#well (a) i'm p sure it's very obscure

[bibiana112]

Anywho Marina in the top artist position of my recap for at least two years in a row not a surprise in the slightest

[lovebugism]

hi hello "love you on purpose" absolutely devasted me with it's cuteness and i cannot wait for part two!!!! 💗

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

summary: steve can't seem to stay away from the local freaks. he's more surprised to find himself falling for one of them. you have trouble believing that someone like him could want you in the first place. he wants to prove to you that he's not king steve anymore. (18k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, hurt to comfort (sorta), fem!reader TW smut 18+, lots of intimacy and affection and awkwardness, p in v sex, talks of insecurities, reader has an allison reynolds-esque transformation but with a better ending (outfit inspo x, x), probable typos

a/n: welp. here it is. the final part of this 30k+ word fic. it was very fun and very painful to write and i'm very glad it's finally done and out in the world! thanks for all the love on the first part btw reading all the feedback has easily been my favorite part of writing this <3 with that being said, get comfy, get a snack, and enjoy! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

If yearning had a shape, you’re pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you. 

The clumsiest of humans, fresh into her adulthood but still feeling like a child most days. Soaking wet, born yesterday. A caterpillar weaving her cocoon and trying to figure out where she fits in the world. The girl who decides she belongs right next to this big, boisterous, multi-colored butterfly she couldn’t stand a year or more ago.

And Steve Harrington, he was… Well, he was the kind of poem people spend their entire lives trying to write. 

He was the perfect mixture of beauty and warmth, of mystery and obscurity — the line where the pink of a sunset meets the purple of a starry night. He was all of this rolled up into a twenty-something-year-old boy. A fumbling butterfly that’s getting used to his new wings.

Maybe if you were talented enough, you could write the thing yourself. There’s something powerful in knowing that you could compose some dainty requiem so much bigger than yourself. A beautiful thing that would stand the test of time because there would never be anything else like it. 

It wouldn’t be because of you, though. You passed Ms. O’Donnell’s English class by the skin of your teeth, so your writing leaves much to be desired. It would be your muse that would enamor the masses come the next several centuries, because there will never, ever be another Steve Harrington.

At the very core of this poem would read a universal truth: I have fallen in love with his enigmatic being, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Well, you’re trying to deal with them, at least. You’re not having a very easy go at it.

Most of the time, you feel like a thousand bricks have piled on top of you. The jagged edges scrape up your arms and press varying shades of purple into your skin. They crush you underneath their weight, but you don’t try too hard to climb out from under them. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

You feel a little stuck underneath all the feelings you have for Steve. 

You’re not quite sure what to do with them all. They’re too heavy to lift; there’s too much of them to crawl out. It all leaves you feeling a bit trapped. 

It’s a good kind of trapped, though. 

Once the hurt passes, the weight starts to feel like you’re being swaddled in a blanket. Or a cocoon. 

As scared as it makes you, as overwhelmed as you feel, you don’t want this puppy-like adoration to end.

But sometimes, the scrapes sting more than they usually do. The scabs split and start to weep. The faded bruises turn purple again, then to blue and black, and they ache all over. They remind you that girls like you don’t end up with guys like Steve, and the harsh realization turns the comforting weight of being in love into feeling like you’re being buried alive.

Steve is a pretty boy. He’s a rich, prettyboy who wears vintage jeans and drives a new Beemer and has never wanted for anything in his life.

And you’re… whatever the total opposite of that is.

You wear whatever’s cheapest at the thrift store or what Eddie lets you steal from his closet. You drive a rust bucket that belonged to your dad until he lost his license, so the thing practically rotted in the backyard until you got yours. And all you’ve ever done is want for things because you’ve never had anything.

And the one thing you want the most is something you’ve never been able to admit to anyone. Not even Eddie. Not even yourself. 

Screw new clothes or a car fresh off the lot. You don’t want popularity — you don’t even want money (though it certainly wouldn’t hurt). You want so desperately to be loved that it makes your bones ache.

All you want is someone to hold your wrists and kiss your palms, to cradle you when the thunder is too loud and the cracks of lightning make you shake, to be a hiding place where you can keep every secret and be certain it stays safe.

You want someone to smile at you the way Steve smiles at you. You want to feel held the way he makes you feel held — without ever touching you. You want to feel wanted the way he makes you feel wanted.

You want Steve. 

And you’re not sure how long silly love songs will substitute your yearning.

“What do you think about Steve?” you ask Eddie out of the blue.

He was in the middle of a rant about his latest campaign, but you hadn’t heard a single word of it if you’re honest. The butterflies in your stomach were too loud.

The boy sits across the room at his desk, back hunched, while he scribbles ideas into his tattered Dungeons and Dragons composition journal. You’re sprawled out in the middle of his bed like you have been for the past hour, making constellations of Steve’s face from the marks on his ceiling.

“I think he’s an asshole,” Eddie answers without missing a beat.

It makes you roll your eyes. You shouldn’t have expected anything less out of him, really. You toy with the frayed hem of your crop top and rephrase. “Okay, but do you think he likes me?”

“I know he likes you,” he scoffs. “That’s the problem.”

You smile widely to yourself, then purse your lips to the side to keep it hidden. There’s no one looking to see you grinning like an idiot, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like one.

“He wants to take me on a date tonight,” you confess out loud for the first time.

It wasn’t like you to keep something like that from Eddie. Or anything. At all. But you found yourself hiding it like some kind of dark secret. A distant part of you was terrified that it was all in your head, but it’s been three days since Steve asked you now. Which means you’ve spent three days pinching yourself.

You haven’t woken up yet.

“Like, a date date,” you clarify and rise on your elbows to study the boy across the room. 

You feel the need to explain yourself because movie nights and rides around town and hanging out in the break room after closing don’t feel nearly as serious as Steve wining and dining you. It feels much more official now, as though the line between liking someone and like-liking them has been drawn.

“And I’ve never been on a date date before—”

“What about the one time you went out with, uh…” Eddie trails off as he aggressively erases something on his paper. He stills and squints over his shoulder at you. “What was his name? Matt? Marcus?”

“Mason,” you correct and try not to shudder at the memory. “And I left him at the restaurant because he asked me how big my boobs were within the first ten minutes, so he doesn’t count.”

A grin pulls at the boy’s face. He chuckles to himself. “Oh, yeah.”

“And I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about it ‘cause it’s just a dumb date, like… We’ve been alone together a billion times now, you know? It’s just…” you ramble in one breath, then trail off with a huff. You flop back onto the mattress rather dramatically. “Steve Harrington doesn’t date girls like me. He dates girls like Nancy Wheeler. And, as far as I’m concerned, they were a matching made in fucking heaven— I mean, I didn’t know them back then or anything—”

“Obviously,” Eddie murmurs. “That was a train wreck.”

“—But they looked fucking perfect together, Eds!”

The image of them walking the hallways of Hawkins High isn’t hard to picture. You can still see Nancy in her pretty pleated skirt and pink manicured nails and Steve with his stupid hair and brand new Ray-Bans. They owned the school like their parents owned Hawkins — it was practically kismet. 

You try to picture him and you together, and it doesn’t come as effortlessly. 

It’s like trying to wedge pieces from opposites puzzles together; it just doesn’t work. 

And it’s different from anyone Steve’s ever dated. It’s different from anyone you’ve ever dated. People look at him and his pretty girlfriend and gush, “oh, wow, they look good together.” People look at you and a guy with smudged eyeliner and heeled boots and whisper in disgust, “oh god, they deserve each other.”

You won’t get any of the kindness that Steve is used to, only stares from strangers as they try hopelessly to figure out whether or not you’re dating — because surely, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to date someone like you.

“And I don’t wanna…” you waver, trying and failing to put your fears into words. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared.”

Eddie shakes his head to himself. “You don’t need to be scared, okay?” he mumbles, his attention still turned down to his notebook.

“Oh, thanks, Eds. I’m cured,” you monotone.

“I just mean that—” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh and swivels in his chair to face you completely. “Steve’s a douchebag, alright? But he’s a good douchebag.”

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

“He used to be an asshole and everything, but… I don’t know, I guess he turned out to be a pretty good guy— and if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you,” Eddie explains in one breath. The half-hearted threat spills from his mouth,and he goes suddenly soft. “He’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise. I mean, the guy’s practically a fucking teddy bear.”

A smile pulls slow at your lips. 

It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever heard him say about Steve, despite having been friends with him for nearly a year now. The foreign kindness comforts you well enough. If Eddie didn’t think Steve was every bit the good douchebag he says he is, there’s no way he’d let you go anywhere near him.

“Yeah?” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he echoes with a huff, obviously upset about having to admit such a truth. Then he shrugs. “And if he does hurt you, I’ll beat him up. Which, with his track record, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. “Thanks for looking out, Eds.”

He only grumbles in response.

And even though he complains the entire time, he drops you back off at your place and helps you agonize over what to wear. He sits on your bathroom counter to keep you company while you shower, then holds your makeup bag in his lap while you get ready. He only comments once about how differently you’re doing it.

Then the boy lounges on your bed, legs crossed and back propped on the headboard while you rifle through your closet. In true Eddie Munson fashion, he’s got something to say about everything you pick out.

Your white sweater is too tight, he tells you, and the fuzzy texture feels too weird. The plaid skirt you pull from the depths of your closet is too “christmas-y” and “totally not your color.” He tells you he likes your boots better as he helps you with the finicky buckle of your Mary Janes, then snaps the band of your knee-highs when he stands again.

Eddie tells you all of this because it’s easier to tease you than to say what he really thinks — that it feels like you’re in high school again and trying out styles that don’t suit you.

He loved you the way you were, in black and leather and silver chains and fishnets, because he knew that’s what you felt good in. You found your identity in your unconventional style and you sparkled in it.

And you were still pretty like this, dressed in brighter colors and looking like the girls that used to bully you in high school, but it’s so obviously not you. More than anything, it irks him that you’re doing all of this for Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

But Eddie knows that you’re nervous — he can tell by the way you’re talking a thousand miles a minute and checking your appearance in the mirror every couple seconds like something might’ve changed. He also knows that you’re still skeptical about this whole thing. Because you have no idea that Steve looks at you like the whole world could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

You don’t know that you have nothing to worry about.

So Eddie figures he’ll wait to make fun of you. Save all his teasing remarks for when you’re gushing about the date the next day.

But you’re already aware of all this — how different you look. You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ve traded in your shades of black for something brighter. Your blowsy hair is clipped back out of your face. Your makeup is more conventional and modest than you’re used to.

You look less like the freak you usually are and more like a wild thing that’s been tamed.

You feel pretty. 

Or, at the very least, the idea that Steve will think you’re pretty makes you feel pretty.

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it. 

You stand in front of the full-length mirror and tug the scratchy socks up and over your knee when they start to slip down. You rise once more, giving yourself another once over, then nod in approval — pleased with the costume you’ve put on.

A fleeting through with a mean, green, bleeding heart and a mind of its own scratches bitterly at the confines of your skull.

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

Steve, riddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy, overcooks the chicken and spritzes too much cologne on himself.

He had always been the kind of boy that loved things a little harder than he should’ve. 

Ask any plant he’s ever owned that he accidentally killed with every leaf he overwatered, frightened that anything less would be neglectful. He was always so scared of them dying that he suffocated them until they wilted anyway.

He thought he might’ve grown out of all that until he realized he did the same thing with Nancy. 

He squeezed her too tight and she squirmed at his smothering, called him bullshit and pushed him away so she could breathe again, then stomped on his heart until she was certain it stopped beating for her.

And therein lies the state of limbo Steve Harrington has lived in all his life — between loving something too much and not enough. He hasn’t yet found that balance that stops plants from dying and people from running away.

He isn’t quite sure how to be anything other than the man he is now. 

His conscious clings to your every move. He thinks about when he’s awake, and when he isn’t, he hopes he’ll be lucky enough to dream about you. He bothers you at work all day, then asks if you want to go for a ride when you’re off because he hates being away from you. The nights get too cold when you stray too far. And even though he’s never been much of a chef, he offers to cook for you because he wants to show you he cares enough to try.

Steve’s the kind of guy that overcooks his chicken because he’s terrified that you’ll get sick if it’s not done enough. He’s the kind of guy that douses himself in cologne, then breaks the bottle because he’s terrified of not smelling good enough. He wants everything to be enough for you. 

Steve Harrington, for once in his life, wants to be enough for somebody. 

But now all he is, is a stupid boy that never learns, who smells like he’s trying to overcompensate for being a terrible, terrible chef. 

When Nancy broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be this person again. Steve was scared he’d become someone he didn’t recognize — someone who didn’t care enough to water plants because, hey, they’re gonna die anyway, right? Because he gave and gave and gave, and had nothing to show for it but a stupid wilting flower.

Steve made a dark room of his broken heart. A boogeyman lived there, too. It made him scared that he’d never be able to love someone like he loved Nancy.

But then you came out of nowhere — this beautiful, loud, and mysterious thing that exudes every color of the rainbow when she laughs, despite her blacker-than-black wardrobe. You smile at him like you’ve never been hurt, like a sun that’s never known the night. It makes him feel like he can be that too.

The two of you seek a similar solace in one another. You fill each other’s voids without effort and without trying, like puzzle pieces or halves of an orange.

Steve met you and he realized that he didn’t get his ability to love from Nancy. He had always been a lover, a boy who could love something deeply, and that didn’t go away when she broke his heart.

And sometimes it was awful. It was painful and frightening more than it was anything else — love. It was doubtful and envious and distant. 

Love makes you selfish and creepy and uncharacteristically overbearing. Love makes you worry about your hair and overcook your chicken and drench yourself in cologne. Love takes a hell of a lot of hope, and that’s what he feels like when he’s with you — hopeful. Like he’s never been hurt before.

A surge of optimism and apprehension hits him like a bolt of purple lightning just behind his ribcage when the doorbell rings. Mostly because he knows you’re waiting on the other side of it. His hands shake when he opens the door, but not because he’s scared. He’s just full of hope and buzzing with its foreign intensity.

Steve finds the rest of his life standing on his front porch, dressed in all the trappings of his past.

You’re smiling wide when you see him, the same whizzing ball of hope that he is now, and clutching a bottle of wine. You’ve traded your usual grocery store alcohol for something bottom shelf from an actual liquor store. The sunshine grin you’re wearing is about the only thing familiar about you now.

With your hair pulled back, brows combed neatly to match the pretty makeup you’ve spotted gingerly on your features, dressed in foreign colors with knee-high socks and kitten heels — you look nothing like yourself. It’s a costume you’ve got on, still so pretty but pretending in some way.

It has Steve startled for a moment, thinking Halloween came a whole six months earlier and he never got the memo. Then he realizes you must’ve gotten all dressed up for him, even though you never had to. Just like he didn’t have to try and play chef to impress you.

Both of you are just stupid idiots who care too much, making it painfully obvious despite your best efforts to keep it hidden.

“Hi,” you grin sheepishly through a foreign, pale pink, and glossy mouth.

Steve’s too busy gaping at you to respond in a timely fashion.

The wind billows through your hair and sends strands of it flying in your face. And even though he can’t remember a time when you’ve ever worried about the wild halo on your head, you’re quick to tuck them back into place again. 

With most of it pulled back and combed with obvious intent, your face is left unhidden. Your neck and shoulders and collarbones are too. And you’ve got on this tight sweater and pretty skirt and tall socks that make your legs look longer. All of your usually concealed features are heightened. 

The dainty swipes of mascara, eyeshadow, and blush only accentuate them further, though your spots are attentively covered with foundation that isn’t exactly your shade. It’s a bit lighter than your skin tone, like you’d gotten it some time ago when you were still a bit paler.

You look less like the loud, plucky girl he’s come to know and someone more timid, delicate, and polished.

You’re so pretty he damn near forgets how to speak. His tongue swells and every word he could use loses meaning at the sight of you. But it isn’t you, and that only confounds him further.

It’s like you’ve covered yourself in body paint. The real version of you is hidden somewhere underneath it all, glimmering somehow more golden than the flaxen you’re playing pretend in.

When Steve realizes he hasn’t yet answered you, it feels like it’s been ten minutes or more. In reality, no longer than five seconds have gone by.

“Hey,” he greets finally, in an exhale that gets caught in his throat halfway through. He clears it and smiles shakily. “Hi.”

He steps to the side of the doorway and ushers you inside. He wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks when he thinks you aren’t looking, but you catch him in the act when you turn to face him again. Your grin widens and you trap it between your teeth.

“Smells good in here,” you compliment, walking slowly backward with your hands clasped behind your back.

“Thanks,” he accepts your flattery with an awkward hand on his neck. “Yeah, uh— I kinda burnt the chicken a little bit, but everything else should be good. At least, I hope it’s good. It’s kinda hard to mess up a salad, right?”

He laughs under his breath, then starts to ramble without realizing it.

“I’m not the best cook, as it turns out. I mean, I thought I could at least fake it, you know? Fake it ’til you make it, or whatever that bullshit saying is — but there is no faking the tornado I just had in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve made a bigger mess in my life. But, uh, yeah… And don’t worry! I didn’t put tomatoes in the pasta. Or the salad. Or the sauce. I know you don’t think them, so…”

You’re in the middle of beaming and trying very hard not to laugh when he hits you with that one. 

Steve, like you, is having a very hard time shutting up just now. He’s in the same web of nervousness that you’re spun up in too. He’s all tangled and trying to weave words that make sense, though everything things his mouth in half-thoughts.

But then he says something so strangely profound out of nowhere, and it makes your pounding heart stop without warning. He’s just talking about fucking tomatoes, but you understand that — in some weird, roundabout way — that it’s much deeper than that.

You’d told him the mundane little detail in passing some time ago. At the diner, when you picked the fruit from your burger with a grimace on your face. You said it tasted like battery acid and tainted everything it touched. He took it back to the counter when you weren’t brave enough to. 

“Here you go, Punchy. Your battery-acid-free burger,” he’d joked when he set the fresh plate in front of you.

And he remembered all that. He tucked that tiny piece of information about you into the very back of his mind so that he could use it to make you happy later on.

That’s adoration at its core, you figure. Somewhere in all those minuscule remember-ings.

“You remembered that?” you wonder aloud in a bemused sort of whisper.

Steve has already moved on. He’s rambling about the broken spout of his cologne bottle but stops the second he realizes he’s doing it.

Of course, I did, scoffs the little voice in his head. I’m sorta obsessed with you, as it turns out.

He doesn’t tell you that, though, for reasons he finds are quite obvious — the most significant of which would be running you off entirely. So instead, he just shrugs and tries to be cool, despite having already established how terribly uncool he is.

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

When the two of you settle at the dining table, Steve realizes he’s eaten most of his dinners alone until now.

His parents stopped caring sometime around middle school. His dad got too busy with work, started staying after-hours to catch up on paperwork or screw his secretary. And his mom didn’t care because she was too busy getting wine-drunk on the phone with whatever book club friend that was just as miserable as she was. 

Steve would fork at his cold pad thai while he listened to his mother’s muffled rant about who went where and who wore a hat.

He couldn’t find it in himself to eat in his room. The empty dinner table was the only sort of stable routine he had in the swirling uncertainty of being a teenage boy.

But now he’s got you. 

He hopes he never stops having you. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone like that again, not after he’s found someone that can fill an entire room with their laugh.

The cackle you let out at Steve’s terrible, terrible cheese pun — “yeah, I guess you could say I cooked this all on my provol-own — echoes through the dining room. Even though he knows you’re laughing at him and not exactly with him, he figures it’s a small price to pay to keep hearing such a heavenly sound.

It reminds him of the real you, the one underneath all the foreign regalia. 

The rays of your usual sunshine peek from the clouds you hide behind. You’re way too bright to stay hidden.

Steve can tell you’re watching his every move. You eye him from across the table with the intent of doing everything he’s doing, lest you might do something wrong. He puts his napkin in his lap, so you put your napkin your lap. He cuts his chicken with his fork and knife, so you cut your chicken with a fork and knife — though you quickly realize you’re not quite as dexterous as he is for all that.

It’s endearing. The kind of cute that makes his heart hurt just a little bit. He hides his smile and happily abandons the conventional things he’d been taught to do. He eats with his fingers and then licks the pads of them, grinning when you giggle and do the same. 

It’s not something he’s used to — grabbing pieces of cut chicken with bare fingers and slurping noodles without having cut them first — especially not when he’s trying to impress a girl. But he can tell the lack of etiquette makes you more comfortable, and that’s all he really cares about.

He offers you another serving once you’ve finished your first. You decline politely with the mutters of “oh, no, I couldn’t,” but he’s seen your appetite. You could down five burgers at the diner and not break a sweat if you’re feeling hungry enough.

It’s one of those little heart-wrenchingly adorable things you do that both shock and enamor him. But, for a reason he can’t name, you’ve decided that part of yourself was too deplorable to add to your costume.

Steve only scoffs at you in response. He scoops more chicken and pasta onto your scrapped-clean plate despite your refusal.

You’re grateful he doesn’t let you get away with your stubbornness. Truth be told, you were still sort of starving.

He’s just grateful you don’t think his mediocre cooking skills total a complete dealbreaker.

Steve tries to fight you when you offer to help him clean up the kitchen. He tells you to make yourself at home on the couch while he tidies up, ushers you to pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record while you wait for him. 

But you have issues with authority and take little fondness in being told what to do. So, in true Punchy fashion, you do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

You roll up the sleeves of your pretty sweater and stand next to him at the deeply set sink in his kitchen island. “You wash, I’ll dry?” you offer.

