#i think honestly 80% of the reason i wrote all this out is because i know absolutely nobody else is going to do it for me

[lorillee]

alright everybody. its finally time for my ace attorney investigations 2 retrospective/excuse to talk about the von karma-edgeworth family soap opera for a few thousand words. ive never been good at intro paragraphs so we're just gonna get right into it. this is gonna get long probably so be warned - i was originally going to put it under a cut but unfortunately doing that breaks the image format for some reason so uhhhh we're both just gonna have to live with it 😔 obviously this post is going to have major unmarked spoilers so if you havent played this game for some reason yet you should definitely get on that. anyways. without further ado:

investigations 2 is kind of ultimately about who edgeworth was and who edgeworth is and who edgeworth wants to be, explored via the lens of the nature of parent-child relationships and how parents' legacies impact the decisions their children make and the people they become.

at the end of aa1 (+rfta), edgeworth is confronted with the harsh reality that his mentor/adopted father & the man who taught him everything he knows about prosecuting is 1) a terrible person and 2) did actually have a habit of using forged evidence to keep his 40 year streak going. after being accused of corruption for having used fake evidence himself (unknowingly, but still), edgeworth goes on his whole journey of "what does being a prosecutor even mean, anyways" by means of worlds most melodramatic fake suicide. the answer he ends up arriving at is that defense lawyers and prosecutors, when they have relatively upstanding morals and are given the tools to actually do their jobs, serve as vehicles for the truth, and cannot reliably fulfill this duty without each other. however, the question has always kind of lingered - "well, what about being a defense attorney like gregory?"

phoenix routinely brings up the class trial as like the most formative memory of his own childhood - that experience is inherently tied to who phoenix is as a person - but that trial literally only exists because edgeworth was imitating his father in being a defense attorney. the main character of the main series' inspiration for becoming a defense attorney is intrinsically tied to "back when edgeworth was "good", before manfred "corrupted" him". its because edgeworth becomes a corrupt prosecutor that phoenix chases after him into law school - this apparent complete and entire betrayal of phoenix's whole understanding of him as a person.

so then, now that edgeworth is "good" again, why doesnt he quit the whole prosecutor thing and go back to his childhood dream of becoming like his father?

this question is kind of just left up in the air until investigations 2. with the prosecutor investigation committee being completely corrupted, they make it abundantly clear they dont appreciate edgeworth sticking out of line in an attempt to do his literal job, and try to control him by threatening to take away his badge. furthermore, shields, gregory's old companion, shows back up and works with edgeworth to find the the truth of a handful of incidents that would've otherwise been covered up by the p.i.c. - including gregory's last case, in which he proved that manfred, who prosecuted that same case, did indeed forge evidence.

after relinquishing his badge in a protest against what is clearly an injustice, manfred's old habits being dredged back up, and the extended hand of the man in charge of his father's old law firm, edgeworth is getting pulled in a number of different directions - will he capitulate, give up on prosecuting entirely, run away from his past, and become a defender of the people and an attorney like his father? or will he reject manfred's terrible methods while working to rectify his mentor/adopted father's wrongdoings, face his past head-on, and seek the truth as a prosecutor, regardless of his mentor's legacy and reputation?

both of the paths offered to edgeworth hinge on who he used to be - a boy who wanted nothing more than to be like his father, a phenomenal defense attorney who stood up for those who had nobody to stand up for them, and a young adult who saw the injustice in the world and wanted to punish it in the best way he could think of - becoming like his adopted father who never failed to put a (seemingly) guilty person behind bars.

investigations 2 gives us..... a whole slew of parent-child relationships. like what can only be described as truly an impressive amount: gregory & miles & manfred, master & katherine, sebastian & debeste, gustavia & simon, dover & knightley, blaise & sebastian, courtney & john, lang's dad & lang, and more tangentially manfred & franziska and byrne & kay. for our purposes, though, we're going to focus on the most immediately relevant ones to edgeworth's development specifically - sebastian & blaise and gustavia & simon.

for starters, i think it would probably be best to get the von karma-edgeworth family soap opera soapboxing out of the way.

edgeworth's arc in this game primarily revolves around what he wants to do with his life - he talks a whole lot about his "path", but doesnt really know what that means outside of seeking the truth at all costs. the people around him like to slot him into either "defense attorney" or "prosecutor" for a variety of reasons, but more often than not it ends up boiling down to his fathers in at least some capacity.

franziska is personally betrayed and frankly disgusted by edgeworth giving up his badge (which makes plenty of sense, particularly after their conversation at the end of aa2 and which i have talked about here), and a notable portion of that does have to do with her & manfred's relationship to edgeworth. manfred's influence was a huge factor in miles' decision to become a prosecutor, and they both know it. of course, the more pressing issue for her is the fact that miles is abandoning her again - but the point remains that had it not been for manfred, the likelihood of miles becoming a prosecutor would be, frankly, much lower.

