is no way for you to leave, no way that you are not embedded in his devoid heart. His heartbeat mirrors yours and he has your breath to breathe in, and you feel it. You feel him everywhere, under the yellow hue of the barrel’s fire, under his body, over the lilting shadow on the wall, fingers deep inside you. Where his silhouette ends, yours begin, and he means it. Promises it, prays it, beneath honeyed words, in rhythmic intonation as he gives you every inch of his love. And you give such sweet noises that trickles down his earlobe, gently grazing with your teeth, drawing out antsy whimpers. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You were going to kill him one day. All with this exaltation he willingly offers at your feet, with the idolatry that evokes within him in your cashmere walls, if not with the way you suck him in, hold and pull his digits deep inside you. You overwhelm him, exhilarate him. “Aren’t you?”  

He keeps on, keeps on until you don’t feel like you are the ruler of your body, until you feel nothing but the transcendental bliss as you let out your high on his fingers, feel the coil in you arch, tighten and snap like harp strings. No one in the world has ever missed anyone like this. Lucky you.

He hums, and cradles his large palm on the side of your face, an unconscious spell moves and rests your head to it, he just smiles. He moves his drenched fingers along your lips, smears your essence on your parting lips, and invites his fingers in your warm mouth, threatening an oral fixation. Then he drags them out, pressing on your bottom lip, his wet fingers draw an invisible line that raises goosebumps on its way over your naked body, resting on the plush of your hip as he tastes you on your lips.

You nodded yes as he first asked you, and he acknowledges again. “You are… mmm… yes, you are.”

He keeps humming with his mouth slack on yours, entwining his hand along your thigh, switches your body on his. He’s not one to tell you with his words, to use and waste him, violate him softly, ruin him for anybody else as a kind coalescence of yours, but he tells you to “Keep going….  just­— fuck! Fuck, baby… keep going…”, an assuring gaze that is ice down your spine.  

And once, you heard as he thought you were sleeping, that he really, really, likes you. Very much, he added then. You grin at the memory, and how it picked this time for retrieval, thinking you never heard him. You clench yourself around his cock, steadying your palms on his shoulders, fuck him the way he tells you through the way his cut nails dig deeper onto your hips, reaching his palm along your spine as he pulls you toward him, kissing your lips, can’t keep sync as you ride him mercilessly. And you do, and you are.

—

He tells you things no one would dare say with their eyes open, and touches you, shows you yourself in a way you have never seen, all your beauty when the witnesses of your psyche are gone. Now, you feel the ghost of his touch along your back, fingertips massaging your nape, carding your hair, contemplating deeper. He lays beside you, pressing his nose on your shoulder blade as he steals a little kiss of your sumptuous skin.

“You asleep?”

-you take long enough before you decide to answer, so he just slips out an I love you.-

;;

Seeing snow lessening as the SUV drives away soothes her nerves. Watching an old man as he watches an old couple, hand in hand as they walk away. The strident, speedy bow of a violin, both pierces through her. Horses on a flatland, a singing smile and being someone’s Phaedra. Two coffee cups in one sink. Running around until the throat breathes sour, matching shapes on your childhood house’s ceiling, reading an old journal of yours. Two healthy fish in a full tank — mind alters the memories in coping. Balmy winter trees. Seconds and seasons. — like the day, just like the night. Like death, chasing them all. Like the never-ending games, all will end. You can’t hold the dying sun as it moves further away off your seat, but you can slant back in the backseat of the vehicle, looking at the driver’s seat, to him. Even better deal, you slide to the middle of the seat, resting your palm on the back of his seat, inch your face to his neck, and he drives. Breathe the vestiges of your scent off him in, press a placid smile on the tattoo of your initial under the fabric of his mask. Maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

[loveinhawkins]

connected to this

Sometime during the bat-proofing of his Upside Down trailer, Eddie’s hit with a wave of vertigo so bad his ears ring.

He has to stop in his tracks, clinging onto the chain-link fence with one hand. He lets his head hang low until the dizziness passes. Breathes slowly.

At first he thinks the faint thudding noise is just an after-effect, but then he glances up to see Dustin scrambling onto the trailer roof.

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks blankly. “We’re not going up there until—”

He breaks off at the look Dustin gives him over his shoulder—eyes bright with a frenzied determination.

“We’ve gotta block the vents,” Dustin says.

There’s something… off with his voice, Eddie thinks. He can’t put his finger on it.

“Okay,” he says hesitantly. “Good thinking, man.”

He joins Dustin on the roof, just watches him for a couple seconds, perplexed: he’s working so fast.

Too fast.