He doesn’t argue, only nods. 

He’ll let you take the blame for not wanting to be too far away from him. It’s easier than admitting his own guilt in the matter. ‘Cause sometimes his heart breaks when he blinks and he has to miss you for the faintest fraction of a second. 

“You seriously don’t have to, you know—”

“Stop saying that,” you scold and snatch the dripping plate from his hands. You swipe a towel over the ceramic with a meticulous ease. “I actually like doing dishes, okay? I do them at all time. I’m practically a professional at this point.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shooting you a grin as he dunks his hand into the warm, sudsy water.

You love that stupid smile so much you’ve started to hate it. 

It’s soft and so sincere, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. The gentle grin drips with so much honey you can practically taste it. It’s so tender it makes you feel unworthy, so full of love it fills you with a distant rage that he might’ve looked at someone else with it.

You have to duck away from his gaze before he can catch you blushing. 

“Yeah. That’s, like, my one chore when I’m over at Eddie’s,” you respond with a shrug. “Because, you know, Wayne’s always working and Eddie’s… Eddie, and he really shouldn’t be trusted with anything remotely sharp or breakable, so…”

“What about when you’re home?” he wonders, simply for the sake of keeping the conversation going, but noting how the mention of home makes you tense.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, considering every time I go back, it looks like there’s been a tornado, doing dishes is just one part of the shit pile that I need to clean up, you know? My parents are usually on some bender — or still passed out from said bender — to take care of the place while I’m gone.”

Steve sees how distracted you’ve gotten as you keep wiping down a bone-dry plate.

“But, uh, anyway. Point is, I think I’m destined to have a career as a professional dishwasher.”

When your gaze flits back to Steve’s, he forces a smile at you.

He’s noticed how you always seem to talk about your best friend and his uncle without ever mentioning your parents. He understands now that it’s because they weren’t your family, not like Eddie and Wayne were. The small Munson clan was your home, it seems, and he fights to steer you back that way.

“So, you stay with them most of the time, then?” he redirects innocently as he hands you a freshly washed wine glass.

“Yeah. I think I’m pretty much Eddie’s personal caretaker these days.”

“Wow,” he marvels playfully, wide-eyed and grinning. “On top of being a professional dishwasher? You’re really doin’ it all, aren’t ya, Punchy?”

“Mm-hmm. I am a real jack of all trades, Harrington,” you joke back with a commendable finesse and flash a teasing smile up at him. The pastel-colored lipstick has mostly disappeared from your mouth now. You look more like yourself.

“And Eddie— he’s got this crazy scar on his hand from when he was a kid, and he was helping Wayne wash the dishes. He, like, blindly reached into the water or something and stabbed himself. Knife went straight through his palm.”

Steve winces.

“Yep. Now he says he’s too traumatized to help do the chores,” you reminisce with a distant laugh and set the glass upside down on the drying rack. “I don’t mind, though. I like doing them on my own. Gives me time to think, you know?”

“I’m standing right here,” the boy beside you scoffs, feigning offense.

“You can be the exception, Stevie,” you assure with a grin.

Maybe it’s the look you give him. Maybe it’s the nickname he used to hate, but now makes his heart skip a beat or two — or three. Maybe it’s all those things and the way your fingers brush his wrist when you move to take the pot from his hands. Either way, something shifts and he forgets how to use his fine motor skills.

The pan slips from his fumbling hands and yours and plops back into the water. The metal bangs loudly when it hits the bottom of the sink. Both of you jump back to avoid the splash.

“Shit. Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes scanning your form to make sure he didn’t make a total mess of you.

“It’s okay,” you promise with a gentle laugh and swipe the towel in your hand over your sweater to remove the droplets clinging there.

Steve scrunches his nose. “I feel like I might’ve just ruined my co-dishwashing privileges.”

“Just a little,” you quip.

You give him no warning before bringing the waffle-patterned nettle up to his cheek to dry him off, too. He flinches at the suddenness of the action but melts into your touch without thinking twice.

“You know, you have a pretty cool scar, too,” you tell him, mostly out of the blue, while you dab at the stubble on his jaw.

Steve’s gotten used to all your abrupt mannerisms and the way you flip-flop between topics with an expertise only you seem to possess. He likes that about you, though. There’s never a quiet or still moment when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he hums back.

You nod and move down to his neck. “I felt it a while ago, during our Night of the Living Dead marathon—” of which Steve has no recollection. He can’t remember a damn thing from those movies, but can still feel the tingle of your mouth against his own. 

“—On the back of your head. Felt pretty gnarly.”

You switch the towel to your other hand and use your free one to swipe through his hair. Your fingers muss at his hour or more of hard work, but your touch is a far better reward than nearly quaffed hair. You weave through the chocolate strands until you reach a marred, barren line.

“Right… there.”

Steve, still buzzing with your touch, manages a breathy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. It’s a… It’s a really long, really stupid story.”

“Wanna give me the short version?”

The grin you give him is impossible to say no to.

“I’m a super klutz,” he summarizes with a shrug and a sloppy grin. 

He mourns the loss of your touch when your hand slips from his hair. “Well, now I have to hear the story.”

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

“I like dumb,” you assure quickly to stop whatever self-loathing he was about to spew. “I’m best friends with Eddie Munson. I think I can take it.”

“Touché,” he chuckles under his breath. The remaining dishes are left forgotten in the depths of the soapy water when he turns his back to him. He leans his weight on the countertop and grips the edges of it in his hands. “You see, I did this really smart thing when I was a baby where I’d, you know, crawl backwards—”

“Crawl backwards?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah. I’d push with my hands — beep, beep, beep,” he flattens his palms and presses them against thin air to demonstrate it for you. “Always in reverse. I mean, it makes sense, right? You gotta push to move.”

“Sure,” you shrug. A laugh tumbles from your mouth shortly after.

“Did that until I reversed my way down a flight of stairs and hit my head pretty damn good,” he concludes with a wince. It’s like he can still feel the pain sometimes.

“Wow,” you marvel. “So, like… When people ask if you were dropped on your head as a kid, the answer would be—”

“Yep…” he sighs, then laughs when it makes you laugh. He looks over at you with sparkling cinnamon eyes. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think, like, right out of the gate, I’m super confident, you know? But I’m also a total idiot, which is just a brutal combination.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” you confess with a gentle sort of smile.

“Yeah?” he winces.

“Yeah. You do this thing sometimes where you get all… suave and cool,” you tell him, squinting and lowering your voice a few octaves for effect. “Like you’re trying to be King Steve all over again. And then you, like, trip over a stack of DVDs or something because the universe is trying to humble you.”

“That is a… really good way of putting it, actually,” Steve confesses with a laugh.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, the good thing is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. So, I guess I’m pretty glad somebody bumped my head before we met. ‘Cause things probably would’ve turned out… a whole lot differently.”

Steve watches your face contort from understanding to confusion. Your manicured brows pinch together and your doe eyes squint over at him. He watches you break down his words in real time. 

“Somebody…” you murmur under your breath. “You mean… Are you talking about Nancy?”

“Yeah, uh… She gave me a— a pretty big thump, you know? Worse than the one I got falling down those stupid stairs,” he tells you with a reminiscent smile. 

It makes you feel like a total idiot, standing in front of him like this — a carbon copy of the girl that tore his heart to shreds.

“I deserved it, though. I mean, you knew me back then, I was a… a total asshole. And sometimes, I think I still would be if she didn’t, you know… if she didn’t… totally rip my fucking heart out,” he concludes with a sad sort of laugh. “Now I’m kinda grateful she did. As bad as it hurt — as angry as it made me — I think, in a lotta ways, it made me better.”

“Better?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah… If she didn’t break up with me when she did — if I didn’t get that dumb thump on my head — I wouldn’t have changed. I wouldn’t be… here right now. With you,” he confesses, revealing more of himself than he ever has before, to a girl he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a couple of years ago.

He looks beside him at this costumed girl — at you — and he sees someone he probably would’ve given the time of day back in high school. The lack of dark, baggy clothing makes you look approachable — like you won’t actually bite him for coming near you like the rumors always said.

And Steve’s self-aware enough to know he probably would’ve treated you like shit back then. He would’ve fucked you just to fuck you, then only talk to you when he needed you to do his homework for him. And you wouldn’t have been the first girl he did that to either, and the thought makes him want to puke.

He’s glad he’s found you when he did. He’s even happier you met him where he was at, in that awkward in-between stage of growing up where you’re trying to be someone different while still finding comfort in staying the same. You never complained even once when he reverted back to his old ways.

And even though you’re standing right next to him, your chest nearly brushing his arm with every heavy breath you take, he finds himself missing you. 

You’re not you — not without the fun outfits and the crazy hair and all your rings that clink together every time you move. He misses how the metal felt against his skin and the way they’d get caught in his hair.

You’re still beautiful like this, but it’s a strange type of beauty. One that both of you know doesn’t belong to you. You fit into it like baggy jeans or a too tight shirt. You’ve squeezed yourself into a ball to try to fit into a world far too small for you, because you thought that’s what Steve wanted.

“I’d still be that King Steve douchebag… Partying every night, getting drunk out of my mind, never settling down like I…” The words get trapped in his throat. He clears it to force them out. “Like I always wanted to, you know?”

“Right,” you murmur, voice not strong enough to be any louder than that.

“So, yeah, I don’t know. I guess, in some weird, roundabout way, I’m just to tell you that I’m not that guy anymore. King Steve,” he admits and presses his hip into the counter to face you fully.

When you gather the strength to look up at him, you find his gaze already dripping with honey and staring down at you. He’s all soft and mushy and twinkling with the adoration he’s got for you. And when he smiles, it’s so terribly sincere and coated with a distant sadness that’s been playing on the edge of his voice this whole time.

“And I know you might still see me as that guy. I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t really deserve to be looked at any differently, not after how I acted towards you—”

“Steve,” you breathe out in a tender sigh. “It’s okay—”

He shakes his head to himself. His eyes squeeze shut when his chin falls to his chest.

“It’s not. It’s… It’s really not. I just—” he inhales sharply, chest deflating on the exhale when his gaze turns back to you. He looks sterner now, but still so tender. “I just want you to know that I’ve changed, okay? I am changing. And I don’t want you to think I’m the kinda guy you have to change yourself for.”

When the weight of his words finally hits you, it feels a bit like being punched in the stomach.

It knocks all the wind out of you and makes it hard to think about anything other than the sudden loss of breath. Like a kid who’s fallen off the monkey bars and flat onto their back, you can’t do anything but writhe through the ache and hope you’ll be back to normal soon.

You got dressed that evening thinking you were the master of deception. You perfected your subterfuge and awaited Steve’s inevitable swooning because you looked like all the other girls he’d fallen in love with. 

But he sees through every inch of your pretending with his secret x-ray powers, and now you’re just a stupid girl standing in front of him, soaking wet with embarrassment.

It’s a little like when he and Tommy and all his basketball goons would make fun of you. They’d talk about you like you weren’t there while they tossed tiny crumbled up pieces of paper into your hair so they could watch you struggle to get them out. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because now he’s apologizing, and telling you that he likes you, and that you never had to change a single damn thing for him at all.

You’re equally as self-conscious, though, and feeling like a total idiot for thinking you could even pretend to be halfway normal.

“Oh…” is the only thing that leaves your mouth in that moment. Your mind is still going a million miles a minute. You want to blurt out an apology and an explanation all at once, while simultaneously turning into a puddle at his feet and disappearing entirely.

But rather than break down, you stay standing. Too stuck in your head to feel all there.

Steve seems to notice your trepidation almost immediately. His eyes widen and his brows raise and his pretty mouth falls open to let all of his reassurances spill out. 

“And it’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty! You’re— You’re perfect like this too, but I just…” he inhales and takes the tiniest step closer to you, putting an unsure hand on your waist. “I like you the way you were before. And this isn’t… This isn’t you.”

You blink back stinging tears and turn your gaze to where you toe your Mary Jane’s into the kitchen tile. You go to twist your rings like you always did when you were nervous before realizing you’d left them all at home.

“I just wanted to be like the girls you like,” you confess quietly.

“You are like the girls I like,” Steve corrects with a gentle laugh. “‘Cause I like you.”

Your eyes are all glassy when they flit back up to his. 

Even though you don’t look quite like yourself, the way you look at him hasn’t changed. You still gaze at him like you can see right through the nice hair and the dumb smirks and the stupid persona he puts on when he doesn’t feel good enough the way he is. You look at him like you’re in love with the boy he tries like hell to keep hidden.

The exact same way he looks at you.

“I think I just got a little spooked. Girls like me aren’t supposed to end up with guys like you.”

“I stopped believing in that shit a long time ago,” he admits with the shake of his head. “The whole soulmates-love-at-first-sight thing, it’s all… bullshit. If I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna do it on purpose.”

Steve watches the lingering sadness in your eyes ebb to something sunnier. Your gaze sparkles and suddenly you’re beaming at him, not bothering to conceal the effect his words have on you. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

“I like that,” you murmur in approval, then more loudly proclaim: “Screw soulmates! Let’s start loving people on purpose!”

The two of you laugh about this promise you’ve just made to each other without really saying it to each other. It sort of goes unsaid — if I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna do it on purpose and let’s love each other on purpose. That’s what you mean, and neither of you has to say it out loud because you get it. 

It’s that exact realization that makes Steve’s heart flutter something fierce. Suddenly, the urge to touch you becomes too great to bear. He wants to feel you like he did on the couch of his theater room, when a film he could barely recall crackled in the background because the feel of you was too loud for him to hear anything else.

He needs you like that again, on him and all over him. The ache is a palpable one.

The boy squeezes your waist again, as though to remind you he was still there. Or, perhaps, to remind himself that you were still there —the real thing and not something his brain conjured up.

“It’s not totally insane how bad I want to kiss you right now, is it?” he wonders quietly to you. The low, sultry nature of his voice is not at all forced like it usually is when he’s trying most desperately to flirt with you. His words are just naturally weighed down by his desire for you.

You shake your head in a silent promise, then command through a grin, “Kiss me stupid, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

He’s been anxiously awaiting his chance to touch you all night. He does so now with a vigor that makes you feel all of that anticipation. With one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jaw, you can feel his buzzing skin as it presses against your own — like the static of a television screen. His fingers settle between the strands of your hair while his thumb absentmindedly rubs along your cheekbone. 

The softness of his touch makes you hum against his mouth.

His lips are familiar like home — more than, because sometimes you think you’ve never really had one. 

There’s never been a cozy, warm, and tender place where you could rest your tired bones. Eddie’s trailer, maybe, but it wasn’t yours. No matter how often you slept within the four walls of his bedroom, no matter how hard you pretended like you’d lived there all your life, it would never belong to you.

But Steve could. 

Steve could be yours.

And you wouldn’t even have to pretend either. It would be for real this time.

His mouth was welcoming and pleasant and gentle, far more than you’ve ever gotten out of four walls and a roof. The plush pink of his lips — the cushion of his bottom one you like to dig your teeth into and the rough pad of his tongue that explores your mouth like undiscovered territory — is perhaps the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Even when he kisses you harder and guides you until your back is pressed against the edge of the countertop, it’s still so, so tender.

Steve’s hands migrate to your hips. His fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt as he cages you against his weight and the counter, as though out of fear you might slip away.

Your touch mirrors his desperate one. You cling to him with a similar intensity, balling the fabric of his navy blue Henley in one hand while you waltz through the pretty strands of his neatly styled hair with the other. You let him kiss you the way he wants to kiss you, keeping your obedient mouth plaint for him while he opens your mouth wider with his tongue.

His touches turn bruising, and yours go soft like summer rain.

Steve holds desperately onto you, like any moment he could wake up and none of this could be real. He kisses you like he won’t ever get to kiss you again, having no idea that you’ve already started to build a home in him. 

Meanwhile, your fingers tips trail like drops of water down his chest and stomach. They settle at his waist, on the top of his belt, and linger along the leather edge of it. You’re not quite sure what to do next — if you should wait for Steve to say something or if you should go ahead and take the lead.

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

Steve’s lips click wetly as they part from yours. He peers down at you through heavy lids, amber eyes swimming with honeyed desire. His lips are pinker now, and swollen from being kissed so ardently. His brows pinch in concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t w—”

You barely let him get the words out before you press your mouth to his again. Your hands twist at the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to you. You stand on the tips of your toes to meet him halfway. 

“I want to,” you mumble, practically slurring from being so drunk on his touch.

“I wanna treat you right—” he tries to tell you. Some of his words are muffled against your mouth because you find yourself totally unable to stop kissing him now. “—Take things slow with you.” 

You smack a final kiss to his lips. When his honey eyes flutter open again, he finds you wearing a mischievous sort of smirk. There’s an accompanying teasing glint in your glazed over eyes.

“You can do all that when you’re inside of me,” you promise lowly, bold in a way neither of you are used to. The brazen nature of your dirty words is foreign but no less exciting.

They make Steve’s head get all swimmy and his cock tightens as it stiffens in his slacks. His spine tingles with his borderline overwhelming desire for you.

“Have mercy…” he murmurs within a heavy breath, more to himself than to you.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

It’s a questionable blue and gray plaid that you doubt he picked out himself. The framed pictures of sports cars only add to the boyish flair of his bedroom. It doesn’t look like him, though. None of it does.

The only real trace of Steve The Hair Harrington is the poster of Christie Brinkley hanging beside his window, diligently placed right next to his bed. It’s a blown-up Sports Illustrated cover — a beautiful, soaking wet woman posing less than effortlessly against a palm tree in all her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfected-bodied glory. It’s the most King Steve you’ve ever seen.

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

He grumbles in annoyance at your teasing as he clicks his door shut behind you.

“Well, you can thank my mom for my great taste, okay? She decorated the place when we moved in, like, forever ago. I just haven’t, you know, gotten around to changing it yet.”

“I can tell,” you laugh and turn to him with a smirk. “Really cool bedsheets, by the way. I mean, seriously. This is state-of-the-art design here, Stevie.”

It isn’t until he’s being pelted with your relentless teasing that he remembers he’s got dinosaur-patterned linens spread out on his mattress.

Steve typically likes to alternate bedsheets in between washing them. His plain gray ones would’ve perhaps been more appropriate for times like this, but they were in his hamper along with another set of plaid ones. His dino sheets may be immature, but they’re no less comfortable. It’s not his fault they just happened to fall on the week you were coming over.

“Alright, Punchy—” The boy rolls his eyes and splays two wide hands on your sides, pressing himself into you rather shamelessly. You wonder if the clothed stiffness against your lower stomach is just your imagination. Any other teasing remarks dissipate from the tip of your tongue as your eyes widen.

Steve notices your silence and smiles. “—You wanna keep making fun of me, or do you wanna make out some more?”

“I think we can do both,” you answer with a shrug, resting your hands along his waist. “I’m quite the multitasker, Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

He smashes his lips into yours again. You meet him halfway. It’s all too easy to fall back into the swings of things — the desperate mouths and longing touches. Maybe because you’re always desperate and longing for him. And, with the way he’s clinging to you now, you figure he must always be those things for you, too.

You relish in all of his little touches, in the duality of them. He cups your jaw so tenderly yet clutches your hip like he’s still trying to discern whether you’re real or not. Then his palms slide around your waist and up your back until he’s all but hugging you. It’s too sweet a gesture for how he’s prying your lips open with his mouth to slip his tongue inside. 

His hands settle, finally, at the very bottom of your sweater. They linger at them hem, not pressuring you to do anything, just waiting for you to make a move. 

You part from him to abide by his unspoken want. Your trembling hands work together to free you from your top. You’re more than grateful to pry the itchy thing off of you.

Steve doesn’t get the chance to admire the bra you wear. He catches a glimpse of frilly lace, but there’s little time to praise your topless form before you’re pulling him into another searing kiss. It’s full of tongue and teeth now, far more hungry that just moments ago. Your fingers slither through his hair and curl in the strands. You keep him firmly locked against you as his lips trail down your neck.

He finds your most sensitive spot in record time — the one just under your jaw, right beside your racing pulse. Your legs nearly give out when his tongue runs over it. A breathy moan exhales from your mouth before you can stop it and you feel him smile against your neck. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps kissing you there in the hopes that you’ll do it for him again.

You do.

Steve sucks and nips at your delicate skin, and you revel in the feeling of his mouth. Head thrown back, you let him paint your neck in varying shades of red. Some will disappear come morning; others will darken into souvenirs for you to admire for the next few days.

The thought of him marking you drives you nearly as crazy as the feeling of his lips against you. 

You stopped trying to hold back your whines somewhere around ten of them ago. It was easier, you found, for him to kiss you and to let yourself enjoy it than be hyperaware of all the sounds you were or weren’t making. Steve seems to like it when you moan for him, anyway. Every time you do, he kisses you harder, holds you tighter, and hums out his own subtle moans against you.

He digs his teeth into your skin. It makes you whimper. The desperate, high-pitched noise fades into a lower moan when the rough pad of his tongue rushes out to soothe the bite. He moves on to kiss you elsewhere. You shiver when your spit-slicked skin meets the cool air.

You don’t notice that you’ve hitched your leg up his hip until you feel his warm hand on your thigh to hold it up for you. His fingers inch up until the tips of them rest beneath the hem of your skirt.

You don’t bother to hide how much you want him.

He doesn’t bother to hide how badly he needs you close.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into your neck, smiling when his words make you whine. “Can I make you feel good?”