shields, on the other hand, spends a whole lot of the game projecting gregory onto miles. he wants edgeworth to follow in his fathers footsteps and play the role of the returning prodigal son, because he misses gregory and sees a lot of his influence and mannerisms in miles. actually, something i kind of found particularly interesting is that at one point, shields remarks that edgeworth's trademark glare was the same as that of gregory's. theres a whole lot of remarks made on that glare, actually, particularly in combination with edgeworths furrowed brow.

but... shields himself is the one who says this

about - would you guess it - a certain manfred von karma. its no secret that miles has picked up a whole number of manfred's mannerisms and attitudes, even as he's unlearning some of the more harmful ones, but what i found particularly fascinating is that shields saw something that miles picked up from manfred and saw gregory in it instead. while part of it certainly could be that miles did pick part of it up from gregory (which is something that has a basis in the sprites - something i may actually get into a little bit later), its also very possible that this is shields projecting what he wants to see onto miles as opposed to what's actually there. its even more interesting though, because when they first meet, shields actually mistakes edgeworth for manfred because of that glare

shields is so caught up in wanting gregory back from the dead that he occasionally blinds himself from acknowledging that miles is an entirely different person.

and, of course, throughout both this game and the previous investigations game, there's more than a few moments in which edgeworth personally accused of using falsified evidence to convict people - specifically harkening back to our good friend manfred von karma, posterchild of world's most corrupt prosecutors and edgeworth's adopted father/mentor. shields even expresses immense distrust of miles at first simply on this fact, acknowledging that miles was indeed like a son to manfred (..... for whatever that's worth)

actually. while we're here on this point i want to speak briefly about sprite similarities

this game does a whole lot of calling attention to the influence manfred & gregory have had on miles - obviously theres the furrowed brow & piercing gaze and terrible people skills that miles got from manfred, but he also has gregory's affinity for tea and dorky camera face. the sprites also do a great job in visually establishing his inherited mannerisms though - while manfred's influence has done a lot, gregory's habits still peek through the cracks.

ive talked about this a little bit on another post, but i feel like it warrants repeating here anyways. the sprite animations in ace attorney are great for a lot of reasons, but one of the most interesting ones is how they're frequently used to imply connections between characters and the influence of certain relationships.

we know that miles definitely did not get his bowing from manfred, but with gregory's sprites in this game it becomes abundantly clear where they originated from (of course, with the over-the-top melodrama of the von karmas added on top). similarly with miles' hand bounding sprite, its a pointed finger (giving it an accusatory tint, definitely coming from manfred), while gregory's is an open hand (much more inviting), but the bounce nonetheless remains. the sprite similarities between miles & manfred are a bit more straightforward, but something i find tremendously interesting is how the mannerisms miles picked up from his father have the von karma influence absorbed into them - it really is a brilliant visual indicator of the impact both his fathers have had on his character.

i've talked about this general topic semi-extensively on this blog simply because i am truly a bit obsessed with the von karma-edgeworth family soap opera, but i feel like it warrants repeating here anyways since it comes up in this came so often. miles' relationship with gregory is... honestly not really explored terribly much? like shields will reference him a lot and both him and the game itself absolutely loves comparing the two, but as far as edgeworth's personal feelings on gregory go... we. honestly don't get much, either directly or indirectly. which makes sense, obviously - edgeworth was like 9 when he died - but its still interesting. we obviously know that gregory loved edgeworth a lot (see: him thinking about miles periodically throughout the investigation . which is. for the record. absolutely adorable)

but miles doesn't get much of anything at all in terms of internal or external dialogue about gregory. his relationship with manfred, however, is... a lot more messy, but also explored a fair bit through implications.

mr von karma gets brought up a lot in both investigations 1 & 2, and miles' reaction is largely the same - he'll comment on objective facts (usually ones that were brought up in the first by the people around him) whether its manfred's skill in prosecuting or his tendency towards forgery, but blatantly refuses to ever give any sort of subjective opinion on him (franziska is, for the record, the exact same way). theyll dance around the topic, sure, but never genuinely engage with it - as much can be seen if you make edgeworth present his badge to amano in investigations 1.

while franziska's feelings on her father are a lot more obscured, miles' are a little more openly messy - after all, he still keeps his prosecutors badge in his pocket all these years after manfred told him prosecutors who wore their badges are tacky. he still wears the jabot, an integral and iconic bit of manfreds attire (and another thing that made shields briefly think he was manfred). he still has no problem connecting with and helping manfred's old friends (amano, for example). and, mostly damning of all, he still keeps his old prosecutors outfit - the outfit manfred gave him based off of his own suit - plastered to his office wall. its clear that he doesnt approve of manfred's methods of prosecution and recognizes that he was definitely corrupt, but even with all the murder and framing and so on and so forth... manfred was still his dad. even if its not logical for miles to still hold on to that filial love, you cant really argue your emotions into changing into something rational.