Eddie’s heart jumps into his throat when Dustin loses his footing; he yanks him back from the edge in a flash, forces out a chuckle, “Woah, hey, take it easy. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Dustin doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s heard.

But he’s holding onto Eddie’s wrist so tightly Eddie swears his bones creak.

The ‘concert’ goes fine—Dustin delivers his countdown with precision, but his eyes always slide to a point that’s just slightly to the left of where Eddie actually is.

What the hell did I do? Eddie thinks.

He can’t come up with an answer.

“One!” Dustin bellows, and they’re off; Eddie makes sure Dustin’s always in front of him, feels like their feet barely touch the ground…

And then they’re inside.

We’ve made it.

Eddie sinks against a wall, breathless. “H-holy shit—”

“Shh!”

Dustin’s standing, one hand up. Listening intently.

The sheer noise of the bats on the roof is awful—scratching, clawing, chattering. Like mice in the walls, but a million times worse.

Eddie suffers through thirty seconds of not talking before it bursts out of him, and maybe it’s tempting fate, but he can’t help it, the panicked urge to voice it is too great, “I think—think everything’s holding. They’re…” He swallows. “They’re not gonna get in.”

Dustin nods faintly.

But there’s a rigidness to him that sets the hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck on end. He looks like a hound on the scent. Ready to bolt.

“Hey, um…” Eddie stands and nods up to the Gate meaningfully. “Think we’ve done all we can, Henderson. We were good decoys, and… uh, no deviations, remember?”

Dustin laughs. It’s a terrible noise; Eddie’s never heard him sound bitter before.

“Oh, now you want to go,” he says with uncharacteristic venom—but Eddie knows all too well how that can mask a deep, unimaginable terror.

Eddie opens his mouth—intending to reassure, to say something, anything—before he realises that above them, it’s all gone quiet.

Dustin comes to the same discovery a millisecond after he does. “What’s…” He trails off and finally looks Eddie right in the eyes.

He sprints to the front door, pulls it open.

Eddie curses. “Are you insane? Get back, shut the—”

But the only thing that comes through the doorway is the chill of The Upside Down.

A rumble of thunder. The bats screech, but it sounds like…

“They’re leaving,” Dustin says numbly. “Why are they leaving?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eddie says, even though he feels sick to his stomach. “That’s not for us to—hey! Dustin, don’t!”

He lunges forward, but he’s not quick enough; Dustin slips right through his fingers, and Eddie watches in horror as he tears across the trailer park, and Eddie follows, of course he does, but he’s always a step behind, always too late to help—

The bats grow louder and louder. Lightning illuminates them, a monstrous cloud in the sky: they’re circling up ahead, and it makes Eddie think of vultures and carrion.

And he sees…

Dustin lets out this wail, a painful keen; Eddie feels it reverberate inside his chest, almost as if it comes from him too.

He catches up (too late, too late), and suddenly he is Wayne, pulling a child into his arms, urging brokenly, “Don’t look, don’t look,” even though when told that any kid’s first instinct is to—

“Let me go!” The scream sounds like it’s tearing Dustin’s throat, splitting him in two. A grief too much to hold. “Let me go, you asshole—Steve! Steve, please.”

“D-Dustin. You can’t help, he’s—” Eddie’s eyes burn. “He’s beyond…”

One solitary chime.

Eddie shudders, almost laughs—because if there was to be a vision designed to torment him, surely it would be this one; God, he’ll take it, he’ll take anything so long as it meant—

But Dustin freezes in his arms, and Eddie knows that he can see the clock, too.

With a gut-wrenching cry, Dustin fights to break away again.

“Don’t,” Eddie repeats, but it’s no use; Dustin hits him right in the jaw.

He falls to the ground, but the pain is nothing to the tug he suddenly feels in the back of his mind; he thinks of when Steve whispered, “He's here. Henderson. That little shit, he's here. He's like… He's in the walls or something. Just listen,” and Eddie could only stare in bewilderment, because some things are just impossible, aren’t they?

Aren’t they?

Eddie pushes himself up with his hands.

Dustin’s not running towards Steve.

He’s running towards the clock.

Until… he isn’t. He just stops, halfway to it. He looks over his shoulder, looks back at Eddie with heartbreaking uncertainty.

“I can—I can do it, right?”

It shouldn’t make sense—it doesn’t make sense, but Eddie inexplicably finds his mouth opening.

As if from somewhere deep within, he says, “Sure you can.” He doesn’t understand where the words are coming from, is just abruptly certain that he believes them with all his heart. “I know you can.”

Dustin takes a deep breath. He nods.

Runs.

Eddie watches him go—he doesn’t look away, not until the world is lit up, a burning white, and he simply can’t do it anymore.