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

He parts from you for the first time in several minutes. His heavy gaze meets your own. “Can you say it for me?” he asks, not teasing you, just wanting to make sure you want this. Him.

“Want you to…” you start, then swallow when your voice is tighter than expected. You manage the rest through bated breaths. “…to make me feel good.”

Steve kisses you again, a long and thorough stamp on your lips, followed by several tinier pecks. Then his mouth starts its journey down, down, down your body, stopping only to admire your exposed chest. He’s more than pleased to find that what you’re wearing is hardly a bra at all.

It’s a sheer thing with dainty lace detailing. He figures it’s more for decoration than to push up your breasts. There’s no padding at all. Just a pretty tulle number that leaves very little to the imagination.

You watch him intently with a smile, enamored by how enamored he seems to be by a pair of boobs. You never thought yours were much to ogle over, but Steve presses tender, wet kisses to them anyway. He takes the plush between his teeth, sucking on the delicate skin to leave a blossoming bruise there. He only trails further down when he’s satisfied with the mark he’s branded you with.

Steve falls to his knees with a soft thud upon the carpeted floor. The faint sound is much more obvious in the quiet of his bedroom. He looks somehow prettier below you — soft and delicate and sweet like chocolate syrup or marshmallow fluff. But he’s still got this air about him, something stern and domineering, that tells you he’s still got all the power.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, just above the top of your sock, then several more further up. His fingers raise the fabric of your skirt the higher his lips travel. And, strangely, you’re not all that nervous about being half-naked in front of him. It’s hard to be when he’s kissing you like you’re a beautiful thing that deserves to be touched so tenderly.

Steve keeps pushing up your skirt and stills when he reaches the apex of your thigh, right where the top of it meets the joint of your hip.

Your underwear doesn’t match the bra you’re wearing, he finds. It’s orange all over and spotted with bats — the color has faded slightly, like you’d bought them some number of Halloweens ago.

It’s endearing. Everything about you is endearing. Even when you aren’t trying.

“Hold it up for me, yeah?” he asks you with your skirt in his hands.

It shouldn’t surprise him when you do the exact opposite. You step back from him to shove the thing down your legs, then leave it in a pool of forgotten fabric on his bedroom floor when you gravitate towards him all over again. 

His hands rise to your outer thigh and rub soothingly along the warmed skin. You wonder if he can feel the goosebumps pebbling there. The smirk he flashes up at you tells you that he does.

He’s got a twinkle in his eye when he teases you. “Really cute underwear, by the way.”

“I was obviously very prepared for this,” you retort with ease, making fun of yourself just as effortlessly as you can make fun of him.

“I like them,” the boy assures. “I really like them. Very on brand, Punchy.”

“Would you like me better out of them?”

Your arched brow and knowing smirk, kept caged between your teeth, is met with a bemused gaze. Steve’s eyes go wide at your forwardness.

“Uh, yeah— I mean… yeah,” he nods with a breathless chuckle. Then, more sincerely says, “Only if you still want to.”

You scoff at his timidity, though it’s more at yourself than him. “Look at me, Steve,” you answer plainly, motioning to your half-naked form and the damp spot forming in your underwear. “If I didn’t want this, you’d know by now.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, just before pressing a chaste kiss to the black bow of your panties. He noses at the softness of your stomach while his fingers curl around the hem. He tugs them slowly downward, giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted. 

A part of him is still convinced that none of this is real — you, namely. Truth be told, he’s waiting for a smack to the face and a rant about how all of this was just bullshit.

It never comes, though.

Instead, he gets a sheepish grin and a sparkling gaze as you hold onto his shoulder to step out of your underwear. The giggle that spills from your mouth when he tosses them over his shoulder makes him smile. 

Your pussy is as pretty as the rest of you. It’s more manicured than he imagined for a girl as wild as you. There’s a tuft of hair on your pubic bone, cut down and shaved around the edges. It leaves your lips bare and glistening with your accumulating slick.

Steve’s all but salivating at the sight of you.

“You wanna put that mouth to work, Harrington, or do you wanna ogle some m— oh,” you try to tease him, all amused at how he looks like he’s never seen a naked girl before, knowing full well he’s seen plenty. But your taunts evaporate from your tongue when he finally puts his mouth on you. They ebb into a breathy, high-pitched moan.

The tip of his chiseled nose smushes against you while he licks at the rest of your pussy with a practiced tongue. 

It’s more than obvious he’s done this before. Enough to have become a borderline professional at it. He finds your sensitive button within seconds and with minimal effort. Your legs are already buckling, practically turning to jelly, and he’s only just started. 

He latches onto your lips with a swollen pink mouth. His warm, wide hands wrap around the backs of your thighs to keep you steady and anchored against him.

Steve kisses your cunt like he’s making out with you. He opens and closes his mouth in slow, rhythmic motions, rutting his tongue along your glistening skin all the while. He’s sloppy with intention. Every touch is meticulous. He’s trying to figure you out, trying to learn what you like the most and what makes you moan the loudest for him.

Steve’s attentive. He’s ambitious and ardent. It’s like he enjoys kissing you down there, and not like he’s doing you a favor so he can get something in return. He moans against you like it’s every bit as pleasurable for him, as it is for you.

He alternates his efforts while he discovers you like unexplored territory.

You giggled like it tickled you when he stuck his tongue into your cunt the first time, then moaned when his nose nudged your clit. “Your mouth is so good,” you’d praised through bated breaths, but your whines had gotten too quiet for his liking. He opted to give his tongue a break and latch his slick lips to your swelling clit.

You liked it most when he sucked you there. At least, he figures you must, with the way your mouth parts in a silent cry and your hands dart to his hair to push him further into you.

“You like that?” Steve asks you, just to be sure. He pulls enough away so the words are intelligible, but still close for you to feel the vibrations of them against your skin.

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

Steve barely lets you answer before he’s licking a flat stripe up the length of your pussy. He slows methodically when the tip of his tongue catches your puffy clit, just so he can see your legs tremble. They do, rather intensely so, and he revels in the way your thighs quiver at his temples.

He wishes he’d laid you down before putting his mouth on you. He regrets not getting to spread you open, to part your soft folds with his thumbs, and admire you the way you deserve to be admired. 

But to be under you this way is a reward in itself. To get on his knees for you, to let you grind your hips against his face, it’s heaven. He never wants to stop feeling you this way.

“Please, Steve…” you moan breathlessly. “Please, please, please.”

You plea like it’s a mantra. Your voice grows tighter and tighter the closer you get to your peak. 

Steve’s not entirely what you’re begging for. You’re not either, really. You just know that the pleasure is swelling. The wringing knot in your stomach is close to snapping. The thought alone is borderline overwhelming. You want to run away from the crescendoing feeling and keep it locked against your pussy all at once.

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

“You can take it,” he promises, speaking the words into your cunt. His lips smack when he pulls away from you, just for a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his tongue darts to graze his bottom lip. “It’s yours, baby. Just take it—”

You’re a goner the second he wraps his lips around your clit again. He suckles there like his life depends on it. Your hips twitch and you tug at his hair when you come, perhaps a bit rougher than you realize. Steve delights in the burn at his scalp. He groans shamelessly into you, a hearty grumble that rolls over every inch of your body.

You make the mistake of looking down at him in the midst of your undoing. You bring your chin down to your chest and open your fluttering eyes to peer down at the boy below you. He’s already looking up at you, you find, with his own bleary gaze. His cinnamon eyes glitter up at you and you melt for him.

Something about the sight of Steve on his knees for you, face snug against your cunt, and gaze lidded with desire makes you keen. Your hips flex, then still against his mouth while you gush for him.

“There you go,” he murmurs against your cunt. “There you go, baby.”

A high moan gets hung in your throat at his praise. It escapes in a delicate cry when your orgasm pummels into you full throttle. You’re whining and terribly sensitive when the buzzing feeling starts to ebb.

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe. 

He knows to leave your throbbing clit alone now, but seeks to prolong your pleasure in other ways. He gathers the honey you leak from your pulsating hole with an eager tongue and doesn’t relent until you’re twitching away from him. Only when you’re tugging him off by his hair is he satisfied.

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

He presses little kisses to the burning flesh of your thighs and runs his palms along the backs of them to coax you back to the earth again.

When your cries fade to more contented sighs and your eyes find his again, he smiles sweetly up at you. Too sweetly. He shouldn’t be grinning so tenderly, not when his lips and chin and nose glisten with your slick.

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hands as he rises to his full height in front of you.

“Was that… Was that good for you?” he wonders, suddenly sheepish like he wasn’t lapping at your pussy a minute or more ago.

“Are you kidding?” you retort, trying to laugh at him. All that comes out is a fatigued scoff. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt and you lean heavily against him when his arms wrap around you again. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

That nearly does him in right then.

He leans to press a languid kiss to your mouth. There’s a foreign musk to his tongue now that wasn’t there before. You hum a moan against him when you realize it’s you that you’re tasting.

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes. 

There’s hardly a thing he wants more than to feel your warm mouth on his cock. He’s been hard and aching since the second he got you into his bedroom. And that’s exactly why he knows he won’t last.

He usually jerks off before dates for that exact reason. At least, King Steve did because King Steve knew wherever he was going, he was getting laid. He wouldn’t have the reputation he did if he only lasted eight seconds.

He would’ve gotten himself off before you came around, made sure he was able to last as long as you needed him to if he’d expected you to need him at all. But he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen — especially not for you to come against his mouth and ask to give him a blowjob minutes later. 

He didn’t invite you to dinner in the hopes you’d put out after. Call him old-fashioned, but he enjoys spending innocent time with you. He would’ve been more than happy to cook you dinner and kiss you on the cheek before you left.

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right?” you shrug at his silence. “You deserve to get off too.”

“You don’t have to. Not just because I did it for you—”

“I’ve been hearing about your dick since the tenth grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl in the class of ’85 that hasn’t seen it. The least you can do is let me give you a measly blowjob,” you confess lowly.

Steve, knocked senseless at your words, starts working his belt off without a second thought. His hands fumble with the buckle while he smirks at you. “Yeah? What have you heard?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” you answer vaguely and saunter the short distance to his bed. You plop down on the edge of it and lean your weight on your palms. “Just that you have a monster-sized dick and that Marianne from Soc nearly broke it when you took her virginity.”

“That was a rumor!” he defends as he steps out of his jeans. His shirt goes next. He pulls the thing up and over his head with an admirable sort of finesse, leaving his toned torso and hairy chest on display for you. 

“The monster-sized dick or the Marianne from Soc thing?”

He doesn’t entertain with an answer, just drops his boxers and lets you figure it out for yourself. 

His cock is already hard and glowing a faint strawberry color at the tip with neglect. It curves to his right hip and hangs there, weighed down by its own size. The hair upon his pubic bone rises to meet the happy trail on his lean stomach, trimmed slightly but still a bit wild. Tanned skin, heavy balls, and a singular vein that trails like a river from the base to the head — Steve Harrington’s got the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re gawking at him because you’re too busy trying to figure out how either could be rumors. You’re looking at beast right now, a wild thing that tiny, little Marianne from Soc certainly couldn’t handle. You’re not even entirely sure if you can.

Steve blanches at your hesitation. He sees you retreat into your head and rushes to bring you back. “Hey, we don’t have to… We don’t have to do this if you do want to. We don’t have to do any of this if—”

“I want to,” you assure quickly, eyes widening when you realize how quiet you’d gone. You can imagine how mortifying it must’ve been, for him to get naked in front of you and be met with total silence. “You just… have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

His concern ebbs to a relieved smile. “Well, thanks for stroking my ego, princess.”

“I would love to stroke something else,” you quip with a playful grin that’s far too proud of such a dumb joke.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile. 

He wants it on record, though, that he’s not grinning at your mindless innuendo. It wreaks too much of Eddie. You both seem to possess a similar sort of humor in that way, in how you can make anything into a joke — particularly a dirty one.

“Thanks for stroking my ego,” Steve would say and Munson would joke, “Well, we both know nothing else of yours is getting stroked, Harrington, so it’s the least I can do.” And Eddie would’ve been right. But Steve would never let him know that.

The boy settles in the middle of his bed and watches with a glittering gaze as Eddie’s best friend climbs between his legs. She spits into her palm and starts tugging at his hard cock with it. Steve isn’t sure of what to do — if he should rub it in this boy’s face or keep this piece of heaven to himself. He decides on that latter when your lips wrap around his leaking tip.

You’ll tell Eddie about all this tomorrow. He’s your best friend, after all — Steve will be doing the same with Robin, no doubt. And that alone is a reward in and of itself.

Getting him into your mouth was easy in theory, but you quickly find that it’s a harder feat than you realized. Steve’s not just long, he’s wide, and the combination makes it nearly impossible to take him fully. 

You pay extra attention to his strawberry pink tip to make up for what you can’t reach. He seems to like that more than anything else. Pearly pre-come leaks from there and you happily lap up his dribbling honey. Steve shudders every time your tongue meets his mushroom tip. His cock keeps drooling for you, so you keep doing it.

You work the rest of him with your palm, made slippery with your spit. Your free hand anchors around his thigh.

The combined effort isn’t something Steve’s particularly used to. 

Most girls choose one or the other. They either try to swallow him whole or opt to use their hands when they know that they can’t. That is, if they even want to suck him off at all. The foreign attention you give him drives him to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Hey, we should, uh— we should maybe stop,” he cautions tightly.

You detach from the head of his dick with a soft pop, but keep working him slowly with your palm. Your brows pinch together with concern. “You okay? Is it not… Is it not good?”

“What? No! It’s not— It’s not that. It’s great. That’s the… That’s sorta the problem,” Steve assures with an awkward laugh. “I’m not gonna… I probably won’t last much longer. And if you wanna… you know…”

“Fuck?” you finish for him with a teasing grin.

“Yeah. Then we should, you know, maybe stop now.”

Your hand stills at the base of his cock. Steve can finally breathe without the worry of bursting entirely.

“I mean, we can stop if you want to. You know, no pressure or anything, but… I don’t mind. I was sorta looking forward to you coming in my mouth.”

And how the hell was Steve ever going to say no to that — to you? He’s never denied you of anything before, and with that godawful track record, he wasn’t exactly equipped to start now.

Your mouth wraps around him again. You kitten lick at his tip and moan at the musky taste before sucking at his blushing head.

It feels good — it feels great — but he’s plagued with a lingering worry. 

He wants so desperately to fuck you, more than he needs to breathe, it feels like. But your mouth is too perfect a thing to deprive himself of. He’s scared it’ll take him too long to get hard again, or worse, that he won’t be able to at all. 

The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you, of not making you feel as good as he wants to make you feel, is an unbearable one.

There’s no way he’s stopping you, though. How can he when you’re sucking him off like your life depends on it? Your hand tugs and squeezes at the base of his cock while your tongue laps at his drooling tip. And on top of all that, you moan against him like making him feel good is making you feel good, too.

“Holy shit,” Steve forces through a tightening throat when your tongue dips just below his head to lick where the pale blue vein fades. His neck stretches as he digs the crown of his head into the pillow, revealing all of the pretty tendons you want to sink your teeth into.

“Your mouth is— fuck… Your mouth is fucking perfect, babe, shit.”

All of his little reactions spur you forward. 

You want him to keep praising you. You want to keep making his legs shudder and his hips twitch and his cock jerk in your mouth. So you double your efforts, just to hear more of his pretty whines that get stuck in his throat.

When you duck your head to pay the same amount of attention to his balls, Steve’s a total fucking goner.

His hands, both of which were obediently fisting the bedsheets, immediately dart to your hair when you suck his sack into your mouth. One warm palm cradles your jaw while the other clings to the back of your hand. He doesn’t push you or force you to take him further — he just holds you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts before a groan climbs out from his throat. His head falls back again, but he forces it upright a moment later so he can keep on watching you.

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” he manages through heavy pants. “You want my come?”

You nod with his balls still in your mouth, then pull off of them with a pop to put his cock back in your mouth. 

Steve gives you exactly what you want no more than ten seconds later, spitting several loads of his come onto your tongue. It tastes like what had been leaking from his tip, just a bit saltier and far more potent with so much of it in your mouth at one time.

Steve’s thighs tremble around you and hips buck wildly despite himself until he’s given you everything he can possibly give to you. 

He allows himself only a few moments to relish in the aftermath of his swirling pleasure before reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside table. He rises to his elbows to hand you the napkin when his dick slips from your mouth. 

“Here, you can—” he says, trying to offer you something to spit into. It’s a habit he’d developed after the tenth or so girl refused to swallow.

You’ve already wolfed down his come, though, and wiped the excess at the corners of your mouth with the tips of your fingers. You don’t let a single drop of him go to waste.

All this time, Steve assumed he just tasted bad. He figured that must’ve been why no girl ever swallowed for him — not even Nancy, the only other girl he was ever really serious about. And they were together for two years. On the off chance she ever actually wanted to give him a blowjob, he knew her swallowing his come was totally out of the question.

Steve never minded, though. He was a giver more than he was anything else and he preferred most to finish inside. But now, with you, he sees just how much he’d missed out on. It feels a bit strange and unearthly levels of gratifying.

The boy breathes out a laugh and falls back against the mattress. The tissue falls from his limp hand onto the carpeted floor as he revels in his post-orgasmic haze. With his head still swimming and his legs still tingling, his glassy eyes find the speckled ceiling above him but don’t focus on anything in particular.

“Was that—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interjects softly. 

There’s no use in asking if you were good or not. Surely, you could answer the question just by looking at him. He’s a puddle of a man in the middle of his bed, pliant and at your mercy.

You giggle and slither in beside him, pressing your mostly bare body into his side. One leg wraps over his own. The warmth of your slick pussy lingers at his hip. You prop your head up with your fist while your other settles along his chest, busying itself with the tufts of hair there.

“That was, like, really good,” you praise with a sheepish beam. You wish you knew bigger words that might be able to describe it better. Really good doesn’t come close to explaining how heavenly it felt to come in his mouth, for him to come in yours. “You certainly lived up to all the rumors, Harrington.”

“You say that like we’re done,” he chuckles at your conclusive tone.

Your eyes flit from his face to his softening cock lying limb on his thigh, then back to his face again. You arch a skeptical brow. “No?”

“Not even close,” he shakes his head defiantly. His honey eyes flit between the both of yours. “I need to fuck you, babe, I just… I need a few minutes. If that, you know— If that’s okay with you…”

“You just give me life-changing head. So, yeah, I think I can give you a couple minutes,” you promise with a playful, but not insincere smile.

Even after having his mouth on you, and your mouth on him, you still like kissing him the most.

No amount of pleasure can sate the feeling of having him so close in this way. There’s nothing equally gratifying as sucking his bottom lip into your mouth or feeling the wet muscle of his tongue running itself over your own. You’d be more than happy to kiss him like this until sunrise.

Steve’s hands stay locked on either side of your head while he pries your mouth open with his own. He’ll occasionally pull back to admire your spit-slick, kiss-bitten lips for a moment or two. Then he’ll flash you a smile, like you’re a piece of finished artwork he’s happy with, before pulling you back down again.

You lean just over him, elbow digging into the pillow beside his head as you rest your weight on your arm. That hand twists itself within the strands of his hair, fingers lazing in the chestnut halo on his head. Your other migrates down his body, touching him with feather-light grazes to coax him hard again. 

His stomach tightens when your nails sweep over the thin trail of hair there. His stiffening cock twitches where it lazes along his inner thigh.

“Top or bottom?” the boy mumbles between languid kisses. His eyes flutter open long enough to catch the brief flash of confusion on your face. You don’t stop pressing your lips to his, even amid your uncertainty.

“Like bunks?”

Steve sputters a laugh against your mouth. He pulls away so he can look at you. “No, like— I meant, do you wanna ride me? Or would you rather lay down?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer quickly. You figure the question must’ve puzzled you because no guy has ever asked before. This kindness is still a tad bit foreign. “I just— I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” Steve assures with a smile so soft it has to be sincere.

“Um… I don’t— I mean, I don’t know. Is that, like, something you want me to do?”

His right hand leaves your face to find his cock. He wraps his fist around himself, pumping slowly to keep himself hard for you. “It’s whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just thought it might be easier for you if you were on top. So you can take things at your own pace and everything.”

“Yeah,” you affirm within a heavy exhale. You feel yourself growing wetter at the mere thought of being on top of him like that. You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yeah. Okay.”

It isn’t your first time being in this position, but something about straddling Steve’s hips feels foreign. You’re starting to notice that most things you do with him feels that way — new and strange and alarming. Even the most innocent things, the mundane shit you’ve done a thousand times before, it’s all brand new with him.

You twist your hand behind your back to unclip your bra. Steve watches you with wide eyes like you’re doing some sort of magic trick. When you toss the piece of fabric somewhere on his bedroom floor, he spits into his palm to wet his cock.

His eyes flit from his hand, to your glistening pussy hovering just above his lap, to your face. “You can, uh— You can rub yourself on me, if you want. You know, to get it wetter. I don’t have lube or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” you trail off. I’m more than wet, you’d almost said. That felt a little too overzealous, though, so you settle on telling him: “I’m okay.”

“You’re still on the, um, the pill, right?” he wonders, feeling a bit lame for remembering something you’d said in passing so long ago.

You complained once that birth control made you feel crazy. You said it affected your mood so drastically sometimes that it didn’t feel worth it to take. That was weeks ago. A brief conversation you’d left in the Family Video parking lot. 