with the repeated importance being placed on the influence of gregory and manfred on miles' life, their relationship to him, and other people's expectations for miles based on their legacies established, i think we can probably try to get into sebastian now. gonna be copy-pasting most of my sebastian vs miles & franziska mini-essay here because i dont want to retype it.

sebastian is actually a kind of interesting foil for franziska and miles - its pretty clear that franziska didnt become a prosecutor specifically for manfreds approval (see: miles’ comment on her always having been a prosecutor) and likewise with edgeworth (see: his statement on his motivation for becoming a prosecutor having been to chase down criminals after what happened to gregory), but throughout the flashback case in investigations 1 it is so obvious that both of them desperately crave manfred’s approval even to the point of competing over it.

while this competition follows the usual format of franziska insisting on something and miles passively going along with it as opposed to actively engaging, he spends the entire case literally trying to be a mini-manfred (its very sad and also kind of cute), and its made pretty clear that at the very least he would not be the prosecutor he is without manfred’s influence. furthermore, at the end of aa2, franziska also comments on the pressures and expectations being placed on her by virtue of being manfred’s daughter - she felt that she was obligated to become a genius prosecutor simply because of her birth. while the wording indicated to me outside pressure rather than manfred specifically, the point remains that manfred, while not the sole driving reason, did have a significant impact on their career choice.

sebastian, however, specifically says he became a prosecutor for the purpose of getting his dad's approval. blaise routinely speaks ill of sebastian, calling him stupid and an idiot and embarrassing and so on and so forth, but its incredibly clear that sebastian is genuinely desperate for any sort of positive affirmation from his father. he unknowingly cheated his way through law school, graduating at the top of his class purely through blaise's connections, and is genuinely distraught when he finds out that everything he built his adult life on was a lie. the game spends a fair amount of time showing you how wildly terrible sebastian is at being a prosecutor, only to reveal that the reason he's like this is, like, 80% his dad's fault.

unlike sebastian, however, franziska and miles are both quite competent at their jobs and manfred, unlike blaise, actually has confidence in their ability to perform to his expectations (see: him bullying badd into letting them try to solve the case in the investigations 1 flashback case). sebastian & blaise are like a worse and caricatured version of the von karma family soap - basically, they're what would happen if miles & franziska 1) were absolutely dependent on manfreds approval and 2) weren't terribly good at prosecuting, and if manfred was 1) prone to coddling and 2) actively verbally abusive.

theres also the added parallel of “oops! my dad actually really sucks as a person” and the ensuing Complicated Feelings On Dad after this. franziska expresses an egregious amount of disdain for sebastian before we really get into the blaise debacle because she doesnt respect him as a person at all, but is honestly surprisingly sympathetic when it turns out his dad is a criminal. futhermore, she willingly relinquishes her place at the prosecutor's bench for him when its clear he's ready to stand up to blaise, even if hes crying and sobbing the whole way through. its this shared experience and his subsequent growing of a spine that earns her respect.

edgeworth, for his part, also doesnt seem to respect sebastian much at all before the kidnapping incident. however, upon trying to prod him into telling what happened, edgeworth recognizes a part of his old self in sebastian, as well as sebastians willingness to grow up and move past his desperation for his father's approval.

more than just being a funhouse mirror version of the von karmas, blaise and sebastians relationship highlights the dangers of blindly chasing after your parents, critical thinking long forgotten, which has a twofold meaning in regards to miles. obviously, theres the pretty straightforward parallel to his blatant idolization of manfred as a young prosecutor - while the situation wasnt necessarily the same, it still possesses those echoes of a desperate need for acknowledgement/approval, to the point of following their fathers' examples even in the worst ways. @/pkducklett left some really great tags on one of my posts which hits the nail on the head:

but it also begs the question: is blindly chasing after his childhood dream of being like gregory really what miles wants to do with his life? a point we'll loop back around to in a bit, but important to keep in mind for edgeworth's overall arc.

so onto simon & gustavia! simon's relationship with his murderous father gustavia also serves as a foil to miles and one of his dads like sebastian & blaise - however, instead of our notoriously trigger happy friend manfred von karma, it's actually.... gregory! which is, for the record, tremendously fun. simon & miles both became orphans at a young age - which is a notable part of the reason edgeworth agrees to take his case in the jail episode, even. the camaraderie between two people who have shared in the same traumatizing experience and so on and so forth - but instead of being taken from his son like gregory was, gustavia purposely abandons simon once he's deemed him worthless.

post-orphaning, both miles & sebastian are taken under the wing of men of questionable character - miles is adopted by manfred von karma, gregory's rival, murderer, and the anti-thesis of everything he stood for, and sebastian becomes the apprentice to dogen, a ruthless assassin. interestingly enough, though, this parallel diverges in the end - manfred throws miles under the bus and backs up over him like three separate times, metaphorically speaking, while dogen actively puts his life on the line to save sebastian.

miles & simon both experienced the injustice of the law system - miles in the absolute failure of the courts to find his father's true murderer, and simon in his personal experience in its utter corruption. their reactions to this injustice leads them both to commit further injustices - miles in uncritically adopting manfred's ideals and teachings, and in this process definitely sending innocent people to jail at some point or another, and simon in his attempt at semi-vigilante justice via manipulating all the people who ruined his life into either ending or ruining each others', regardless of anybody innocent who got caught in the crossfire.

of course, the narrative purpose of making simon a foil to miles is the final confrontation on three main points - 1) what does miles fight for? why is he a prosecutor? 2) how do you deal with the absolutely rotten law system in japanifornia? 3) are we simply doomed to become our parents, or can we become more than just their continued legacies? which naturally leads us to the final question posed in the thesis - the heart of the game - who does miles want to be?

shields spends a lot of time trying to convince miles to pick up gregory's mantle and join him back at the law offices, but the problem is that miles simply isn't the starry-eyed child who would do anything to be like his father anymore (growing up under the roof of one of the greatest prosecutors of one's time will do that to you). he's no longer the sebastian to blaise for either of his fathers - he cannot simply throw everything he's learned and experienced away in an attempt to imitate gregory, but also has soundly rejected many of manfred's most staunchly held ideals. while not all of them remain, a major part of the reasons he became a prosecutor still hold - even as he's abandoned his badge.

simon was what edgeworth could have become under slightly different circumstances, and he says as much himself. he recognizes that the law isn't perfect and more often than not is wildly abused by everybody in power to subject everybody else to their whims - and that, no matter how hard a defense attorney tries.... if the courts are inherently stacked against them, a corrupt prosecutor will inevitably win. at the end of aa2, edgeworth returns from his wildly melodramatic sabbatical with the answer that the prosecution and the defense need to work hand in hand to reveal the truth - which is, obviously, a correct statement - but there's more to it than that.

there's more than just the defendant at stake in trial - the protection of the victims (whether recognized as the victim by the law or not) are why the laws exist in the first place - this is the reason that edgeworth arrives at for his reason for being a prosecutor. its simon who reminds him of why he started down this path in the first place - the visceral pain edgeworth felt at his father's death and the desire for justice to be done for gregory and himself mirroring simon's feelings after being abandoned by his father and his flight after being the witness to a crime wildly corrupt people in power committed. to be what phoenix was for him in turnabout goodbyes - to be a beacon of hope and justice for the wronged - that is miles' duty.

edgeworth speaks a lot about following "his path" to truth, wherever that might lead, but at the beginning of the game doesnt seem to have a clear idea of what he actually wants to do. he stalls out on shields' many wink wink nudge nudge offers to join the defense attorney firm and be like his dad and continues acting like a prosecutor (indicting people, investigating, the likes) even while being stripped of his authority as one (by his own choice!).

ultimately it all boils back down to these three questions miles asks sebastian in the logic chess game post kidnapping - "what are you going to do now? will you walk the same path as your father? will you continue to be a prosecutor?"

much, much earlier in the game, shields says to edgeworth, "to fight crime as a prosecutor, or to save people as a defense attorney. i want you to think carefully about how you want to live your life from now on." - which, taken with the context of the game as an essay on parents and inheritance and manfred & gregory's influence on miles, is... pretty much the game in a nutshell, actually.

miles spends the entire time playing both defense attorney and prosecutor, indicting certain people and defending others throughout. this is arguably most notable in the flashback/flashforward case where all the members of the original is-7 investigation are there, except for manfred and gregory, who are both being stood in for by - would you guess it - our very own miles edgeworth. he is their legacy, their successor, and their inheritor. in the end, he takes the skills they taught him and the values they imbued him with and the lessons he learned from them to forge his own path - it really is just his final answer to shields' question in the finale of the game: "i want to save people as a prosecutor."

#ace attorney #aai2 #miles edgeworth #gregory edgeworth #manfred von karma #lorillee.txt #the von karma-edgeworth family soap opera #lorillee liveblogs aa investigations 2: electric boogaloo #ok if i left something out that i wanted to talk about SORRYYYY ive spent too much time looking at this thing and i want it out my drafts #i know this post will probably not get many notes simply because its a bit long but its MY soapbox and ill stand on it if i want to #anyways this game slays its like basically 50% of the ultimate von karma-edgeworth family soap opera thesis #also do not expect me to write anything like this for aa4 5 or 6 im just particularly deranged about this topic and these characters #i think honestly 80% of the reason i wrote all this out is because i know absolutely nobody else is going to do it for me #and i need. to share my vision. with the world. even if its rejected by like 60%-80% of the wider fandom #anyways the one thing this has taught me is that actually i would never be cut out for being a lit major #even for things i want to talk about i spend a million years procrastinating on it. because lord knows i am allergic to writing #also if you have something you want me to elaborate on ask me and i'll see what i can do 😎👍 #and be sure to follow me for more insane von karma-edgeworth family soap opera takes

[skeletalheartattack]

Why would I want to steal your collar bone when I have one of my own?

lets change that

#ask #sadcoffeeboi #honestly the reason i have that is because i liked how it sounded when i first wrote my bio #which was uhhh.... in 2017? 2016? #its meant to be read like ''well well well. kick me in the shin and steal my collarbone'' #id kinda want to replace it some day but idk with what #honestly 80% of the stuff in my bio and my buttons are all from when i made this tumblr #like my ''yell at me'' ask button n stuff #i dont think id replace that text though :) i still think its silly #although ive had one person do what the button asked with repeated A's. yknow like typing out screaming #that kinda sucked but. thankfully it only happened once #but yeah! #if i ever come up with a better phrase i like i might switch it up some day #but for now i will be consumed by violence and theft.... #hell on tha fuckin eart.... #thank you for the ask :) #this is a stickup :)

[yeyinde]

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him.  (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met. 