You nod wordlessly in reply.

Steve holds the base of his cock to keep it steady for you as you pierce yourself with it. 

Taking his blushing head was the easiest part. The sensitive tip slips so effortlessly into you, just bulbous enough for you to feel it but not enough to stretch you out. It’s a Goldilocks just right sort of feeling that has low moans crawling from the depths of your throats.

Down, down, down a couple more inches and that’s when the ache starts to set in.

His girth stretches you in an unfamiliar, but no less satisfying way. As good as it feels, the burning sensation is a hard one to ignore. It’s like a fire, a distant one. It’s sort of like reaching your hand toward a flame while your brain screams at you to not get any closer.

It’s a lot like that, actually.

Your brain cautions you about taking him any deeper than you have now lest he might totally split you in half.

“Sorry— Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sputter suddenly, a little embarrassed that he’s only a couple of inches within you and you’re already having so much trouble. With your chin tilted towards your chest and your eyes squeezed shut, you refuse to meet Steve’s concerned gaze. “It’s just… It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he assures quickly. He rubs two soothing hands along your hips and fights back the urge to thrust further into you. You don’t see the gentle smile he looks at you with your eyes closed. “Take your time.”

A little over a minute and a pep talk later, you finally build up the courage to sit on him fully. Come, you can do it, your inner voice spits at you. Stop being a baby. It’s just a penis, don’t be such a bitch. 

Your face scrunches when you slide slowly down upon him. Steve expects you to stop and take a break for anothera moment like you’d done just before. He’s more than surprised when you try to take him completely.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t have to— holy shit, babe— don’t hurt yourself— fuuuck.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally sheathed within your pulsating pussy. A lazy, lopsided smile makes its way to your lips, delirious with pleasure and pride. 

Both of you exhale faraway moans at the new feeling, heads falling back on their own accord. You’re already more than gratified and you haven’t even moved yet. He’s reaching parts of you that most guys don’t on their best day, making you feel full without trying. Even without his thrusting, the minuscule twitches of his cock are already driving you toward an orgasm.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him suddenly, smiling lazily at the ceiling. 

Steve’s adams apple bobs as he swallows. Then he nods.

“I’m already really fucking close,” you confess with a breathless laugh, face crumbling under the weight of your pleasure halfway through.

Steve chuckles, then groans quietly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too.”

You laugh together and your coinciding embarrassment fades like an ebbing tide. The intimate confessions affirm what you were already more than aware of — that the both of you are just a couple of lovesick idiots who are head over heels for each other and in so far over your heads that you can barely breathe.

You’re spurred on by the sight below you. Steve’s wild hair and amber eyes and swollen pink mouth make you ravenous. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like the sight of you makes him hungry too, as you start to grind your hips over his lap.

He guides your rhythm with two wide hands on your hips. Your pace is slow, every roll of your hips is experimental, and he revels in every second of it.

You start by rocking back and forth over his lap, then by moving in small circles to add stimulation. When get more confident, you lift yourself up and down over his cock. He’s able to hit your most sensitive spot that way. Steve seems to like it too, because you feel the subtle jerks of his responsive cock.

He accommodates your every move — thrusting his hips in time with your bouncing, then flexing them to reach as deep as he can within you.

“That’s it…” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not exactly trying to praise you, but his words send lightning strikes of pleasure to your pussy anyway. He keeps babbling to himself. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that…”

You support yourself with your palms on his hairy chest when you double your efforts on top of him. Steve groans at the lewd sound of your slick thighs clapping over his lap every time you move down on his cock. Your cunt quickly drenches his lower stomach and the small thatch of pubic hair just below it.

You too easily forget that fucking is a marathon and not a sprint. 

You overexert yourself quickly in your attempt to rush toward an orgasm and the effects of your sudden fatigue make your legs feel numb.

“Sorry,” you apologize breathlessly when you’re bouncing slows to a stop. You collapse to your elbows, nose nearly grazing Steve’s, as you swivel your hips slowly over his lap. You try to laugh at yourself. “My legs are just getting a little tired… I haven’t done this in a while if you couldn’t tell.”

Steve smiles sympathetically up at you. His hands leave the plush of your hips to cradle your jaw. He gazes at you with a stern sort of gentleness. “Stop apologizing. You’re good,” he promises, then pulls you softly down to peck your mouth.

He rolls his hips up into you and grunts when it makes you whine. “So fucking good…”

Steve tells you to tuck your knees further up his torso and you obey without thinking. You tuck your face into his shoulder and let him cradle the back of your head with one hand while the other settles on your ass. 

He grips you there rather shamelessly, fingers digging into your plump skin, while he bends his knees behind you. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up into you without warning. 

His pace is already a relentless one, having no need to work himself up to a rapid pass as you had. Being basketball team captain has done wonders for his stamina, it seems. He drills up into you and keeps drilling into you without tiring. 

He keeps you securely pressed against him all the while and you relax into his embrace, happily letting him fuck you in his own delicious rhythm as he’d done for you.

The new position stimulates you from all angles. Steve’s hard cock pounds into your weeping pussy. Your swollen clit catches the coarse hair on his taut stomach with each of his thrusts. Your pebbled nipples drag along his furry chest.

It leaves you a whining, writhing mess on top of him.

“You like this?” he murmurs in your ear through broken pants. 

He’s partly teasing you. He knows you mustlike what he’s doing to some degree because you’re moaning something fierce into his neck, peppering too sweet kisses in between your pretty whines. But he also wants to know that you like it. He wants to hear you say the words.

He feels you nod against his shoulder. “Yes...” You sigh, then whimper. “Yes, yes yes—”

“I knew you did,” he affirms. You can hear the smile on his face. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. You’re not sure if you particularly care either. 

His stubbly jaw grazes your cheek when he turns his head to press a kiss to the burning skin. “Knew you’d like it… Takin’ my dick like a fuckin’ champ, babe.”

“Wanna be good for you,” you confess against his sweat-slicked skin, your voice high and wet like you’re close to crying.

Steve tugs at your hair, not enough to hurt you, just enough to pull you from the refuge you’d sought in the nook of his neck. He finds that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, brows pinching and swollen lips softly agape. His amber eyes are just as wild, heavy with hunger.

“You are good for me, baby,” he promises and seals it with a searing kiss to your wet mouth. He means it in more ways than one and prays you understand. “You’re so good for me… Fucking perfect, babe— shit—”

His cock twitches in your snug slick when you clench around him. He tightens the grip he’s got on your ass and spreads you wider to pound harder into you. You hope his scorching touch will leave bruises come morning. You want to remember how it felt to have him touching you this way.

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna…” you start, then whimper when you feel the familiar pleasure start to crescendo once more. It takes a moment for the words to return to you. “I’m about to come.”

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

Your lidded gaze widens. You peer down at him, bemused by his sudden request. “Huh?”

“Touch yourself for me,” he repeats, groaning when the request makes you tighten around him. “Want this to be good for you, too.”

He says this like you’re not already in heaven. You listen to him anyway, though, and squeeze your hand between your slick bodies to find your sensitive button. You rub at your clit until your thighs tremble around his waist. You try your best to ride through every bolt of lightning the pleasure shoots down your spine, despite the distant fear that you won’t be able to weather them.

“Yeah, there you go,” he praises lowly. “Keep rubbing your clit for me…”

Your free hand stays locked in his hair. Your grip tightens within the chocolate strands as you near your peak. Steve revels in the ache, groaning into your shoulder when the burn at his scalp spreads. 

You’re already gut-wrenchingly close. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, a struck chord crescendoing — and then Steve changes the angle of his hips. He flexes them suddenly and his thick cock probes something much deeper inside of you. Something that’s never been touched before — not by another guy or a toy or you.

It’s tender, and much more sensitive than your clit. Your vision strays for a brief moment as a white-hot flame of pleasure makes you jerk against him. You gasp sharply, then forget how to breathe when a moan gets caught in your throat. Your hand stills between your slick bodies as you freeze on top of him.

The wet cry finally spills from your mouth after several long seconds. It’s as long and delicate and wet as the orgasm you gush around Steve’s cock.

The flame burns red hot just before you come, then turns to simmering embers when your cunt numbs from the intense pleasure. You blink, and suddenly the fire is burning blue. The rest of your body becomes a casualty to the inferno.

“Yeah? Is that the spot, baby?” you hear Steve wonder. He murmurs the words in your ear, but you don’t hear them. They sound muffled and far away. 

You hope he doesn’t expect you to answer. You’re not entirely sure if you can form words anymore, or any actual conceivable thoughts. All you can do is suffer through every overwhelming wave of your orgasm that leaves you a crying and convulsing mess on Steve’s lap.

“Holy fuck—”

The boy slams his hips against you with a final, dense clap that sounds deafening in the quiet of his bedroom. Your gushing and fluttering cunt milks his cock. The feeling of your weeping pussy and the sound of your pretty whines throw him headfirst into his own orgasm. His thrusts still as he twitches within you. A moment later, you feel the subtle tingle at the base of your spine when he spits his come inside of you. 

His come paints your welcoming, rippling walls. It’s warm, like the first sip of coffee in the morning or fuzzy socks on cold feet. It blankets you in a sinful comfort.

Steve noses at your cheek while he rides the high of his climax. He rolls his hips slowly into you, much softer now that his cock has grown so sensitive. He clamps his mouth shut between his teeth to stifle his too loud moans and desperate whines. They’re forced to crawl from his throat as suffocated grunts.

You mourn the loss of not seeing his face while you’re tucked so securely into the nape of his neck. It’s a work of art you can imagine so clearly — his pinched brows and scrunched nose and parted lips. But you relish in the searing hold he has on you now, happy to hold and to be held.

The shuddering is slow to subside, especially from you. The aftershocks of your orgasm keep your hips spasming over his lap. Steve groans into your shoulder every time your pussy quivers around his softening cock.

And then the two of you just lay there. You hold onto each other and try to catch your breaths. With the both of you covered in a fine sheen of sweat, your skin sticks together with every tiny movement. The feeling of it makes you smile. You feel like the two of you really are melting together.

Steve’s fingers part from your wild strands of hair and take to tracing the expanse of your damp back. You hum in contentment at the feeling, nuzzling your nose up and down the right side of his neck. 

The moment is melted ice cream and early morning rain and marshmallow fluff. It’s spring mornings on the porch and warm breezes in the fall. It’s a soft and familiar thing that’s still so, so new.

You think you could spend forever here, if you had to. In Steve’s bed and in Steve’s lap and with all of Steve’s languid touches.

But sex is different when you’re an adult. 

When you’re a teenager, you get to be irresponsible. Carelessness sort of comes with the territory. You have sex in a dirty bathroom of a bar you snuck into and don’t think twice about the implications of any it. But as an adult with bills and a nine-to-five and groceries you’ve got to get once a week, all you can think about is how inconvenient a UTI would be.

“I should probably use the bathroom,” you murmur, already grieving the loss of his touch before you’ve even parted from him. 

You leave the safety of his neck to peer down at him. His heavy lids mirror your own. 

“I have this thing where if I don’t piss after sex, I feel like I’m gonna be, like, cursed or something. Kinda like when you break a mirror and you’re stuck with shit luck for seven year— or however that dumb superstition goes,” you ramble, voice heavy with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “Anyway. Yeah. Plus, I should probably clean up, too.”

Steve breathes out a laugh at your sudden prattling but humors you nonetheless.

Somehow you manage to pry yourselves off of each other — you, feeling significantly emptier without him inside you and Steve, already shivering with the lack of your warmth all over him. 

You separate just long enough for him to wet a washcloth in the sink while you piss just a couple feet away from him. The bathroom connected to his bedroom seems to be a foreign sight for you — a least, that’s what he assumes because you rave so enthusiastically about it the entire time. 

It’s all Steve’s ever known, though, so he finds it difficult to do anything but nod along with your rambling. More than anything, he’s glad you’re not as weighed down by the domesticity  of the moment as he is. Because he, for one, feels a little like he’s been hit by a freight train. 

Perhaps spending so many years all alone has made him sensitive to closeness.

You sit on the marble countertop and rest your forehead on his shoulder while he cleans you up. He runs the warm cloth along your delicate folds and wipes away traces of your slick and his come that glisten on your thighs. He pleats the rag and does the same to his softening cock and surrounding skin. 

It feels so strangely intimate, more than the sex somehow.

Steve tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and gives you a faded Hawkins Phys. Ed tee to change into. The loose fabric and baggy fit feels much more familiar than the costume you’d initially arrived in. He might be happier than you are, though, to finally get to see you in your most natural state — makeup sufficiently smudged away and ill-suited clothes forgotten on his floor. 

You crawl beneath the mussed navy comforter of his bed and smush your face into his pillow. “See? The dino sheets aren’t so bad, are they?” the boy teases when you hum in contentment. 

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles in beside you.

You smile but don’t open your eyes. “I’m just sleepy… Sue me.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

“It’s your fault,” you argue, voice dripping with exhaustion. Your skin purrs as he reaches blindly beneath the covers to rub his palm along your forearm.

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning, ‘kay?” he promises, then laughs when you smirk and raise your brows — eyes still shut. “Not like that, you perv. I was talking about breakfast. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

You tell him you’re looking forward to it, to breakfast in bed and breakfast in bed. He falls further for you somehow, despite his lingering disdain for your silly little innuendos. It’s the price you have to pay when you love someone, he figures, like when your crush gets a bad haircut or has shit music taste. 

It’s a quirk he welcomes along with your many others — your rambling and forgetfulness and social unawareness and inability to sit still. All your little idiosyncrasies weren’t obstacles he had to get over to love you, just more reasons for him to.

And it isn’t this one-sided thing, either. Most people would look at the two of you — at the dowager king and local freak — and they’d think he was doing charity work to love you. But Steve’s got peculiarities of his own. 

His best friends are a fourteen-year-old nerd and a closeted lesbian because they were the first two people in his life that didn’t judge him. He chews on the ends of pens and pencils, and his handwriting is shit because he never cared about school. He buys things without ever looking the price tag, then leaves them to collect dust in his room because he never really needed them anyway. He still feels the need to be the center of attention sometimes because the faintest hint of disregard makes him feel neglected.

These are all things you’re aware of. Most of them came with being the wealthy, popular kid from the right side of the tracks. And you liked him anyway — no, you liked him because of them. You adored him through all the heavy shit, and here he was, doing a shit job at pretending to like metal music and horror movies.

“Are you asleep?” Steve wonders after a few moments of velvet silence. He’s still looking at you, one arm propped beneath his hand and the other toying with your fingers splayed on the mattress between you. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at you.

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Your heart stops at the innocent question, tired eyes flying immediately open and knocking you out of your fatigued stupor. 

All of a sudden, it’s 1984 again. You’re the weirdo who bites people and Steve’s royalty who’ll fuck anything that walks — and here you are, in bed with the asshole. For a moment, you expect Tommy Hagan to bust out of the closet with a tape recorder and for Steve to tell you this was all just some stupid bet.

It’s a pang of blue lightning, an ice pick to your abdomen, that lasts no more than a couple of seconds. 

Internally, you curse yourself for getting so worked up. You make a promise to yourself to work on all that — the regressing and the disbelief that comes with the not-feeling-good-enough bullshit.

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

“I don’t actually like Dio. Or Def Leppard,” he confesses, finding it hard to meet your gaze  like a child who’s been caught in a lie. He focuses on running his thumb over the irregular pattern of your chipped nailpolish. “And I don’t collect vinyls either, not really. I just… I kinda just said those things so you’d like me.”

And, compared to the web you were just spinning in your head, that’s nothing.

“Ooh,” you wince playfully. “Def Leppard I could take, but Dio? I don’t know… That might be a dealbreaker, Harrington.”

He only smiles because he can tell you’re making fun. “I could learn to like them, you know? If it means that much to you. That’s what we’re doing now, right? Loving things on purpose?”

You capture your smile with your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes sparkle at him when you nod. “Yeah… We are.”

“Which means you could learn to like football and Bruce Springsteen,” Steve jokes and shifts on the mattress so he’s closer to you. 

Your feet bump together, then entwine effortlessly. He plops his head on the same pillow you’re using. The proximity leaves your faces no more than a couple inches apart. 

You scrunch your nose, wondering if you should hide your disgust in his playful request or make a joke out of it. You don’t do either. “I could… If it means I get to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he scoffs. “Good luck, getting rid of me, Punchy.”

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

He’s smiling like he’s kidding, but you can tell there’s an edge of self-loathing to his tone. 

Your hand crawls from beneath his own and settles on his stubbly jaw. You run your thumb over the cheek, effectively sealing your promise into the blushing apple of it. “I’m never gonna get sick of you, Steve Harrington.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head against the pillow, then shove the side of your face further into it when you get nervous. There’s a timid quirk to the corners of your lips and a more sheepish glint in your eye. “You don’t get sick of people you love,” you tell him.

Steve opens his mouth to retort. He wants to tell you that he gets sick of Dustin all the time, but that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the little shit. He gets sick of milkshakes and pizza and Cheers re-runs when he consumes too much of them in a single setting, but he loves all those things too. 

You get sick of things because you love them, he reasons, because you love them too hard and you hate how much you need them.

He doesn’t get the chance to argue any of this, though.

“Not when you love them on purpose,” you clarify with a sunshine-coated grin.

That shuts him up real quick.

[electronickingdomfox]

The Kobayashi Alternative (or the 1000 deaths of James T. Kirk)

Finished this game (a text adventure) recently, and oh God, what a glorious mess it was!

The frame story (which only appears in the manual, by the way) places you as a Starfleet Academy cadet, playing a simulation of one of Kirk's famous missions, as a sort of alternative to the infamous Kobayashi Maru test (hence the title). But the actual game revolves around Kirk's mission, trying to find Sulu, who has disappeared in the Trianguli sector. And you're given complete freedom to explore the area and planets in whatever order you choose, and to mess the game in whatever way you want.

And that's my main point of interest here. I've witnessed so, SO many deaths for poor Kirk, because of my ill-advised decisions... Falling into craters, being run over by lava from a (not-so-extinct) volcano, sinking in quicksand, being eaten by a dragon, falling into a moat (and then being eaten), beaming down to a planet with a temperature of -250° in just my uniform (because why not?), or the more gruesome version of beaming down to a no-atmosphere planet without a spacesuit. It's also possible to return to Earth without finishing the mission, just like that, which gets you court-martialed. Or beam down some unsuspecting redshirt to a dangerous area, and to his unavoidable death (which here causes a Game-Over, very much unlike the series). Want to swear at someone until the crew arrests you for bad conduct? Check. *For the record, these are the swear words I found to work: bitch, bastard, suck, c*ck, f*ck, ass (use them in any combination you see fit). There's also many crazy things to do, which don't necessarily lead to a game over. Leave poor Scotty stranded on a planet and depart without him (good luck when you need something from Engineering). Or make Spock mindmeld with clay. Or tell McCoy to enter Spock's quarters, and just leave him there for the rest of the game. There's a planet with aliens that are offended by clothes and will put you in jail for wearing them (well, this is inaccurate, because James Tits-Out Kirk would definitely beam down naked, if it would help the mission... and make sure to video-call Spock right before doing so).

Anyway, despite being a primitive game from 1985, I'm impressed by the sheer amount of possibilities and open-ended options in this game. The graphic adventures from the 90's (25th Anniversary, and specially Judgement Rites) are much, much better games overall. But I wanted to talk a bit about these, more obscure text adventures.

If anyone's interested in playing them, I've found the best way is through this custom installer here, which includes all three adventures: https://collectionchamber.blogspot.com/p/star-trek-first-contact.html It automatically runs the games through an emulator for modern systems, and has the last version of Kobayashi Alternative (which is very important, since previous versions were buggy as hell). First Contact uses the same engine of Kobayashi, but since it's a much linear and smaller game, it's obvious a lot of options go un-used. The Promethean Prophecy is a more traditional text adventure. It has some ingenious puzzles, but I found its typical plot of "go there and collect gems" less Trek-like.

[javier-pena]

in plain sight, chapter i

Pairing: Tommy Miller x f!reader | Joel Miller x Tess Servopoulos

Word Count: 6.2k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You’re back home in Austin for the summer and you start dating Tommy Miller, a boy you know from high school, a boy you had a crush on when you were a teenager. All you’re looking for is an uncomplicated summer fling, just some fun, until you have to go back to college in the fall. What you didn’t know is that Tommy has an older brother. And that older brother can’t keep his eyes off you right from the start …

Warnings: mentions of food and alcohol | smoking | reader has hair that can be grabbed | car sex | semi-public sex | a little bit of dirty talk | reader is a tiny bit bratty (in a blink and you’ll miss it kind of way) | two (2) pussy slaps | a tiny, tiny bit of degradation | oral (m and f receiving) | p in v sex | voyeurism | exhibitionism

Notes: The story of how I came up with the idea for this fic is actually very silly, so I'll spare you the details, but I will say it had something to do with a certain movie from 1978. Anyway, I'm so so excited to finally be able to share the first chapter of this!! I can't remember the last time I was this excited about a story, so that's a good sign I'll manage some semi-regular updates. I want to thank Angela @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for answering some of my questions about Austin, and, of course, Dani @alexturner who said it'll be good for me to write a story like that 🤭

[Masterlist] [Chapter 2]

***

“Back for the summer, eh?” was the first thing Tommy said to you after the both of you hadn’t spoken in seven years.