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really. 

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with. 

Stupid. 

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine. 

Because maybe you are, too. 

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent. 

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him. 

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you. 

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him. 

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married. 

And where does that leave you? 

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber. 

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both. 

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar. 

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet. 

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight. 

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush. 

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways. 

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape. 

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore. 

Moving on. Moving forward. 

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent. 

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness. 

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location. 

You send him your pin. 

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way. 

You met Kyle Garrick at university. 

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre. 

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met. 

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap. 

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care. 

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed. 

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth. 

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?" 

And that was that. 

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them. 

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him. 

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him. 

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain. 

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart. 

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square. 

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots. 

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring. 

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner. 

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots. 

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes. 

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest. 

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it." 

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you." 

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult. 

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes." 

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid." 

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it." 

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought. 

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot. 

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips. 

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain. 

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks. 

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all. 

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

Except—

It isn’t. 

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes. 

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know? 

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips. 

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him. 

He’d know, he said. 

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic. 

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around. 

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement. 

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken. 

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison. 

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat. 

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet. 

He seems to understand. 

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here." 

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance. 

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him. 

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it. 

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do. 

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area." 

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe." 

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—" 

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat. 

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame. 

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold? 

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish. 

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back. 

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy). 

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making. 

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away. 

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign. 

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now. 

Because you do. 

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too. 

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin. 

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences. 

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same. 

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam. 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing. 

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it. 

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it. 

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always. 

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him. 

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun. 

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. 

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free. 

Confessing goes like this: 

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears. 

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands. 

"...and that's basically it." 

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all. 

You want it. Want him. 

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam. 

But he isn't. 

He's here with you. Still. Still. 

"I just—," you say, or try to. 

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth. 

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated. 

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation. 

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence. 

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin. 

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain. 

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take. 

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air. 

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you. 

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind. 

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox. 

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke. 

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable. 

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames. 

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown. 

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home. 

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all. 

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it. 

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this. 

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration. 

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two. 

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food. 

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along. 

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling. 

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know? 

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #ehhhhhh #these are my sloppiest tags #i didn't feel like making a gif so i threw this together real quick #will fix in the am #when my eyes aren't on fire

[onlycosmere]

I wasn’t going to say anything about it because, frankly, I regularly read much better criticism of Brandon Sanderson on tumblr.

However, Brandon responded to that Wired article, so I’ll share his response with you all.

Brandon Sanderson:

All,

I appreciate the kind words and support.

Not sure how, or if, I should respond to the Wired article. I get that Jason, in writing it, felt incredibly conflicted about the fact that he finds me lame and boring. I’m baffled how he seemed to find every single person on his trip--my friends, my family, my fans--to be worthy of derision.

But he also feels sincere in his attempt to try to understand. While he legitimately seems to dislike me and my writing, I don't think that's why he came to see me. He wasn't looking for a hit piece--he was looking to explore the world through his writing. In that, he and I are the same, and I respect him for it, even if much of his tone seems quite dismissive of many people and ideas I care deeply about.

The strangest part for me is how Jason says he had trouble finding the real me. He says he wants something true or genuine. But he had the genuine me all that time. He really did. What I said, apparently, wasn't anything he found useful for writing an article. That doesn't make it not genuine or true.

I am not offended that the true me bores him. Honestly, I'm a guy who enjoys his job, loves his family, and is a little obsessive about his stories. There's no hidden trauma. No skeletons in my closet. Just a guy trying to understand the world through story. That IS kind of boring, from an outsider's perspective. I can see how it is difficult to write an article about me for that reason.

But at the same time, I’m worried about the way he treats our entire community. I understand that he didn’t just talk about me, but about you. As has been happening to fantasy fans for years, the general attitude of anyone writing about us is that we should be ashamed for enjoying what we enjoy. In that, the tone feels like it was written during the 80s. “Look at these silly nerds, liking things! How dare they like things! Don’t they know the thing they like is dumb?”

As a community, let’s take a deep breath. It’s all right. I appreciate you standing up for me, but please leave Jason alone. This might feel like an attack on us, on you, but it’s not. Jason wrote what he felt he needed--and as a writer, he is my colleague. Please show him respect. He should not be attacked for sharing his feelings. If we attack people for doing so, we make the world a worse place, because fewer people will be willing to be their authentic selves.