You were standing in line at the ice cream truck, holding your niece’s hand who was jumping up and down, giddy with excitement. Tommy was driving past in his red pick-up truck, a car you’d seen around the neighborhood, unaware it was his. Hell, there wasn’t a lot of awareness where it came to Tommy Miller in the first place. You almost didn’t recognize him that early June day leaning out of the window of his truck, elbow propped up against the door, a bright smile on his face. The boy you remembered from high school, the boy you had a crush on all those years ago, looked so different. Scrawny, lanky, greasy hair, a face full of spots. Sometimes you scrolled through old photos, laughed at yourself because you had lain awake for nights, imagining how he would confess his love for you, ask you to run away with him. The man in the truck that sunny afternoon was just that … a man. His tight, stained shirt was clinging to his arms and chest, grown big with muscles over the years. His hair that used to fall into his eyes, obscuring half his face, had been cut short. His tight curls were hidden underneath a baseball cap that had the logo of a local brewery on it. His face was tan, a dark golden color; it made you do a double take, made your palm grow sweaty against your niece’s hand, embarrassed by his attention. Because surely, he had mistaken you for someone.

“Tommy?” you asked, stumbling forward a few steps when your niece yanked on your arm. “Tommy Miller?”

He laughed so hard his chest heaved. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Then he ran a hand across his sweaty brow, his dirty cheeks. “Don’t tell me I’ve aged that badly.”

Of course he asked you for your number that afternoon, and of course you gave it to him while your niece was busy with her ice cream. You scribbled it onto the palm of his hand, thinking it was a quirky, romantic gesture. It had nothing to do with the fact that you wanted to touch him. The heat of a Texan June afternoon smudged the pen so badly before he got home that evening he couldn’t decipher your number. Luckily, he knew where you lived and came by the next day with a bouquet of flowers to ask you out on a date – officially.

That date went well – more than well. He took you to the movies, to a steakhouse, to a new bar in town. He was so different from the boys you met at college; he had been to war, he had his own company that he was running with his brother, he wanted to know about you and didn’t use your time together to talk about himself and his grand plans for his professional future. You hadn’t laughed that much in a long time, hadn’t enjoyed a guy’s company that much in … well, if you were honest with yourself, you couldn’t remember ever having had that much fun with anyone. You didn’t want the night to end, and when Tommy dropped you off back home afterwards, he kissed you in his truck, then said, “Tomorrow’s my day off. Let me take you somewhere.”

You had skipped up the stairs to your parents’ porch while his truck had idled at the side of the road until you were safely inside.

What followed the next day left you hungry for more. Tommy took you hiking, then he took you to a small ranch outside Austin because you had mentioned you’d never been on a horse before, but would like to try. You stayed there until the sun had sunk beneath the horizon and a bonfire was blazing next to the barn. You drank beers and watched the stars come out. Then someone pulled out a guitar and Tommy asked you to dance. That night, you got home well past midnight, feeling like you’d been somewhere very far away.

You didn’t see Tommy for a week after that. He was busy at work. You were busy telling your friends from college about him. “Just a bit of fun for the summer,” you said. They either cheered you on, asking for the saucy details, or reacted with, “That’s so typical. Anywhere you go, men fall for you.” You didn’t let that bother you because it wasn’t true. Besides, if anyone was turning heads it was Tommy.

The next Friday, he picked you up later than usual and a broad grin spread across your face when you saw him. He had decided to grow a mustache after you’d admitted to him that you used to have a crush on this handsome teacher in college who happened to have a mustache. Tommy handled your laughter well, said, “Get in the truck, college girl,” and sped off toward an unknown destination. You felt excitement wash over you whenever you glanced over at him. Because you hadn’t been idle that week either. You were wearing a matching set of underwear, a deep red color, delicate, hiding only what was necessary. Because Tommy had admitted to you that he had a thing for women wearing nothing but high heels and lingerie. You hoped just one of those would do the trick too.

That night he took you to a small concert, just a guy with his guitar and a cream-colored cowboy hat up on a brightly lit stage. He sang about the open plains, proposing to his wife, about how women don’t want a man in a suit, they all want a cowboy. And he had a point, you thought, after Tommy dragged you off into a dark corner during a brief break and kissed you until you could hardly breathe. None of the boys at college had ever kissed you like that. For the rest of the night, Tommy was hovering by your side, finding excuses to touch you. And when the concert was over, he led you back to his truck, opened the door for you and said, “Listen, my brother is out of town this weekend. Would you like to come back to my place?”

You didn’t even make it to the bedroom. You made it to the couch in the living room where you sat pretending to be interested in polite conversation while your heart hammered against your ribcage and Tommy kept shifting, trying to hide a growing bulge in his pants. Your friends had warned you, “Don’t sleep with him before the 4th of July. The summer is still so long and he’ll lose interest.” Yeah, there was no way you’d be waiting for almost another month for this.

Tommy made the first move but only because you waited for him to make it. His hand was high up on your thigh when he leaned over you to kiss your neck, and you quickly pushed him back against the couch, straddling him, taking off your shirt. His appreciative gaze told you you had gotten it right. That he later took your panties off with his teeth was just the cherry on top.

He made you come four times that night, twice on the couch (first with his tongue, then with his cock buried deep inside of you), one time in his bed (you rode him until he pushed you off and took you from behind), and one time very softly (with his finger, just before you fell asleep). It was obvious the next morning – he wouldn’t lose interest in you and you would have the best summer of your life.

*******

A week later, you’re putting the finishing touches on your makeup when you hear the doorbell ring. This is only your third weekend going out with Tommy, but you would be lying if you said you hadn’t recognized the sound of his pick-up pulling up in front of your house. The memories from last weekend are still fresh on your mind and it makes you giddy with excitement to wonder about what he might have planned for tonight.

When you come downstairs, Tommy is sitting on the living room floor, cross-legged, while your niece is introducing him to all her toy horses. Your sister is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, shooting you a knowing look. You ignore her. Because no matter how much fun you’re having, you’re lightyears away from thinking about Tommy as anything more than a summer fling.

“Ready?” you ask, and when he looks up at you there’s that hunger in his gaze. Self-consciously, you tug at the hem of your very short dress.

“You’re really going out in that?” your sister asks you, and you can hear the thinly veiled jealousy in her voice.

Tommy gets up, slings his arm around your waist, and places a soft kiss on your cheek. “I know I’m supposed to call you beautiful,” he mumbles into your hair, “but you look so fuckin’ hot, darlin’.”

Your face heats up at hearing that pet name. To hide how flustered you are, you tousle your niece’s hair and say, “Don’t wait up for me,” to your sister without looking at her.

The smell of Tommy’s truck engulfs you when you climb inside, and you relax against the seat. It’s funny, really, how a scent you were unfamiliar with just two weeks ago can make you feel so much at ease now. In the driver’s seat, Tommy rolls down the window and lights a cigarette before he looks back toward your house.

“Your sister, is she divorced?” he asks, fidgeting with the lighter.

“Why? You interested?” you tease.

He pulls a face. “She needs to loosen up. Maybe a good fuck would help with that.”

You playfully slap his arm. “You’re impossible,” you laugh. “My brother-in-law takes good care of her.”

He shoots you a doubtful glance, then starts the truck.

The suburbs of Austin are quiet this evening. People are staying inside to escape the lingering heat of the day or they are already in town. You hardly see anyone, hardly pass any other cars as Tommy drives slowly, an old country song playing on the radio.

“You were on my mind all week,” he finally admits, pretending to keep his eyes on the road, but you notice how he glances at you.

You touch your neck, surprised by how hot your skin feels. “Nothing bad I hope.”

He chuckles. “Depends on your definition of bad.”

You briefly close your eyes and let your memory take you back to last Friday, to the image of him kneeling before you while he spread you open on the couch, tongue buried deep inside of you.

“Well.” You clear your throat. “I’m not usually like …” You trail off, suddenly worried you gave him the wrong impression, your head buzzing with your friends’ advice on how to keep him interested in you.

“You don’t usually sleep with a guy after the third date?” Tommy inquires.

“I don’t usually come more than twice in one night.” You whisper the offensive word.

“That’s hardly your fault,” Tommy replies with a shrug. “Those college boys are dull.”

“Who says I’m sleeping with college boys?” you ask.

He glances at you, the words, “oh come on,” written all over his face. “You don’t seem like the type of girl who would go after their dads.”

That comment sparks something in you. “Who says I’m not going after their moms?”

He laughs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Now that’s a sight I’d love to see.”

“Do you think those college boys taught me all those things we did last week?”

Tommy clears his throat. “I think there’s a couple of things I’d like to teach you. Just as long as you promise not to use them on any college boys.”

A brief silence settles over you. Then, “Who taught you how to do all that, by the way?” you ask.

“All what?” Tommy teases.

“You know …” You shrug, but shift excitedly when he puts his warm hand on your naked thigh. His fingers are rough from his daily work, but his touch his so gentle that something melts inside of you.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

You sigh and glance up at the roof of the cabin. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re … what we did last week was the best sex of my life.”

Tommy squeezes your thigh. “There’s a wrong way to take this?”

“Don’t let it go to your head is what I’m saying.”

“It’s too late for that.” He pulls a grimace, brings the car to a stop in front of a red light. “Tell me more.”

“I’m not telling you anything until you tell me where you learned all that.”

“What? Eating pussy?”

“Oh my God.” Your face heats up because of him for the second time that evening. “Yes, that, but also … I’ve never been with a man who was so concerned about my … my pleasure.”

“I was in the Army,” Tommy answers.

“And they teach you that there?” You can’t quite tell if he’s being serious.

“If you’re on leave in some Godforsaken place, and there’s fifty other strappin’ young men you’ll learn fast enough how to please women. Or you’ll spend every night alone.”

You nod slowly. “Where are we going?”

“Oh no, missy, you’re not changing the subject.” Tommy’s hand climbs higher on your thigh; he’s almost touching the hem of your dress now.

You shrug. “You’re right; those college boys are boring. You’re … you know what you’re doing.”

“You’re just sayin’ that because you have no one to compare me to.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. “No, I’m saying that because it’s the truth.”

Tommy glances at you again. “I don’t like that laughter.”

“Jealous?”

“A bit, yeah,” he admits.

“Don’t be,” you tell him, your voice suddenly soft. “There’s no reason to.”

Tommy pulls off the main road then and onto a dark parking lot. You’re about to make a teasing remark when he turns the car and suddenly the glistening Austin skyline is sitting right there in front of you, like a mirage in the desert.

“Wow,” you breathe and sit up straight.

“Did I promise too much?” Tommy wants to know.

“You didn’t promise me anything,” you remind him.

Your gaze wanders to take in everything, the dark trees shielding you from the road, the city that sits right there as if it wants to tempt you to reach out and touch it, the nearby bridge where a car passes in your direction.

“Wait a minute,” you say slowly. “I know exactly where we are.”

“And where’s that?” Tommy asks, a barely concealed smile on his face.

“I’ve heard stories about you and this place.”

“What kind of stories?” Tommy grabs a can of beer from a cooler on the backseat and opens it with a sharp hiss. “Only good ones, I should hope.” He hands you the can and you take it, but pull a grimace at him at the same time.

“What?” he asks.

“You used to take girls here when we were in high school,” you answer after taking a sip from the beer. “Lots of girls.”

“A handful, at most,” Tommy corrects you.

“More like a handful at the same time,” you mumble.

Now it is Tommy’s turn to ask, “Jealous?”

You take another sip before you answer. “I was back then. I had the biggest crush on you.”

“I’m flattered.” It sounds as if he’s mocking you but the flush on his cheeks tells a different tale.

“You never noticed me, of course,” you go on.

“You were a bit young,” Tommy points out.

“And now I’m not?”

“Now you’re a well-traveled woman who’s back in her little town for summer.” You open your mouth but he goes on. “Now you can tell when a man is takin’ you for a ride and when he’s serious about you. Do you still have a crush on me then?”

You shrug. “A different kind, maybe. I definitely don’t fantasize about you confessing your love for me anymore. Or about us running away together.”

“Why not?” Tommy takes a big swig from the can. “I think you should start doin’ that again.”

“Or I could fantasize about other things, less innocent things.”

Tommy shifts and clears his throat. You can’t help but smile at how little it takes to shift the mood.

“Like what?” he asks, and the beer can cracks in his grip.

“Like how you held me down last week,” you answer, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Or how softly you touched me afterwards.”

“You don’t have to fantasize about those things. Give me somethin’ new.” The slightly commanding edge to his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

“Well … when we were in high school, I used to wonder what it would be like to be taken here by you. What did you do with the girls you drove out here?”

In the distance, you can hear the sound of another car gliding across the bridge.

“Can’t you guess?”

“I was very innocent back then,” you remind him. “My thoughts never went past a small kiss on the lips.”

Tommy licks his. “Yeah, but now? What would you like me to do with a woman I take here?”

The tension has become unbearable and you giggle, searching to relieve it. It doesn’t work. Tommy’s hungry gaze wanders down to where your dress has ridden up your thighs and you inhale sharply.

“I still think a kiss would be nice,” you answer finally, your voice no longer steady at all. “But it doesn’t have to be all that innocent.”

Tommy puts one of his warm hands on your naked thigh, then leans in closer until he can hear your breath hitch. “Where would you like that kiss, darlin’?”

“How about you figure that out for yourself?” you tease him.

His lips are firm against yours, the pressure insistent until you open up for him. He tastes like the beer he just downed, the cigarette he just smoked. He also tastes like Tommy, and you relish how familiar you are with it after just two weeks. You sigh into the kiss, feeling all the tension leave your body. His teasing remarks and slight bravado are backed up by his skills, and you shudder remembering what else he can do with that tongue. You bite his lip to draw it out of him, but he only huffs and pulls back.

“Careful, darlin’,” he warns, his voice deeper now.

“What? Too wild for you?” you ask with a small laugh.

“Don’t get into somethin’ you can’t handle.” The tips of his fingers are under the hem of your dress now and you squirm, but he digs his nails into the soft skin. “See? I haven’t even touched you yet and it’s already too much for you.”

You raise your chin. “It’s not.”

“Have you ever fucked someone in a car?” Tommy asks, his hungry gaze fixed onto your face.

“No,” you reply slowly.

It’s not as if you didn’t know this was where the evening was going. It’s not as if you didn’t want it to go there. But now you’re here, you’re very aware of how exposed you are, even inside Tommy’s truck, and how many laws you would be breaking if you took this any further.

“Relax,” Tommy chuckles. His dark eyes are glistening in the lights of Austin. “You said it yourself: This isn’t my first time doin’ this. I’ve never been caught.”

“Oh, so I’m just another one of your conquests.”

“You can be anythin’ you want to be.” With that, he pushes his hand between your legs and places the tips of two of his fingers straight against your clit.

It’s as if your legs follow their own will when they spread open to give Tommy more room. He doesn’t need it, moving his fingers in a small circle, not breaking eye contact once. When he increases the pressure, one of your hands flies up to grab his shoulder, the other finds purchase against your seat.

“You like that, huh?” Tommy teases.

You nod, pushing your hips forward into his touch.

“Is it worth the risk?” His touch is lighter again, his fingers move slower.

Now it’s your turn to warn him with a, “Careful, Tommy.”

“Why?” His touch is feather-light now.

You move your hand that’s on his shoulder up to his jaw, cupping it. “You don’t want to turn me into a bad girl, do you?” You feel silly when you say it out loud like this, but his eyes light up.

“As I said, you can be anythin’ you want.” The tremor in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“How about we start by turning me into someone who gets fucked in a car?”

Suddenly, he turns his head, biting into the heel of your palm, making you squeal. When your laughter dies down, you notice how his fingers are moving faster again, accompanied by a wet sound.

“God,” Tommy groans. “Look at you. I’ve barely touched you.”

Something tells you that you should be embarrassed by how little it took for him to turn you on, but then he increases the pressure on your clit, and your eyes flutter shut with a moan.

“I can see you overthinkin’ this,” Tommy whispers, so close you can feel his warm breath on your neck and ear. “Don’t. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

“Tommy …,” you groan, and you don’t quite know why. Do you want him to go faster? Slower? Do you want him to make you come?”

He doesn’t allow you a single second to find answers to those questions. “I love it when you say my name like that.”

You roll your hips into his touch, and his other hand grabs your thigh with a firm grasp. “Don’t. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

You open your eyes to find his gaze fixed on your face, eagerly licking his lips. In that moment, you don’t remember ever wanting anyone as much as you want him. Out of curiosity, you try to roll your hips again, and he lands a soft slap against your pussy in retribution, one that makes you groan with pleasure.

“Do that again,” you pant.

He hesitates for the briefest of moments, then does as you ask, a little harder this time. You fold, your upper body bending toward your knees, your head fuzzy with pleasure.

“I need you … inside of … of me, Tommy, please,” you stammer. You feel yourself clench around nothing at the thought of him filling you up. He only rolls your clit between his fingers, making your hips jerk involuntarily. “Please, Tommy, please.”

“Shhh,” he makes, and kisses your temple. “Later, darlin’. I want to see you come in your panties first.”

You grab his shoulder, feeling yourself tumble toward the edge. His fingers are moving fast enough to drive you insane with pleasure but it’s not quite enough to get you there. And he must know that, judging by the smug look on his face.

“Please,” you whimper.

“What do you need?” he asks, his voice thick with arousal.

You risk a glance down between his legs, the obvious bulge in his jeans making you clench again. Then you press your hand against his moving between your legs, just so the pressure becomes a bit more …

Tommy slaps your hand away. “Harder, Tommy,” he says in a voice mocking yours. “Come on, say it.”

“Harder, Tommy,” you moan immediately.

And you’re rewarded with an orgasm so intense you see stars dance in front of your eyes. Your moans make your ears ring, and when Tommy doesn’t stop, they turn into desperate whimpers. It’s only when you grab his wrist that he stops and you try to catch your breath with a shuddering sob.

“Fuck,” you groan and close your eyes.

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. “Can’t believe you really just came in your panties for me.”

You laugh, your voice breaking when you can’t get enough air into your lungs.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful right after an orgasm, you know that?” Tommy goes on, and you want him to keep talking like that more than anything.

“Why?” you ask, then gasp, when he presses his fingers against your clit before removing his hand.

“You’re so perfect,” he answers without hesitation. “I guess I like seein’ you come undone.”

You straighten your dress and look at the glistening Austin skyline in front of you. “You bring out the worst in me, Tommy Miller.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s almost impossible to take the good out of the girl.”

You glance down at his bulge again, lick your lips at the thought that it’s just sitting there, waiting for you. “It’s much easier than you think,” you reply, then begin to unbuckle his belt.

His hips jerk in response. “Careful, darlin’.”

“What? Can’t handle it when the tables are turned?” you tease.

He shoots you a crooked smile. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

“Oh, I intend to.” You grip his hard cock and pull it out of his jeans, relishing how his hips jerk again. Your mouth waters when you run your thumb over the glistening tip and hear Tommy inhale sharply. Your short, tight dress makes it hard for you to climb up onto the seat while still preserving some of your dignity, but one glance at Tommy tells you he couldn’t care less. His pupils are dilated and his mouth hangs slightly open while his chest rises and falls rapidly. All that just because you’re holding his cock in your hand. You stroke across the tip again, then move your hand down toward the base and lock your lips to his, capturing a deep groan. Tommy’s eyes flutter shut and you lower your head, closing your lips around his cock.

“Fuck,��� he groans, one hand immediately tangling in your hair.

You shift, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it’s hard, even if the bench of the pick-up is bigger than most car seats you’re used to. Tommy doesn’t care. He pushes himself deeper into your mouth and you swallow around him, his sharp taste overwhelming. It’s hot in the truck, and you can smell his sweat, smell your own arousal on his hand resting on his thigh. You pull off him until only his tip is still between your lips, then move down again, while he pushes, almost impatiently. Your neck strains uncomfortably, but you want to make this work. For him.

“Stop,” he says after his tip hits the back of your throat and you gag. “I want to be inside of you.”

You straighten your back and smile at him. Your lips feel swollen. “You are, Tommy.”

With his thumb, he swipes away saliva and pre-cum from your bottom lip. “Not like that.”

The way he looks at you, heated, yes, but also with an unguarded softness in his eyes, makes something flutter inside your chest. “What did you have in mind?” you ask.

He leans forward, his mouth so close to your ear his breath tickles your skin. The presumed forbiddenness of what he’s about to tell you makes you hold your breath. “I want you on top of me,” he whispers in your ear, voice low. “Use me however you want.”

A pleasant shiver runs down your spine and you nod, cheeks burning up. What have you done to deserve a man like him in your life?

You move to climb on top of him, but he stops you, his hand spread across your chest. “I think we’d be more comfortable on the backseat. Don’t you?”

You glance over the front seats at the dark space beyond and nod again. It’s also harder to spot you back there should someone decide to drive into the parking lot.

With practiced movements, Tommy tilts his seat, then climbs over it, briefly struggling with his loose jeans. You grin and follow him, body humming with pleasant anticipation. Tommy pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his shoes and jeans, but when you start to take off your dress, he stops you.

“No. Just your panties.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

You can’t really tell in the dim light but he looks flushed when he searches his trouser pockets for a condom.

When you finally lower yourself onto him, you can feel his chest vibrate with a deep groan under your palms. He jerks and shifts trying to adjust himself, but you hold him down and roll your hips from side to side until he nods. For a while, you both just sit there and look at each other, his hands stroking your sides, your fingers playing with the coarse hairs on his chest. To you, this is the definition of paradise.

You roll your hips in small, slow circles at first, so imperceptible it takes him a while to notice. But when he does, he jerks his hips upwards, urging you to go faster, so you press your knees into his sides.

“No,” you tell him, and when he opens his mouth to protest, you put a raised finger against his lips. “Let me take care of you.” For a second, you think he’ll reject you; but then he nods. “Good,” you say, brushing your thumb across his bottom lip before pulling your hand back. His chest and neck are a deep red now.

It’s not like you’re planning on torturing him forever. You roll your hips a little faster, and with every deliciously lewd sound he makes for you, a little faster still. Soon, your resolve crumbles, and you allow him to stroke your naked thighs, to squeeze your clothed breasts, even to play with your clit. The humid air in the truck clings to your skin, and to Tommy’s, and you’re transfixed by a bead of sweat making its way down his cheek. You capture it with a kiss, then throw back your head with a moan when he rolls your clit under his thumb just so.

That’s when you notice it – the other truck parked next to yours. Was it already there when Tommy pulled into the parking lot? Did it pull up afterwards and you just didn’t notice because you were occupied with other things at the time? Whatever the answer might be, it’s not important right now, not when you notice the other truck isn’t empty.

A man is staring at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. He looks older than Tommy, but not by much, maybe a few years. His face is framed by dark hair and a dark beard, very prominent on his upper lip, less so on his cheeks and chin. His eyes are dark too, hidden in the shadows of the driver’s cabin, but you can feel them on you, watching every twitch of your hips with intent. And he definitely isn’t alone.

You can’t see the person he’s with; she’s kneeling in front of him, hands and knees on the backseat, and he’s holding down her head with his outstretched arm. All you can see is that she has dark auburn hair that the man uses to hold her in place. The back of your own scalp prickles at that sight and you wish someone would hold onto you like that.

You should stop and tell Tommy about the stranger in the car next to yours who is fucking a woman you can’t see while watching you fuck a man he can’t see. Or you should move to the other side of the car where he won’t be able to see you. The least you should do is look away. But you don’t do any of these things. Later, when you’re alone, you’ll ask yourself why, but there is no answer other than not wanting to break the connection you feel to that stranger at this very moment. You’ll think it a weak excuse then, but right here, in Tommy’s truck, it feels like the most sensual experience of your life. You’re both fucking other people and yet it feels like you’re fucking each other.

Beneath you, Tommy groans deeply, and he twitches inside of you. “Keep goin’, darlin’,” he mumbles.

You don’t know if Tommy is watching you or if his eyes are closed, you don’t know if his mouth hangs open, you couldn’t name the shade of red coating his neck. Instead, you watch as the stranger bites his lip, watch as his eyes flutter shut after a particularly deep thrust, watch how he presses the woman’s head down further. You can almost hear his pants and growls, and in turn your breath comes in short bursts. Why doesn’t he look away? And why don’t you?

His thrusts come faster now, and it’s not as if you’re consciously changing your pace too, but suddenly you catch yourself matching the roll of your hips to his. You groan when you see the smirk on his face, and your upper body falls forward, forcing you to brace yourself against Tommy’s chest. Why did that stranger’s smirk set the base of your spine on fire and why did your small moment of weakness make his face darken with resolve?

When you look up again, he has his eyes closed, so you close yours too, and for an instant, just one brief moment, you imagine it’s him thrusting up into you. That vision is so powerful you half expect it to be him below you when you open your eyes again, but it’s Tommy, and he’s watching you.

“Feel so good,” he mumbles. “So, so good.”

A twinge of guilt gets mixed in with that already explosive cocktail of feelings brewing inside of you, and you’re not sure what to do about it. Are you crossing a line with this? You don’t know; you’ve never heard about anyone in a situation like this. All you know is that when you lift your head, the stranger’s gaze hits you like a bolt of lightning. You feel it tingle in your fingers, up and down your legs, on the tip of your nose, and at the back of your neck. But most importantly, you feel it deep in your core that clenches with desperation. He lifts his chin and rolls his shoulders, pushing his chest forward, like he’s showing off to you, and you can’t help it – you dig your nails into Tommy’s skin and he groans with pleasure.

The air in the truck is so heavy it is becoming hard to breathe. You only realize that when you would need it most desperately. Over there, in the other car, the man’s hips suddenly still and you watch as he throws back his head, as a deep, dark flush climbs up his chest and neck. You can almost feel it, how he empties himself into that woman he’s fucking, how he empties himself into you. And before you can fully grasp what is happening, you’re clenching around Tommy hard and fast, making him snap his hips up into you.

“Fuck, fuck! Fuck!” he swears, holding you in place with two hot hands on your sides.

Your orgasm is still making your entire body shake, but it also feels like it doesn’t belong to you at all. You’re praying for the stranger to look at you again, one final time, but he has disappeared. All you can see is his back from time to time, and the woman’s knees that look like they’re trembling, as he goes down on her. You can’t help the jealousy that is clawing at the inside of your stomach.

Tommy pulls you down and gives you a searing kiss. “You’re fuckin’ amazin’, you know that?” You giggle and bury your face against his neck, trying to shake off that strange feeling of desire and yearning. “I’m very sorry I doubted you,” Tommy goes on. “No college boy could’ve taught you that.”

“That good, huh?” you ask, running your hand through his curls.

“Good’s an understatement,” he mumbles.

Carefully, he lifts you off him and takes off the condom. You’re on the other side of the truck now and can barely see the top of the other one. That loss is strangely irritating.

“Take off your dress,” Tommy orders.

You look at him, at his flushed cheeks, at the drunk desire in his gaze. “Ready for round two already?” you tease.

He shakes his head. “No, but I won’t make you wait for me.”

His mouth is hot against your sensitive clit, and you roll your hips up against his tongue eagerly. Above you, the roof of the truck is cast in shadows. You stare up at the boring gray, eyes wide open, because as soon as you close them, you see the stranger, as clear as if he was still right in front of you. And you refuse to give him that kind of power over you.

***

joel miller taglist: @almodovarispunk | @chippedowlmug | @daimyosprincess | @giggly-otter | @girlbossnancy | @hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmsstuff | @jennaispunk | @lexloon | @mandalaur | @mandinlore | @n7cje | @sin-djarin | @swimmjacket

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[oepionie]

KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR & THE UNWILLING DAMSEL IN DISTRESS. silver vanrouge

"And you don’t have to say anything now, of course, I just thought I owed you an explanation as to why i acted the way i did…”

Synopsis: Dragged into another one of Azul's contracts, you're forced to go on a date with some doe-eyed prince named Phillip and it seems that Silver has offered to serve as your bodyguard.

Character/s: Silver Vanrouge x GN! Reader

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Reader wears Heels&Dress, Silver cries, Bodyguard! Silver, Prince Phillip, Hidden feelings, Confessions, Im just thirsting for Silver here tbh

Word Count: 1k+ | 🎸Event Masterlist

Nervously taking a sip of your drink, you smoothed out the wrinkles on your dress and attempted to act normal. Well, as normal as someone in your situation could be. After getting dragged into a contract by the one and only Azul Ashengrotto, you were made to meet up with a client of his.

The octopus needed valuable information from him and told you to "use your charms" on the boy.

Whatever that means...

Sighing, you glance over at the shadowy figure sitting a few tables away from you.

Azul was suprisingly generous enough to grant you some protection. Protection which came in the form of a bodyguard named Silver Vanrouge.

Now, he was hardly the worst person in the campus but after your argument with him a few days back, things were still a bit...tense.

Obscured by the curtain drapes and dimmed lights of the lounge, you could barely make out Silver's sharp auroral gaze piercing through you. In all honesty, you were taken aback by just how well-hidden he was. For someone with his stature, he sure was remarkably stealthy.

Silver was casually leaning back against the plush couch, legs spread with his leather-clad hands clasped between his thighs. Instead of his usual outfit, he was dressed in a silky light green button-down shirt.

His legs donned black high-waisted slacks which was held up by a leather belt. Azul had given him the outfit to serve as a "uniform" of sorts. In addition to that, he carried his magic pen and sword, both of which were sheathed at his left hip.

Before you could continue ogling at your "bodyguard", a hand waves itself over your face. Blinking, you look up to see a bright-eyed brunette beaming down on you. The boy was slim but fairly built. He had on a grayish-tan vest over a black turtleneck shirt, dark brown pants, and black boots. Most notable was the red cape draped onto his shoulder, the vibrant crimson an odd contrast to his otherwise muted outfit.

"Hello there, are you the prefect?" The stranger smiled at you, revealing two dimples on the sides of his cheek. Stammering, you hastily scrambled to your feet.

"A-Ah, yes! That w-would be me. I'm assuming you're Philip?" A wobbly smile spread across your face as you held your hand out for him to shake. The boy chuckled and took your hand in his, swiftly pressing a kiss against your knuckles. "Yeah, I'm Philip. Well...Prince Philip."

"P-Prince?!" You squawked, eyes wide open. Just who did Azul set you up with?

"Ah, it's no big deal. I'm not too big on any of that royal stuff." The young prince winked, throwing an arm over your shoulders and pulling you close.

"Now, shall we carry on with our date?"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Great Sevens. When was this going to end?

While initially charming, you soon found out that your date had no respect for your boundaries whatsoever. Prince Philip was extremely touchy. If him being pressed up snug against your side at this very moment wasn't enough proof of that.

"You know, I think I've actually met you before." Philip mused, tapping his fingers against your waist. "In a dream that is. Ah, which reminds me! Do you dance?"

"I trip over my feet all the time. So no, I don't." You chuckled awkwardly, twiddling with your thumbs. Philip snorted and stood, pulling you up with him. "Oh, but you must try it! Come, let's-"

"Philip, I'd really rather not." You frowned and tried to pull his hands off of you, but the prince refused to budge. His grip tightened and you whimpered. "Aw, it's just one little dance-"

"I believe they said no." Before Phillip could continue, Silver appeared and swiftly yanked the boy's hands off of you.

He guided you behind him, shielding you from the young prince with his body. "I think you've overstayed your visit. Come, I’ll guide you to the exit."

You watched helplessly as your bodyguard dragged the prince out of the lounge, ignoring each and everyone of Philip's protests.

Well...there goes your date.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"I can't believe you did that, Silver." You grumbled.

You sat on the pavement, pulling your tall heels off and massaging your feet. The back of your ankle swelled red, evidence of all the hours you spent in this fancy get-up. Hours of hard work wasted and ruined in a single minute. "You didn't have to kick him out! I nearly got him to spill the secret!" 

"He clearly couldn't understand what a simple 'no' meant." Silver murmured. The look he sends you is one of concern, and probably disappointment, as he strides to your hunched over form. 

Silver placed his hand onto your back, but you pushed him away, far too disheartened to accept his aid. His eyes flashed hurt for a brief moment before he regained his composure, brows pinching together. "I was trying to help."

"Well, you weren't! I'm not some damsel in distress." You scoffed, slipping your heels back on. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"If that's the case then why didn't you tell him to stop?" He spoke, voice cracking. When you didn't respond, Silver stared at you with a wounded look in his eyes. "Do you like him?"

"Enough, Silver!" The back of your head throbbed and your eyes burned, the frustration from earlier finally sinking in. Throughout the entire night, you were left to deal with both Philip's advances and Silver's icy demeanor. It wasn't surprising to say that you were at your wit's end. 

You rose from the pavement, dusting your dress off before walking in the direction of your dorm. Silver blinks at you and swallows painfully as something shifts in his features. "Where are you going?"

"The night's over. You don't have to play bodyguard anymore. I'm leaving."

"Don't." You snapped your head around, fully prepared to start arguing once more, only to end up clamping your mouth shut when you saw his eyes glistening with tears. Silver ran a hand down his face, fingers roughly rubbing at his eyelids. "…. I'm sorry. Please don't."

"Silver...I got frustrated. I-I didn't mean..." you whispered, cupping his cheeks in a delicate touch - afraid that he might crack were you harsher with him.

"You don’t have to say anything...I-I just think I owe you an explanation as to why I acted the way I did." His hands cupped atop yours, squeezing tight.

"I know I do get overprotective at times, but I mean no harm. I just..." Silver trails off as he hesitated, which coaxed you to look up and meet his gaze.

"....I love you." He gently took you in his arms and wrapped you in a tight embrace, sighing deeply as he felt the welcome weight of your body against his. "I really love you."

Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!

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[0anonnymouslyours0]

rowan laslow 🕴🏻🔪 me want rowan

yessir 🫡🫡

warnings; not proofread, smut ( p in v ), kissing, teasing, rowan abuses his telekinesis powers, reader can read minds, fluffy aftercare

you were fairly new to nevermore, so you didn't know many people, except for yoko your roommate, and enid. and then by extension wednesday. and although classes kept you busy, and yoko and enids persistent social activities took up much time as well, you still had time to think about the rowan laslow. rowan laslow who you almost felt was a ghost. he was barely in class, and when he was he always was at the very back of the room, obscured from your vision.

yoko had invited you to join the nightshades, a highly coveted invitation. and you must admit, your eagerness to join the group was only heightened when you discovered rowan was apart of it. rowan didn't talk much during meetings, opting to sit in a corner, flicking through one of the many books in the library, and just listen. the only person who he seemed to talk to was wednesday. so of course, you pestered her about him.

"what's rowan like?"

"i'm unsure."

"your friends with him!"

"am i?"

this didn't really go very far, so you had take it upon yourself to make an extra special effort to get to know him. he was quiet, obviously smart, brown hair swept in a side part, thick rimmed glasses, about an inch taller then you, and you were quite tall. you weren't very sure when the curiosity turned into blind attraction, maybe it was when you were observing him in a nightshades meeting, as he walked laps around the room looking for a book. his hand swept along the shelf, long fingers tracing the spine of books in a way that made you shiver. or maybe it was his little habit of biting his lip whilst he was concentrating in class. you stared at him quite a bit in class, to the point you were surprised he hadn't caught you.

all of this came to a head, when you were called for an emergency nightshades meeting. you decided to go a little early, browse the shelves. and it seems someone else had the same idea was you, because when you walked in rowan was already there. sitting in his usual corner, book in hand.

"hey." you said, waving awkwardly.

rowan didn't jump at you presence, he didn't even look up. he just replied a curt, hello, and re-focused on his book. you frowned, not expecting him to be rude.

"what are you reading?" you asked, walking over to him and dropping your bag to the floor.

"nothing."

"your clearly reading something.." you pestered, and it was then that the book simply lifted itself off his lap and flew back to its position on the shelf.

he looked up at you smiling, "am i reading something?"

you laughed, deciding that rowan wasn't rude, perhaps just a little awkward.

"i'm y/n." you say, extending a hand, then immediately pulling it back in, thinking better of shaking his hand.

rowan laughs, a light and breathy sound, before extending his hand out to you. you smile down at it, before shaking it firmly.

"i'm rowan, charmed to meet you." he says, a joking air to the statement, he was continuing with the old timey-joke.

and you laughed, leaning against the wall next to him and sliding down. rowan sat above you, looking down.

"your new?" he questioned, and you nodded.

"whats your.. power?" he asked, shrugging at the choice of word.

"i can read minds." you said, simply.

and it was then that rowan freaked out a little, sitting up straighter and brushing his hair away from his forehead. his hand came up to loosen his tie, in an action that had you a little flustered.

"like can you tell what i'm thinking?" he asked, nervous for your answer.

"no, i'm not really good at any random peoples thoughts, but if i touched you, i would know." you answered.

rowan relaxed a little.

"when i shook your hand?" he asked.

"nope.. too short of contact." you replied, and he nodded.

"where as if i.." you reached up, placing a hand on rowans upper arm, clutching it softy. rowans eyes flitted down to your hand, gulping at the contact, and trying to keep his thoughts pure.

you closed your eyes, focusing.

"shes touching me.. god rowan think of something else. what were you reading in that book? you can't remember can you because she walked in. think positive.. i wonder if she can tell what i'm thinking now?" you smiled softly to yourself.

rowan observed your reaction.

"she's smiling.. why is she smiling? shes really pretty, wait no stop! look away."

your breath catches in your throat. and you grip his forearm a little stronger, unknowingly propping up your tits in the shirt your wearing.

"shit.. look away.. no don't look, god she looks good in that top. why does this have to happen? surely she can't tell what i'm thinking.."

you pull your hand away suddenly, surprising rowan.

"uhh.." you say, standing up quickly. rowan does the same, standing in front of you.

"listen- i well-" he begins, and is then cut off by the sound of footsteps.

"y/n!" enid cheers, running forward to give you a small hug.

"hey." you say, forcing your eyes away from rowan.

the rest of the nightshades filter in, grabbing chairs and placing them in the circle. for the first time, rowan moves his chair in, and directly opposite you. he holds eye contact as he does so, in a way that makes you feel hot, eventually having to move your eyes away from him.

bianca begins talking, but you can't focus, because rowan is staring directly at you. and you look at him quickly, taking in his spread out legs, and relaxed posture as he leans against the chair frame. its a position that he you thinking all kinds of things you shouldn't, and has your thighs squeezing together, something rowan takes notice to. and then you feel it, a slight shiver that runs down your left thigh. your mouth widens a little, looking up at rowan, who is full on smirking at you. his hand his slinging off when chair, but his hand moves, and you feel that invisible trail run up your other thigh.

you shuffle in your chair, heart pounding. and then rowans trailing up both your thighs, getting further to the soft skin of the inside of your thighs. it has you shivering in your jeans.

"you cold?" yoko asks, leaning over to whisper in your ear.

"p-perfectly fine." you say, crossing your arms, and pressing your thighs together for some relief.

yoko gives you an odd look, before turning back to focus on the debate between wednesday and bianca.

the invisible hand stops, and you breath out, hoping for a break, but a tickle runs along the the underside of your boob, and you gasp, surprised. the invisible lean circles your chest, brushing closer to your hard nipples. yoko shoots you another strange look. nudging enid.

"y/n? everything good?" enid now asks, catching the attention of the group.

and you turn to answer, but then rowans swiping along your nipples, and then theres another trail that runs along your thighs at the same time. and you gasp, clutching your chest quickly.

"yes, y/n are you alright?" rowan perks up from the other side of the circle, a small smirk on his face. and you glare at him, after all your strange behavior was his fault.

"do you want to go back to the dorms?" yoko asks.

"i can take you-" enid offers, but shes soon cut off by rowan.

"i'll take her." he says quickly, getting up. and your pulled off your chair, rowans hand on your waist, walking up the stairs, strange looks following you.

once your out of the room, the secret door securely closed, rowan has you pressed against the wall, his hands still on your waist. your chest is heaving, and wetness has pooled in your underwear. you feel overwhelmed, and rowans face so close to yours doesn't help.

"how are you feeling, sweetheart?" he asks, and your brain momentarily short-circuits at the nickname.

"i-" you stutter out.

and rowan leans closer to your face, a smile still planted on his face.

"do you want me to.." he trails off, eyes falling to your lips.

"god yes." you murmur, hands pulling at his shirt, until hes impossibly close to you.

and his lips are on yours, and he doesn't even wait before his tongue is gliding along yours. his hands fall from your waist to your hips, pulling you against him. and you can hear his thoughts, so loud there almost screaming at you.

and he's thinking about how good this kiss is, and how he wants you, now. and he thinks he can maybe take you right now against this wall, but then anyone could walk past, not to mention the nightshades. and then hes thinking about how your tits are pressed against his chest, and how your hips are grinding against his.

and your flooded by his thoughts, your thoughts, the overwhelming attraction. and you squeeze your eyes tightly, trying to turn it off, wanting to be able to think.

you break contact, leaning back as his thoughts disappear from your mind.

"my dorm?" he whispers, hands still on your hips and face only centimeters from yours.

you nod and then your rushing to his dorm, stealing short kisses as you climb the stairs, and then your stopping altogether and rowans got you pressed against the wall next to the stairs, again. and he's kissing you with such intensity that you feel dizzy.

the kiss is broken and rowans holding your hand, as he guides you the rest of the way to his dorm. as soon as the door is closed clothes are being thrown off in a flurry, eyes raking across each others bodies. rowans kissing you again as he pulls you over to the bed, falling back down. your on top of him, and you instinctively straddle him, grinding down. rowan groans out at the pleasure. you've only got your panties and bra on, rowan only in his boxers.

and he breaks the kiss, to trail his hands from your hips up to the sides of your bra, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. his hand comes up to unclip in, revealing your breasts. rowan can't help but moan at the sight, hands palming them lightly. his real thumb trails along your nipples, and you throw your head back at the feeling.

he continues to palm your boobs as he leans up, placing kisses along your neck, something that will surely leave a hickey. you pull away, slipping down until your off him. you tilt your head at him, smirk playing on your lips as you snap the band of his boxers. he watches, eyes wide and pupils blown. you pull them down slowly, eyes also widening as his hard dick slaps against his stomach. your fingers trace along his happy trail, right to the base of his cock, an action that has him panting. your thumb teases over the head of his cock. rowans loosing it, the pleasure too much. your sit up, raising your hips so you can take you panties off. shuffling forward again you hover above him. rowan watches as you sink down onto him, moans leaving both of your mouths as you bottom out.

"holy shit.." rowan mumbles, and your thinking just that as you start to move your hips.

rowan hips thrust up into you, and you moan out his name. leaning down to kiss him once again, you set a rhythm. rowan can't seem to decide where to touch you, his hands are on your hips, your boobs, your waist, your cheeks and you smile at his eagerness. and then finally his hand trails down further then your waist, towards your clit.