That said, let me say one thing. You, my friends, are not boring or lame. In Going Postal, one of my favorite novels, Sir Terry Pratchett has a character fascinated by collecting pins. Not pins like you might think--they aren't like Disney pins, or character pins. They are pins like tacks used to pin things to walls. Outsiders find it difficult to understand why he loves them so much. But he does.

In the book, pins are a stand-in for collecting stamps, but also a commentary on the way we as human beings are constantly finding wonder in the world around us. That is part of what makes us special. The man who collects those pins--Stanley Howler--IS special. In part BECAUSE of his passion. And the more you get to know him, or anyone, the more interesting you find them. This is a truism in life. People are interesting, every one of them--and being a writer is about finding out why.

In that way, the ability to make Stanley interesting is part of what makes Pratchett a genius, in my opinion. That's WRITING. Not merely using words. It’s what I aspire to be able to do. People are wonderful, fascinating, brilliant balls of walking contradiction, passion, and beauty. I find it an exciting challenge to make certain that the perspective of the washwoman or the monk sitting and reading a book is as interesting in a story as that of the king or the tech-mogul.

And I find value in you. Your passion for my work is a big part of why I write. You make my life special. Thank you.

(NOTE: I do want to make it clear, again that I bear Jason no ill will. I like him. Please leave him alone. He seems to be a sincere man who tried very hard to find a story, discovered that there wasn't one that interested him, then floundered in trying to figure out what he could say to make deadline. I respect him for trying his best to write what he obviously found a difficult article.

He’s a person, remember, just like each of us.)

#brandon sanderson #cosmere #branderson #root #cfsbf #wob #kind of #long post

[kogji]

Christopher Nolan clears up my confusions about tsctir

A while back I wrote two posts about tsctir and its writers’ witless and unworkable plan for protection that I found insultive. I received some comments from fans that made me wonder how they could ignore the most obvious facts. It sounded like self-deception or forced justification to me. I, honestly, couldn't get it out of my mind how they can't see such transparent things. I needed to know the reason behind it.

I mean;

>>> Of course, one who walks on a dangerous path would keep the existence of his loved ones a secret so as not to disrupt their peaceful lives.

>>> Of course, family is precious in all cultures and they can and will be used against you, especially if you are on bad terms. The former Duchess of Sussex and Prince Harry are solid evidence for this.

>>> Of course, throughout history, the lower class has been neglected, damaged and suffered the most.

>>> Of course, a doting person uses all his resources to assure his family is in the best condition.

>>> Of course, someone who is kidnapped, assaulted, hospitalized, and limping to dungeons cannot be considered protected.

I could go on and on, but the fans don't notice these flaws in story at all. And this was very strange and incomprehensible to me. How can hundreds of thousands of people close their eyes on something at the same time? That's how Christopher Nolan came to my aid.

His acclaimed movie The Prestige, an adaptation of the novel by Christopher Priest, is one of my favorites. The story is about the long-term feud between two magicians. Somewhere in the movie, the main character's mentor says this about spectators of magic trick:

"Now you're looking for the secret. But you won't find it because of course, you're not really looking. You don't really want to work it out. You want to be fooled."

Audiences always just want to be entertained. Having a critical view and looking for logic spoils the fun. You have to fall in the trap that the writer has prepared for you so that you can have a good time and enjoy. What is good about Christmas if children don't believe in Santa Claus?

The tsctir writers knew that the moment they declared Yoohyun as an devoted brother, the fans would only shed tears and praise him. No one questions the avoidable dangers and tortures that Yoohyun inflicts on Yoojin for almost a decade. No one thinks about him not using his recourses to protect his family. Any harm to Yoojin and the guild would never be able to restore its image but no one questions why a professional business man would ridicule Yoojin to flatter his boss instead of handling him as a threat to the future of their guild. No. It's no fun too look, think and see the truth.

Attack on Titan fans consider Eren who killed 80% of humanity and destroyed cities, a hero. Why wouldn't tsctir fans consider Yoohyun who made Yoojin's life a living hell, a devoted brother?

Writing about tsctir and getting to know the opinions of fans and trying to make sense of them was very educational for me. I guess I should read The Art of Thinking Clearly book by Rolf Dobelli again.

#the s classes that i raised #s classes that i raised #tsctir #my s class hunters #han yoojin #han yoohyun

[shrekgogurt]

An ask game for writers to procrastinate working on you WIP(s)

Thanks for the tags @theearlgreymage and @wellbelesbian !!!!

🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s)

For the sake of this endeavor I’m gonna focus on I Knew A Boy, I Knew A Man which is also more affectionately referred to as IKABIKAM, eyecab eyecam, 👁️🚕👁️📸, etc.