"rowan.." you pant as he presses his thumb against your clit, circling lightly.

your rhythm has been broken, your movements erratic as pleasure clouds your brain. rowans groaning belief you, as you clench around him.

"so, so good baby." he says, kissing along your collar bone to leave more hickeys in his wake.

your so close, and you can tell rowan is too. your hand comes up to pull at his hair, something that his him practically crying out, hips stuttering against yours. and you do it again, and rowans moaning out as he finishes inside you.

his hand continues to work against your clit, and then your cumming too, head thrown back and vision blackening as you cry out rowans name. you fall down onto his chest, and his arms wrap around you, both your chests heaving as you come down from your high.

a kiss is planted on your forehead, as rowan slowly moves you off him. your tired, body exhausted from your efforts. rowans up and getting a towel to clean you up, and one of his shirts to cover your body. and then hes back in bed, allowing you to cuddle up to his side. his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and kissing you one last time before you fall asleep.

[prokopetz]

On the topic of the Halloween tropes post, I could think of at least one example of most of those tropes, but I don't play enough indie horror games to get ALL of them.

Got some relevant recommendations? Spooky Season doesn't end 'til January!

(With reference to this post here.)

Sure, with the caveat that I'm not going to specify which of the cited metanarative horror tropes appear in each example – that would be spoiling things, after all. I'm also going to skip anything super widely reviewed and focus on the more obscure stuff, so no giving me a hard time for leaving out Doki Doki Literature Club. =P

Discover My Body is at the top of this list for alphabetical reasons, but it's also a great one to kick things off with. It's a narrative point and click game where you play as a medical intern observing a volunteer as their body is slowly consumed by a fungus. Packs an amazing quantity of body horror into a very short playing time. Free to play.

eversion is one of those games where everything looks cheerful and then surprise it's really a horror game. Sort of a precision puzzle-platformer, though light on the "precision" and heavy on the "puzzle" – most of the challenge comes down to routing, not execution.

The Fall is a point-and-click adventure game masquerading as a light metroidvania, in which you play as the onboard AI of suit of powered armour, tasked with getting your incapacitated pilot to safety. At the time of this posting, it's 80% off for the next 12 hours thanks to the Steam Hallowe'en sale.

Lily's Well is, I'm going to warn you right up front, one of those "awful shit happens to a cute little girl" games. It's handled in a mostly text-based, fate-to-black fashion, though, without any of the leering that often characterises the genre. It's about a girl who's been left alone and told not to leave the house; she, of course, does not listen.

NaissanceE is a first-person exploration title of the "you wake up in some alien ruins and need to find your way out" variety. Mostly a walking sim with some puzzle elements. Free to play.

Ossuary is a surreal quasi-RPG set in purgatory, in which the gameplay is built around inventory puzzles based on gathering and equipping various sins (which are apparently physical objects). Nonlinear and kind of obtuse – don't be afraid to consult a guide.

Perfect Vermin is a gory, low-bit first person action game where you're tasked with identifying shapeshifting monsters that impersonate furniture and killing them with a sledgehammer. If the aesthetic of this one grabs you, you should also check out the developer's prior title, Swallow the Sea; both are free to play.

Please, Don't Touch Anything is sort of pushing the definition of "horror game", but my post, my rules. As the title suggests, it's a locked-room exploration game where you're presented with a mysterious control panel and sternly advised not to touch it.

Stray Cat Crossing is what you might get if you took one of those super-artsy psychological horror JRPGs and took out all the combat, leaving only the exploration and puzzle-solving elements. Content warnings for child injury (including eye trauma) and death.

The Swapper is a twin-stick puzzle game whose central mechanic involves the use of a gun which can create copies of yourself and "swap" your consciousness among them. In spite of the visuals, the horror is almost entirely psychological rather than visceral.

They Breathe is a linear survival game about a frog exploring a flooded forest. Short, minimalist, and unreasonably effective at communicating a narrative with no narration whatsoever.

We Know the Devil is a branching-path visual novel about a trio of kids at a Christian summer camp being forced to participate in a bizarre ritual where they're left alone in a cabin overnight to confront the Devil. Strong themes of religious abuse, in case that wasn't clear!

(Widely reviewed games that I considered but ultimately left off in order to avoid loading down the list with stuff you've likely already heard of include Axiom Verge, the aforementioned Doki Doki Literature Club, INSIDE, Omori, OneShot, Oxenfree, Return of the Obra Dinn, and Yume Nikki. If I've guessed wrong and any of these have escaped your radar, definitely check them out as well.)

EDIT: As a reminder for everyone trying to add their own recs, if you include off-site links in a reblog, Tumblr automatically hides it from the notes pane and nobody but you can see it. Drop those titles without links if you want your recs to be seen by anyone who isn't you or me!

[thepatchycat]

Hi! For the WIP List Game: Dragon Jedi AU?? I am intrigued

Hehe, that one is inspired by @bubblew0lf1's Dragon!Jedi AU! I adore all of their dragon designs, especially Obi-Wan's, and it got me thinking about a sort of fantasy AU where the Jedi are shape-shifting dragons. I'm not sure it's something that'll ever become a finished thing, but it's been fun to think about.

Rambling and a snippet below the cut :P

This AU's setting would condense most of the notable SW planets into continents/countries/cities on one planet; there wouldn't be any space travel, though technology would probably be better than in a medieval fantasy setting. Dragons are rare and I'm thinking the knowledge of their intelligence and that they can also be people is not well-known (either a closely guarded secret or actively suppressed)--and they're also being actively hunted by the Republic/Empire under the justification that dragons are extremely dangerous (this is Palpatine's fault, and he has far more nefarious reasons for hunting them down). I haven't worked out all the worldbuilding details, but I think the Jedi are a subset of dragons who serve as guardians where they can; recently, though, they've been forced to hide due to being hunted.

In this world, Cody and Rex are wardens (possibly heading up a small group of rangers) of a large woody/mountainous area bordering a very rural town far from the center of the Republic; the land was claimed and the town founded by the Mereel-Fett family after unrest in Mandalore forced Jaster Mereel (Jango Fett's adoptive father, Cody and Rex's grandfather) and his clan to leave. Mandalorians have a complicated history with dragons, but Jaster liked to tell stories about Tarre Vizla, a Mandalorian leader long ago who either was close friends with a dragon or was a dragon himself; details passed down through the centuries seem unclear. Jango's never been that interested in the tales, but Rex and especially Cody enjoyed them growing up.

Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Ahsoka moved to the town together pretty recently; I think Obi-Wan runs a bookshop (or maybe a small library? A fusion of the two?), while Anakin works as a mechanic who's teaching Ahsoka the trade as well. Cody likes to read and chats with Obi-Wan when he stops by for books, while Rex brings the rangers' equipment to Anakin and Ahsoka for professional servicing (Rex tinkers a bit himself, but Anakin's a wizard) and they become fast friends. Of course, the friendly neighborhood bookkeeper and mechanics don't tell anyone that they're also dragons, including the Fetts, but Cody and Rex find out the truth eventually.

The only thing I actually started writing for this beyond notes is a scene just after Obi-Wan (in dragon form) fights Grievous (also a dragon but not a Jedi) somewhere deep in the Fetts' protected area. Cody had been doing a sweep/patrol at the time and witnessed at least part of the fight, and he goes to investigate the aftermath.

Warning that it's more gruesome than I usually go, what with blood and a dead dragon. This is just also the most snippable portion of what little I have, I think.

There is a deafening thud, and then— Silence. Cody slowly approaches the edge of the ravine and looks down. A hulking white shape lies still at the base of the rocky slope, red pooling under its gash-ridden body. It’s hard to tell from a distance what precisely killed it, but the lack of motion and abundance of blood suggest that either it’s dead or will be soon. Partially obscured, a smaller brown shape lies behind the great white beast, closer to the river; it seems similarly bloodied and still. Cody feels a pang of sorrow—that one had saved his life, whether intentionally or not. …Better make sure they’re dead, lest any survivors roam too close to town. Cody picks his way carefully down the side of the ravine, shifting between stepping and climbing as needed. When he’s made it to the bottom, he draws his rifle and approaches the white dragon. There is no movement between its sharply defined ribs, and up close Cody can see where the base of its throat has been torn open by—well, horns or claws, most likely. He follows the long neck up to the head, where dull yellow eyes stare sightlessly out from behind a gaping maw. Cody prods its nose lightly with the tip of his rifle. No response. Tempting as it still is to put a bolt in its skull, he’s hunted enough himself to know what death looks like. There’s no need. He steps around the body of the beast toward the visible back of the brown one. One of its wings lies bent at an unnatural angle behind it, and— It’s breathing, quick and labored. Not moving otherwise, but still alive, at least for now.

(Once he works out he's not going to get mauled to death for trying to help, Cody puts his wilderness first-aid skills to use. He still doesn't learn that it's Obi-Wan for a while, though.)

[princess-ibri]

It's great to write for the established characters as well as create new OCs, but have you ever done the relatively rare thing of picking out a nameless background character and giving them a name and backstory?

I have actually yes! There's been quite a few background characters I've had little head canons for, mostly from Beauty and the Beast,like the guy driving the cart at the beginning is Lefou's older brother, and the girl he waves to is the older sister of the littlr blonde girl Belle pats on the head.

Or the Little Mermaid 2, with the kids, human and mer. I had names for all of them at one point but can't remember them now xD The blonde merboy was Urchin from The Little Mermaid Animated Series' son though.

The one reall obscure ones I got into were some people in the very last scene of Beauty and the Beast.

There's a girl in green I was going to have her be an apprentice to the Enchantress. But I ended up scrapping the story idea, before I ever did any art, it just no longer fit in with what I was making with my DisneyVerse. But perhaps I'll go back and rework who I think she is one day.

There was also this handsome looking bloke who I had the idea of being a half-brother/illegitimate brother of Prince Adam due to the similarities but decided to nix that idea.

Atm he's the human form of the Music Box, deleted character who was expanded in comics to be the only enchanted object in the castle that started out as an object, not a human. In my version he gained a human form when everyone else turned back, and he looks like young Prince Adam because the music box was a cherised toy of the prince when he was young.

(But tbh I'm not entirely sold on that idea either but its there for now)

Also I'm fairly sure this tall lady in green is the Enchantress

More info about the Music Box under the cut

Taken from the article on the Disney Wiki which I can verify is true because I actually happen to have this comic. But its in one of my many boxes now as I'm moving :p

Oh but they have a picture of the cover/production art so that works too!

In a short-lived comic book series set before the events of Beauty and the Beast (not to be confused with the Marvel comic book series set during Belle's stay at the castle), the Music Box was given a very important part in one issue (specifically Issue 1).

In that issue, it is explained to Chip by Mrs. Potts that unlike the other enchanted objects, the Music Box was never human, and he has been in fact the Beast/Prince's favorite toy. Although Chip along with the Beast likes his music, Cogsworth tends to look down on the Music Box as a "primitive creature".

In an amusing scene where Lumiere tries to coach the Beast in the art of courting by using Fifi (here called Marie) as an example, the Music Box is called on to supply the dance music. The Beast has grown to depend on the Music Box to lull him to sleep with his music, so that when he accidentally smashes him during one of his tantrums, he is devastated.

Lumiere and even Cogsworth are grieved as well, commenting that although he was different than the rest of them, he had a "heart" just the same, and are left wondering if they can put him back together again. The fact that he is seen in the movie at the Battle scene as well as during the Marvel Comic would seem to indicate the positive.

Thanks for the ask!

[i-identify-guns-in-posts]

hey dude can you actually explain like. gun basics(of like identification and like idk 'ranking' or something?)? I don't know jack shit but guns are p cool and I'd like to learn what better than on this wonderful tumblr page. if you can't thats fine I love you bro

Well the very basics of identifying a gun is of course what kind of gun it is. Is it a handgun or a shoulder weapon, there you can keep kind of subdividing, pistol or revolver, smg, assault rifle, carbine, pump action, lever action or bolt action, etc. once you got a good idea of what kind of gun it is, you look for specific identifying marks. like the shape of the handguard, the magazine, the pistol grip or lack thereof, the stock, and, most importantly, writings on the gun, a brand name a model name. And if it something you already know, congrats ! just check and make sure you're right.

If not, then try to find info on the setting. What year it is, what country, what character, how is it used, and it will narrow the list of weapons it will fit. Then using those info, you research.

If the picture you're seeing is from a movie, tv show or video game and that you know the exact piece of media it is, check the imfdb page, chances are it's been identified already. If not, well why not create the page for that movie?

If all of these fail, what i do is i go look for very wide listings of the type of gun i'm looking for. Like online gun stores, some imfdb pages, or even just. google image. You'd be surprised how many times you google something vague only to find one obscure website that talks about precisely the gun you're looking for, and then there we go, you got it.

If i got a specific manufacturer name, their website is often a good place to look for, if the weapon is a modern civilian model of course.

[timdrakesbussy]

Goblin Destroyer: How the Internet Revived an Obscure Local Band

This is something that suddenly appear in my mind when I was waiting for a public transport near my campus but like ... Stardew Valley's aesthetic looks like they're in the 90s in rural Northern America/Western Europe (though still cmiiw since I don't live in neither of those regions).

So then I thought about Sam's band and the real life band called "Panchiko" where the internet basically rebirth this band. (If you want to know about the band, here's a video)

And I randomly think about some kids somewhere in the SDV-verse came across Sam's band's LP (I'm gonna go with Goblin Destroyer) and asked online forums about it but none got anything so far. Doesn't help the fact that the LP was credited only with their first names which are very very common names. The names in the back of the LP only says Abigail, Sam, and Sebastian with their roles which are drummer, guitarist/vocalist, and keyboardist/synth in that order.

OP then gave more information, like how the label seemed to be from either the late 90s or early 00s and it was obvious that they were from the Republic of Ferngill. Small problem though, Ferngill Republic is not a small place. Sure, it's not a big country, but it's still going to be hard to find the people who contributed to this record, especially since it was decades long. Regardless, this was a step forward. 

I personally think they would not take too long (like Panchiko irl) because of my personal headcanon of Sebastian being chronically online even to his fourties.

The forum was very popular with many tried to remaster their songs or figure out just who they were. So then Sebastian rolled around and was like, "Holy fuck, I can't believe you found a copy of this. Thought they threw them all away in Zuzu City back in '98."

AND PEOPLE WERE SHOCKED AND ASKED IF THIS USER HAS A CLEANER COPY BUT THEN HE WAS LIKE, "lmao I'm the Sebastian credited in the back of the LP. Sadly, no. I do not have the cleaner copy, but I think my husband do keep some in his previous house when we still lived in the Valley."

Obviously, people were skeptical because the internet lies a lot. But they still gave him the benefit of the doubt because this was more information than they previously tried to dig. It was true that Goblin Destroyers were from Ferngill, specifically Zuzu City, and it was correct that they were from the late 90s.

Few months went by without a follow-up so most people just brush him off as hoax because that's what they usually did to lost media, claimed to know and kept it somewhere but unattainable for some reason.

That is, until another user joined the forum and introduced himself as Sebastian's husband who has the cleaner copy back in his old home. The husband was apparently, a very important piece in the band because he was none other than Sam -- another name crossed off the list.

Sam apologized and claimed that it took him longer to find than he expected and to compensate, he and Sebastian did a digital remaster for the LP and will put it to streaming services alongside their previously unreleased tracks.

With the band finally found, some questions arrived. Most of the questions were about Abigail, the drummer of the band, and also about them in general. The only things they knew so far were that Goblin Destroyer was a prog metal band from the late 90s, Ferngill, and that two out of the three members are married to each other.

The two claimed that they had no idea where Abigail was; the last time they saw her was when they still lived in their hometown. Sebastian then mentioned that she joined something called "The Adventurer's Guild", and one of the last things they did together was go to the forest and watch Abigail's improved swordsmanship. That was almost twenty years ago. They just hope that wherever she is, she's alive and well because she was their best friend.

They then ended the forum with pictures of them when they were young and some band photoshoots, needless to say that social media will be filled with their pics for a few months or so because of how attractive they were. The couple also added a recent pic and well, they're still handsome as hell.

It took them a while to finally return as a band; they were not the young adults in a small town who were bored and annoyed with how their parents coddled them anymore. They are middle-aged with a family and jobs, so yeah, it took a while for them to perform again. Eventually, though, they were back as a band. At least a duo for a few months, releasing a new single after twenty years.

Goblin Destroyer did not tour or participate in any music festivals until they were hit by a surprise, Abigail finally returned to the band. She revealed that she's been busy with the guild for over twenty years and is a mentor, so she was so out of touch with the news. She also revealed that she figured out that they went viral through her mentee, who told her about it.

Finally, the band was back in business. This was the dream that Sam had thrown away, and to actually have it tenfold decades later was exhilarating, to say the least.

[beevean]

Rank your top 5 Belmonts And if you have the energy/desire to do more: Rank your top 5 Castlevania games Rank your top 5 Castlevania tracks

5) Richter. I don't think much of the guy, but undeniably he is a very important figure, the symbol of the cracking of the Belmont legacy. At first, he's a hotblooded shonen young warrior, full of energy and life and will to fight... and then we learn that the will to fight is actually an issue, because after he defeated Dracula at age 19, he found no other reason to live.

4) Simon. Got higher up to the list in recent times <3 he's the Belmont, without any drama or obvious flaw. But I've come to like that about him, and admire his feats in Simon's Quest that show that he's not just a formidable badass, but a very noble man too, willing to even bury his foe out of respect.

3) Leon. He deserved none of that :( Leon is another Belmont mainly defined by his noble nature, perhaps to a fault (my good man why are you storming a vampire castle without a sword). His shining moment is, of course, him rejecting Mathias' absurd proposal: he may be full of anger against his former friend, to the point of swearing vengeance and dooming his descendants to a lifetime of fighting, but he also refuses to fall into the pit Mathias won't escape from, and has the perfect rebuttal for his inane logic and indirectly Dracula as a whole: "But defeating him... No, preventing others from suffering the same cursed fate... That was Sara's dying wish... Granting my beloved's wish. That is all I can do to prove my love to Sara. Eternity without her would be nothing but emptiness."

2) Juste. The golden child in deep denial :D It's a bit unfair that he gets reduced to "Alucard Belmont" and at most praised for his OP powers, but hey, he's not the only one. He has an interesting personality if you read between the lines, from his brashness that contrasts with his angelic looks, to how fervently he forces Maxim to keep Lydie in the dark. Also he's the king of interior decor :P

1) Trevor. He's the Sonic of Castlevania. He invented the Superpower of Teamwork™. He's kind and helpful to those he considers his friends and a terrifying menace if he thinks you're in his way (he won't ask first). He has the Legs of all time. His theme slaps an inordinate amount of ass. He's shaped like a friend and I love him <3

(a close runnerup would be Christopher, because I really like the concept of an older Belmont, who thought that could retire, nyooming to rescue his son from Dracula's influence <3 a prelude of things to come <3)

~

I was sure I had already ranked them, but perhaps I need to remake the list anyway...

5) Adventure ReBirth. Admittedly it's been a while since I replayed it, but I have fond memories of it as far as Classics go. It's simple, it's well designed, it's fun, it has kickass remixes (Aquarius <3) I wish it wasn't so obscure because I think it's the best entry point for those interested in the genre.

4) Portrait of Ruin. Y'all sleep on this title unfairly. Jonathan and Charlotte are very fun to play as, the gimmick of the paintings allows for new locations rarely explored in the series, it has an interesting mission system that makes the game more fun to master, and an OST that seriously deserves more love.

3) Curse of Darkness. Yes, it's noticeably flawed, from the mindnumbing level design to the obtusity of Forging. It's not a game I can pick up whenever I want, the only reason I can't put it in first place. But aside from that, it honestly feels like it was designed just for me and my tastes lmao. The fighting/crafting/raising loop is incredibly addictive and reminds me of the Sonic Adventure games <3 and ofc, as you could tell, I'm in love with the characters and story :P

2) Symphony of the Night. The one, the myth, the legend. Describing it feels like a waste of time. It's a timeless classic for a reason. It may not be perfect, but much like Super Metroid, I think the atmosphere is so well crafted that it pulls you in regardless of any issues you might have. It's an experience to be had.

1) Harmony of Dissonance. Oh yeah. This game is stupid fun to me. I just pick it up and play it to wind down. The ability to dash in both directions makes it a 10/10, then you add the spells that are fun to experiment with, the breakability, the COLORS FEEL SO RIGHT, the eerie music (yes it's good! it's good!!! fight me!!!!), Maxim Mode...

~

I was also sure I had this list... how could I pick only 5 tracks from this giant, beautiful repertoire...? D:

5) Chapel of Dissonance. Unlike many of the tracks in this soundtrack, this one is perfectly hummable and sweet. It fits the beautiful sky like a glove, and it may subtly reference Divine Bloodlines which is a stroke of genius :)

4) Lost Painting. SoTN abunds in jaw-dropping tracks, but this one feels uniquely magical, and it plays just in the right areas of the castle (a chapel, a library, and icy caves). It sounds like a sad lullaby sung to Alucard, and I hear reluctance to venture further and fight.

3) Garibaldi Courtyard. I have no clue why this mundane area in the game has music that brings me to tears. Similar in atmosphere to Lost Painting and Fog-Enshrouded Nightscape, but with CoD's more modern sound. I don't know how to put into words the profound sadness I hear here.

2) Dracula Battle (SCIV). I cannot gush enough about the genius of this track as the final boss theme. It never gets faster, or drop a harder beat: you only get these long strings and this complex arpeggio for an unsettling atmosphere. I said back then: "It sounds like you're quietly resigning yourself to your fate. You will die. But that's alright. He will die too."

1) Leon's Theme. This could pass for a classical piece. It's perfect in every way. You can almost touch Leon's sorrow and anger - you can hear the fingers pressing on the piano! It gets you pumped to reach the end of the game, and you get to grieve with Leon for the terrible night he's going through. Special shoutout for the part at 1:34 for sounding like the aforementioned Dracula theme.

[chrisairgames]

Thousand Empty Light (TEL) Playthrough, #1

In September 2022, I playtested Alfred Valley's Thousand Empty Light. Haus of Valley created a gorgeous physical object, an innovative Semiotic Standard Oracle system, all set during a treacherous plunge to an abandoned research station at the bottom of an alien sea.

Imagine my astonishment when Alfred created a storyboard detailing my character's tense entrance into the research station! After all this time, I'm finally posting the play-through in its entirety, week by week. I hope you enjoy the adventure of...

Lamplighter Tammy Brunhilde

Fair Warning: I roll far, far too often for Stats/Saves in this playtest, much to the detriment of Tammy (though honestly, it was very fun and tense).

Letter of Last Resort

My dear loved ones, I must leave you. My total {Admin use} is not in vain for I have helped build a greater future. I want to say thank you for everything. I will always be with you. Tammy Brunhilde, 12/09/4022

Caisson (West)

Tammy turns back to make sure the entrance is properly sealed. She scowls at the P-U bot’s repetitive, boring chattering, and takes the Letter of Last Resort from its simple clamper hands. The pressurization is uncomfortable, especially in the ears, but not worse than Colonial Marine “Special Maneuvers” training. Or the real thing. The stinkbot takes her to the personnel lift, warning not to confuse the small obviously human-sized one for the fuck-all huge cargo elevator.

“What kind of people do they hire for this job who’d think that was for a person?” she asks the wheeled robot, as it wobbles alongside her, one tire flat. The bot drops into a litany of Company jargon and she wishes she’d have kept her mouth shut. She takes out a cigarette, lights it, kicks the bot aside when it gives her lip about smoking, and gets into the elevator.

Semiotic Standard Oracle: Interference (confusion/obscurity)

The trip down is claustrophobic and eerie in its silence. The ocean deadens all sensation. Lack of light too. Worse than being in space. When the lift doors open, the power in the room is fluctuating, lights flickering.

SAN Save Target 25, Roll: 24

The MemoComm terminal fritzes static, unresponsive. Tammy turns on her flashlight to navigate the room to the generator.

Athletics/SPD Target 42, Roll 83. Roll 1d5 Damage: 3 DMG

Semiotic Standard Oracle: Storage (reliability/utility)

Tammy trips over torn up locker units that have come unattached from the walls. The raw shredded metal catches her Fatigues, and tears through, scratching her shin. The cut isn’t serious, but her fatigues are ruined.

She looks through the trashed lockers and finds a Diving Bell (reskinned Vaccsuit). Deeming this better equipment, she changes into the Bell, though grumbling about it slowing her down. Using the Bell’s headlamps and her flashlight. Tammy takes in her surroundings, noting the location of power systems, and tries to discern what happened here.

Military Training/INT Target 45, Roll 70

But the darkness and disarray is too chaotic. If she had more time to commit to this, she might understand what or who had done this, but that shit’s above her pay grade. Still, doesn’t portend well for this job.

The Power Systems aren’t too terribly fucked, luckily. She decides to take her time, as they really can’t be bothered by Hazmos bitching about the landing Section being all fucky.

Ind Equip/INT[+] Target 45, Roll 97/11. Critical Success.

1d20 Hazards: Bud

Bud Instinct Check Target 70, Roll 85

Quickly, Tammy finds the culprit: Nesting within a breaker-server is an owl. Clearly bionic. It doesn’t seem to notice Tammy. She reboots the breaker-server, knowing she only has [1d5] 3 minutes before the power wakes (maybe zaps? didn’t get a great look at what it’d done with its nest) the owl. They hightail it to the decontamination corridor.

Athletics/SPD[-] Target 42, Roll 12/45

Just before the lights come on, Tammy slips over a pool of blood from...

1d20 Hazards: Unidentified Leviathan-Class Cephalopod

Fear Save, Target: 40, Roll: 80 (lol, was going to have the lights zap Bud if I passed)

The lights come on, and Tammy sees her feet tangled in the axe-severed tentacles of some sea-monster still wrapped around a strangled Lamplighter. She screams and then hears a hooting screech from behind.

Panic, Target 6, Roll 11.

The bionic owl swoops into the open floor of the Caisson, and Tammy rushes to get behind and close the contamination doors.

Bud Instinct, Target 70, Roll 76

Tammy seals the door in time to see the bionic owl swoop back out, its steel claws gleaming in the light. 

MemoComm

Western Caisson in total disarray. Some sort of fight. Found remains of giant tentacles, and a Lamplighter. Didn’t have time to find their ID because a bionic owl, nesting in the generator rooms, came after me. I had to run. Moving on to the actual job now. Section 1…

Section change Panic Check: Target 6, Roll 13. All good.

Stay tuned for the continuing adventures of Tammy Brunhilde, Lamplighter...

[tanix-dragon]

One With the Hive: Being a Silithid Wasp

FINALLY getting around to making a post about my third kintype--the silithid wasp 'type that has finally made me take the label "fictherian" for myself. Thank @who-is-page for this because of his post asking people to please talk about their obscure identities. This is also crossposted from the fictionkind dreamwidth--if my cohost is going to be running the damn thing, I'm going to post on it whenever applicable. :p Anyway, The Post.

Very slowly over the course of.... I don't know, the last year or so, I've been chipping away at some kind of insectoid kintype. How I arrived where I am was quite the journey, and I'm still discovering what it means to me to be the kind of creature that I am. I hold out no hope of finding other silithid, nevermind other silithid wasps: maybe I'm just putting myself out there with this 'type out of the hopes that seeing something so strange will make someone else feel better about their 'type.

Brief mentions of animal death below the cut, as well as insects, of course.

I consider myself a fictherian because of this 'type: the silithid are a fictional "race" (as they're described in-game and on the wiki) of giant, cunning insectoids from World of Warcraft, a game that my hearttype (Netherwing dragons <3) is also from. The silithid hatch out from eggs laid by a queen into larvae that glow with bioluminescence, lighting their giant underground hives made from materials found in the environment and various excretions. Eventually, those larvae can grow into one of many shapes: ant-like workers, giant scarabs, scorpids(?), wasps, large soldiers called reavers, or even larger and stranger forms, such as the colossi.

Silithid are animals. They are members of a hive, and individually, are not particularly intelligent. They possess an animalistic cunning, yes, and as a group, their hivemind can make them quite tactical, but at the end of the day, they are just extremely large insectoid creatures. Silithid do not talk, do not have higher reasoning--this is the source of my calling this a theriotype in addition to a fictotype. Hence my taking on the label fictherian--I don't remember who coined it, but whoever it was is a genius.

Being a wasp... I don't know. Wasp on its own isn't enough. I've never felt any kind of kinship with wasps, with the forty or so who struggled into my home this past autumn and trapped themselves inside the light fixtures. A certain fascination, yes. When I was younger, a terror, sure. I love watching them sit still and clean themselves, and as of late, I feel a kinship with that, at least. Arthropods love to be clean, and will spend a tremendous amount of time ensuring that they are. That's something I can relate to: when I get into a shift, I want to paw at my face and eyes to wipe them clean, run antennae through my mouthparts to make sure that they're clear of debris.

Maybe part of my fear of wasps was an instinctive that's dangerous response. Would I know, since I am one? Was one? I don't know the origin of this kintype, spiritual or psychlogical: I don't know, since I've always been drawn to the silithid since I was a kid, playing WoW and stepping into a silithid hive for the first time. The buzz and hum, the glowing orange lights in the purple and yellow-brown interior, the almost plastic shine of everything that wasn't dull and rough... I wanted more. I wanted to be there. Stepping into the desert ruins of Ahn'Qiraj, the entire raid devoted to the silithid and their insectoid/humanoid qiraji creators/masters, servants of the Old God who created them... I had a fixation on it from as young as perhaps eight or nine, as soon as I had a character high enough level to see that content. The music is really something else, too--look up the Ahn'Qiraj music on YouTube for me, both the interior and exterior. You can see why it might sink into a kid's mind as the Coolest Thing Ever. Was I in love with the hive because I remembered it being my home? Or did my love for it, totally normal and human (if autistic) in nature, form the kintype? Who am I to say? It doesn't matter that much to me.

The wasps weren't even my main interest. Sure, they're bigger than a human, come in fun colors, have a stinger that could pierce a human's torso (and I do mean pierce), and have some kind of strange bladed legs that let them slash at opponents--but it was the scarabs and reavers that really drew me in. I felt a kinship with the reavers, some kind of family instinct, and now I think it's because the reavers and the wasps are the main protectors of the hives. The reavers are strong and tanky on the ground while the wasps come in from the air, more delicate but more damaging. They must work together to be effective. As for the scarabs... I don't know what job they performed. The game devs don't seem to know either. But they're slow. Well-armored, sure, but slow, and probably in need of protection. I love real-life scarabs, too: I love looking at them and I want to touch them and protect them. Beetles are just cool.

But I'm not one. My shifts usually encompass the mouthparts (what I got first, and what started this whole search for a kintype, after years and years of getting them and thinking nothing of it even after being in alterhuman circles for four years) and the wings, which I know were big enough to carry me and not protected like a beetle's are. I've gotten noemata since latching onto the idea of being a wasp, too: noemata of things like being up in one of the cells high on the wall of one of the hive chambers, crawling partway out and clinging to the wall, looking down at some tunnelers--workers--passing by below, scanning to make sure that there was nothing else trying to sneak by with them, no nasty little invaders from the mortal races. The silithid had been at war with humans and other mortals since the beginning: there was no love or trust lost between them. I can also "remember" flying over the dull gray-brown sands of Silithus, I think, either patrolling for threats or hunting for food. I can hear the buzzing of my wings, the hot, still air of the desert around me. My shifts drive me to chew up wood and other organic materials, to help build structures in the hive like the one I rest in out of these chewed materials glued together by a kind of glue-like salive-esque excretion. I want to chew my wooden desk so badly some days.

And it all just feels like home, like I know what I should be doing and there's no ambiguity to it. It's part of being a greater whole, a cog in a machine, a cunning, ferocious beast who will die without hesitation for the hive, for the qiraji, for the Old God that spawned my kind. No sense of right or wrong, good or evil: only feed and protect and kill. It's like my deathclaw kintype in that way, and it's comforting in a shift, sometimes. I can escape the worst of my emotions and worries by just thinking, a silithid wouldn't worry about this. A silithid would just press on--eat, fight, survive, until the day came where it had to die to protect its hive, and it would do so without anxiety or a second thought. The hive must be protected. There is no ambiguity in that. And if orders came over the resonating crystals in the hive, sent by the intelligent qiraji to the silithid, telling them to swarm, march, move, or do anything else? There's no ambiguity in that either. Obey. Do what instinct demands, whether that be the simple defend-kill-feed-sleep loop or something more complex, something darker.

It's a strange mindset to peer into as an individualistic, intelligent being that is also dragonkin, of all things. As if a dragon would not think about their actions! As if a dragon would ever take orders! But that's the oddness of being alterhuman, isn't it? The pieces of your identity that don't always align nicely, that are so separate from one another that they could only coexist in the you-that-is? It's strange, and fun to think about, and part of the joy of being alterhuman, at least to me. Picking apart your identity, delving into each piece, and then stepping back and going well, that was weird. 

I don't have much more to say other than this disorganized ramble. Not yet, anyway. I'm still exploring this kintype and I'm sure I still have a lot to learn about it. Maybe I'll talk about my haphazard, crawling Awakening sometime, but that's a long and meandering post on its own. Thank you for reading. ^^

[dragonmarquise]

Everyone keeps talking Abt all the crews and stuff, but like, I never see any content for futurism! Sure there wasn't a lot of stuff for them since they were like, a really small part of the plot, but it would still be awesome to see content for them!!!! So I come bearing a question, do you have hcs for futurism?

Ooo, I have a few for FUTURISM! Not as extensive as my stuff for Devil Theory and DOT EXE, but still. :>

(I know some people kinda debate writing it as FUTURISM vs. Futurism, I'm gonna personally keep all caps but I also understand most people probably don't care either way lol)

Also feel free to send in asks about the other crews/characters too! I might not have a lot for each character though. I also have a general list of LGBT+ headcanons for all the BRC characters, if that interests you! Granted, it's probably not as extensive as some other people's lists.

Anyways, gonna put this under a Read More, it won't get nearly as long as the other two headcanon sets, but it'll be long enough that I'll feel bad about posting this without one. ^^;

I like giving all the crew members themed names, and for FUTURISM I went with computer-related terms! Some of them more obscure than others. So for the members (besides DJ Cyber of course):

Jazz (Related to the Chorus/Jazz version of JavaOS)

Quantum (i.e. quantum computing)

Veronica (an old search engine)

Nyx (The name of a prototype Amiga chipset, though also Greek personification of the night!)

I have a personal idea that after the events of the game, one member from each of the major crews end up joining BRC, basically representing the unlockable characters in the post game. In this case, Nyx is the one who joins BRC (and in my mind she's the default Spring palette in the game), so let's start with her!

Bi, currently dating one of the Eclipse ladies (inspired by this very good fan art btw :D )

All of the FUTURISM gals have amazing skills both with computers and as writers. Nyx ends up being one of two Designated IT Person for BRC, the other being Cueball.

Her and Cueball get into little prank wars, mostly instigated by Cueball for the hell of it. Her opinion of him ranges from genuine respect for his own computer skills to Chump Lord Supreme. Depends on her mood (and how much Cueball has recently pissed her off before asking her about it, lol)

As for the rest of BRC: "Well, they're still kinda chumps, but I guess they're my chumps now, y'know?"

Not afraid to be snarky, even to authority figures (DJ Cyber included)

Now for Jazz (Summer palette):

Is actually a guy who crossdresses! Does drag shows on the weekends too. :D

She is personally not very picky about pronouns, but most people default to referring to Jazz with she/her while in her writer outfit or as her drag persona (she goes by Jazz for both anyways), and he/him when he's not dressed up. But again, not very picky either way.

"I'm just saying, when the cops try to chase me down, they're gonna be looking for a blonde woman, not a guy with dark hair and stubble. Literally, one time I ran around a corner and managed to take off my wig and mask, then just covered up my top with a hoodie I had. Same pants and shoes, but they didn't even notice!"

Truthfully the crossdressing thing was genuinely just for fun, not to mention pretty comfortable while going around doing writer stuff. It wasn't until a while later that she realized it would make for a great disguise as a writer. :P

Nyx and Jazz are basically Besties and will be more than happy to smacktalk about their respective crews behind everyone's backs, lol

Now Quantum (Winter palette):

Runs an underground (kinda literally) server farm for local web hosting, chat sites, and forums. Anyone remember forums? Man, the good ol' days...

Has a hand in a lot of open source freeware projects. Hates companies like Adobe, Apple, Google, and Microsoft with a passion. Big Linux nerd btw, she will talk you ear off about the pros and cons of different distros if you let her.

Actually on that note, if you're not talking to her while she's out and about as a writer, or otherwise talking to her about computer stuff, she's fairly introverted! Especially if you try to talk to her in person instead of via text/chat/email/etc, she's basically more talkative online.

Also very good at sneaking around. Though not really as like spying or anything like that, she just prefers to not get in people's way or annoy them. Unfortunately she has scared DJ Cyber more than once by sneaking up on him by accident, lol

Wears contacts as a writer, but otherwise wears glasses normally. Has been considering getting prescription heavy-duty goggles for her writer activities, so that she doesn't have to bother with the contacts anymore.

And finally Veronica (Autumn palette):

She is genuinely a jerk. Nyx can be snarky sometimes, but not in an overly mean way. Veronica will be more than happy to be nasty to someone if she thinks they deserve it, even if they really don't.

Always looks down on pretty much any other writer outside of FUTURISM. She's still convinced Felix cheated to get his reputation, especially the whole "did it with no boostpack" thing.

Most people would probably consider her a stereotypical Karen ngl :u

So yeah, she's basically That One Teammate Nobody Likes. Veronica is only still in the crew because her skills are second only to DJ Cyber himself. Hell, he really doesn't like her attitude, but can't find a replacement for her in terms of skills. (He's begged Vinyl to formally join FUTURISM in the past, but she always declined, preferring to keep being a freelance writer. And now that she's part of BRC, she's definitely not an option for replacing Veronica, lmao)

She had a crush on Faux, but these days refuses to admit it was ever a thing.

That's about all I got I think! Hope you enjoy these. :>

Small bonus, specific track from the game that I associate with FUTURISM the most: Funk Express!

[captorcorp]

THE DREAM MACHINE GAME SPOILERS (post-game rambling)

if i had a nickel every time i experienced media with an AI trying to give birth to itself in a human baby form through the protagonist's wife - i'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

on a whole i'm really >:3 about this game though!!! i should've known from the title (which is why i got it ofc) but just wasn't sure if it'd live up to my expectations for either the dream aspects or the machine aspects, i think it did for both though

the dreams could've been more dream-like in logic at some times (though i feel like they usually did feel p dreamlike), though with how difficult the puzzles were already maybe it's a good thing they weren't lol i did like the environments though like the wife dreaming of being the captain of a ship where all of the workers are clones of her husband, the stressed nurse dreaming about a cool fantasy land where she's the village medic, the wfh guy dreaming having some weird cube-like dream land that nobody expected but most of it being manipulated by the machine controlling him...

decent amount of dream psychology mentioned, specifically jung's collective unconsciousness (is that a zero escape reference??? /j) and some freud mention iirc? the disk-shaped shared realm of dreams that people start from the center of and move towards the edge as they age while being able to traverse the plane between people's dreams as well is an interesting concept - feel like i haven't seen that many games come up with their own dream lore like that. at that part in the center with the prenatal barrier and baby dreams being raw potential energy and such, i hadn't heard as much about that irl so looked it up in case it was some obscure theory i hadn't heard of before but didn't find anything unfortunately ^^;

also love the ending in like chapter 5 where you can just. choose to start working with the machine instead after almost killing it, i didn't expect them to give us that option. sorry to my pregnant wife but you're saying i can inherit this dead guy's whole repertoire of dream research passed down for generations and explore the dreamscape as i wish with this cool sentient eldritch machine? fuck yeah let's start hiding the bodies /hj (jk I would go help my wife if i were victor. but i'm not i'm the player and i want to learn about dreams.)

also re: the machine itself i thought it was a neat character ^^ was a bit ??? at what it's goals were at first, bc obviously the mortons were using it to map the unconscious but then it wasn't clear if the machine also wanted to do that or had its own agenda, but self preservation of its sentience and trying to maintain its existence by leaching from the dreams of others was a good motive. and then also 🥺me when the ai is lonely and misses its friends (and accidentally kills them when they stop giving it unsuspecting residents to feed off of but dw about that)

very 👀at that bit in the 3rd floor neighbors' dreams where we found out it was trying to build itself a body in the dream world out of dream npc's organs so it could move around the dream world as it wished without the clunky tentacles that kinda just stay in one place and die. another one of those things that's like 'bro it's a dream you don't have to be that thorough about it to make it work' but i get it with the weird shared dreamscape lore this game has set up and it was a very 'bro wtf' reveal. gotta respect trying the frankenstein method

actually that makes me think. are dream npcs sentient in this universe??? i was just thinking about it like 'at least it was just stealing organs from npcs and not people' but idk how this fits with the collective unconscious lore.

also i do have to address the ending of the game besides just that 2 nickels joke (the other media was demon seed btw. was a pretty disturbing watch ^^;;). that one bit felt like the stanley parable hole ending and the other bit felt like the 2001 a space odyssey ending. the playing god part was very ??? i didn't know what to think of it at first (still not sure) and this is the only screenshot i took from that portion.

that whole final colorful shifting area with the victors of different ages reminded me of the denver meow wolf exhibit (i haven't been yet but from the pics i've seen of it on the site). then i saw the area with our mother giving birth to us and i was like. Ah. Unfortunately this game has given us a lot of experiences with climbing inside of small holes, even when they're inside other people...

was also surprised that we just took up the machine's offer to share our consciousness and stay stuck in the dream world. feel like it'd be more effective to give us some options there and have multiple endings, but i guess if it was us (machine loses too much power to survive outside of the dream) or our child (would grow up possessed by the machine irl) makes sense as a trade, our poor wife though... i do like dreams but being stuck in the dream world forever like that would be OTL i am glad the machine got to survive though

anyway my final review is. puzzles were pretty hard so thank you steam and yt walkthroughs. ending was weird, it was too metaphysical for me to fully wrap my head around but i do like the artistic vision. game on a whole is good especially when you're autistic about dreams and ai characters, played it for like 10 hours straight. dream machine is my favorite character (no surprise). why did the game make us unbirth ourselves.

misc screenshot dump:

normal teatime conversation topics

cool machine diagram

NOOO i forgot to get a picture of those fuckass pumpkins that make you lead a government. love those guys