🍄Describe your wip/one of your wips in the format of “___ + ___ =___”  

Natasha as like a vaguely Margaret Thatcher figure but she was in office in the late 90s not the 80s don’t think about it too hard okay the exact policy/praxis doesn’t matter so much as the ideology/vibes/dynamic + Davy (The Mage) as like a fucked up Welsh caricature (of his own design) because he’s overcompensating and has the media literacy of the worst film bro you’ve ever had the misfortune of talking to = their sons falling in love through football/soccer against all odds as juxtaposed between childhood and adulthood.

🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your wip(s) need if you intend to share it?

Trauma

🧭An alternative title to your/ one of your WIP(s)?

Solsbury Hill for obvious reasons

⚠️Which wip you’re most likely to finish or update next?

This one :-)

💾What is your document of your wip/ a wip called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

Okay, I’m usually absolute ass at naming files in any helpful fashion but this project is so organized on Google Docs. My notes app is a different story. Those don’t even have titles. I just launch into my whims as they come.

Most interesting answer I can give is that the folder containing all my fic documents is titled “kill the part that cringes.”

🖍Post Any sentence from your wip

Listen, I warned y’all.

To be in love with Simon Snow—a life sentence, an encyclopedia of grief.

♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP

In the original musings of IKABIKAM—titled Scarborough Fair as the club was gonna be in Scarborough—Simon was Irish rather than Welsh and raised by Ruth. I know. Wild to think about now. But it’s true. And then I did some excavating on canon and the story we have today was born. Lost to time (the original idea of this fic which was actually two fics) is a whole very fun scene. I had planned that after the international break match against other, Simon convinced Baz to go out on the town with him. I wrote this snippet back then. It didn’t make the cut for obvious reasons and honestly I don’t know how much I stand by the characterization. Or the prose. Everything about IKABIKAM is better to me but this sexy little number deserves the people’s attention. I’m slightly concerned it’s offensive.

They’re playing INDUSTRY BABY in this club right now? I’m not dancing with Simon Snow to a Lil Nas X song. That music video…I’m only a man. I’m also not exactly sober. I will not risk a Snow relapse. Besides, Snow himself just downed the rest of his drink.

He leans toward me to say something. With the combination of his drunkenness and his accent I can barely make out his words, “eye gahta gohbakta da barrr.” (Translation: I’ve got to go back to the bar.) He really doesn’t.

I pluck the glass from his hand, “this last one is on me.”

He goofily smiles. His head is drooping to the side and his eyes are half-lidded. It would be adorable if I wasn’t worried about him falling over. I scan the room. One of the other Irish players is nearby. I hook Snow’s arm in mine (both my hands are full!) and drag him towards his teammate. He stumbles behind me looking completely blissed out.

I tap the other player on his shoulder. Clancy I think? The left winger. “Hey, I’m going to force Snow home so he can avoid a stomach pump. Could you make sure he doesn’t wander off while I close out my tab?”

He nods. I throw Snow at him and maneuver through the crowd up to the bar. It’s packed. I finish my own drink before I can push an opening to order. The bartender nods at me. She looks worn out from the night. I don’t blame her.

“Soda water with lime please.”

“Sure. What’s the name on the tab?”

“Grimm-Pitch. Could you close it?”

She nods and turns on her heel. A minute or so later she returns with the drink and my card. I take them.

“Is there any chance I could close out my mate’s tab too. He’s pissed.” I gesture back at the direction of Snow and Clancy. A circle of women have surrounded them. Honestly, fair.

The bartender gives me a wary eye. “What’s the name?”

“Snow.”

“Snow? Like the footballer Simon Snow over there?” She points at Simon.

I nod. The bartender scoffs, “Sure I’ll give Simon Snow’s card to some random Englishman.”

Random Englishman? Am I really going to have to do you know who I am this woman? I go for a subtle approach and just sort of lift an eyebrow and draw attention to the name on my own card: Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. The realization hits her. I was afraid I would have to tie my hair up.

“Oh shit. Fuck you’re Baz Pitch.” She stares at me. I hold out my hand. “Right, the card!” She hands me Snow’s card.

I nod, “Alright. Thanks.”

She shakes her head at me, “No, sorry for the hassle. Have a good night English…defensive midfielder…Baz Pitch.” She says my name with a laugh like she’s awestruck I’m in this Dublin nightclub (fair), “and thanks for the win today!”

I’m beyond tired of hearing that line.

When I return Snow is having the time of his life: posted up surrounded by ladies singing along to Ayyy Ladies. They’re not being subtle in their flirting. (Again, fair. Good for them.) Snow is incredibly respectful despite being off his face. Good lad. He’s still far too drunk to consent to anything so I don’t feel terribly guilty for pulling him away from the grind fest.

When he sees me approach he lights up, “Baz!” His arms fly open. “Took you long enough.”

I hand him his drink. There is a blonde woman dancing on him. She throws her arms around his neck. He knocks back the drink and chugs it in one go. A little water dribbles down his chin and he wipes it away with his thumb. It catches on his bottom lip. He hasn’t looked away from me once. And this fucking song…

“When I hit it from the back, don't fuss, don't fight

When I put it in ya mouth, don't scratch, don't bite”

I need to get the fuck out of here.

He hands me back the glass, “That drink was awful. What was it?” His speech is a little less slurred than before.

“Water. I’m taking you home.”

He blushes, “What?”

“You’re plastered. So, you should get sick in your own loo rather than on this lovely woman,” I give the blonde a wink. She dances away.

I’m pretty sure tabs aren’t even really that much of a thing in Ireland. And like…I don’t think you can close them out for someone else. So like. I don’t know what the fuck I was on while writing that. Obviously not Google.com, or reality. But most of all I was absolutely jump-scared reading that back and discovering I was gonna make Baz a defensive midfielder? WTF!?

🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

A hockey one-shot. Whenever it happens the chirps are gonna be out of this world.

🤡How many Wips are you actively working on?

One in a way that’s meaningful. Maybe two. It’s a fresh thing.

🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

The chapter is really expositional in an isolated way and so I have to backtrack for context without being boring.

❤️Not a question, just a second kudos to send.

Blessed beyond belief.

Now tagging @artsyunderstudy @brilla-brilla-estrellita @cutestkilla @facewithoutheart @hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @ileadacharmedlife @j-nipper-95 @noblecorgi @prettygoododds @thewholelemon @valeffelees @roomwithanopenfire @youarenevertooold @you-remind-me-of-the-babe omg and @emeryhall tell me everything

#ikabikam #bonus content

[nerdieforpedro]

Weekend Update

12/03/2023

Nerdie, you’re making this a thing now?

Yes! I have to keep ya’ll updated on what’s going on.

Well, what did you read this week?

Many wonderful things:

I will again sing the praises of @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin three part series “When My Time Comes Around.” You’ll feel all the emotions and be thankful that you read something that touches you deep in your soul. 😭 She also attacked my heart again on Frankie Friday with bittersweet angst in Tender is the Night. I'm a fan of the melancholic greatness that is Angie.

So...you like reading about sad things?

There's more to it than that. Just go read her fics! Then you'll know.

Tommy Miller fans unite! @musings-of-a-rose is continuing to feed our younger Miller brother delusions with her series “Falling Slowly.” The slow burn romance is one of the trope I really dig. And Gabriel Luna always. 🫠 Dig into some Tommy…

Nerdie, you’re doing so well, don’t jinx it.

I mean, I'm not wrong. Whatever, moving on...

I also read Honey Stained Hands by the sweet and deceptively naughty @undercoverpena too. Seems to be a Joel fix this week. Post-outbreak. The reader manages to make honey and different sweets in Jackson. Telling ya’ll anymore is a spoiler. Go read it!

There’s also another grizzled man this week. Tim Rockford who in the capable hands of the same writer @secretelephanttattoo who brought us Marcus Pike (Doughnut Debauchery) and the reason I’ll never look at doughnuts the same, I’m sure she’ll find many a use for his gun holsters. She began her new series “Undercover.” I’m throughly looking forward diving into more of the chapters as she releases them.

@linzels-blog wrote another Din Djarin fic that is equal parts sensual and sweet. It’s called Safe to Touch. I’m rather fond of our intrepid Mendalorian and him exploring his body with someone he loves is a treat.

Speaking of which, who doesn’t like baked goods? We’re also being fed by @avastrasposts as she starts her A Baker’s Dozen series with Pedro Pascal characters. Her first one is about our favorite trash cuddle panda Dieter Bravo. It’s adorable. 🥰 Such fluff.

Nerdie, you actually read fluff? This is surprising.

What do ya’ll take me for? I told you, 80% smut. This is in the 20%. Geez. 🙄

I will say though, this next one, 100% smut, not watered down, will burn your throat and you’ll love it and want more. You’ll want it other places. 😘

Welp, we knew it was gonna end here eventually.

Yes! @morallyinept had me removing my socks and pants in an effort to cool down, it did not help. I will think of this version of Dieter Bravo when I’m out at night. Heck, maybe as I walk across the parking lot to get in my car after a shift. That honestly would be the perfect time… long story short, wild back alley sex with both Dieter and the reader being complete and utter lust filled humans. It is called, Back Alley Bang if you enjoy Pedro Pascal characters smut, it’s required reading or at least highly recommended.

Anything new for you this week Nerdie?

Session Two of my “Sard’ika Sessions” will be out on early Wednesday AM in EST. Session One and all sessions will be linked to the Sard’ika Sessions Masterlist. I’m currently writing sessions 3 and 4 from my notebook because I wrote them down. Wild what you think of between the hours of 12 mid and 4am.

I finally started writing for our Pickled Peña prompt! I might even have it in on time. If you’d like to join in, see all the details here. I’m on the fence about smut, odd I know. 🤨

I also started a Benny Miller fic (likely fluff with food) and a Christmas fic with Joel and Layla (on OFC I wrote three fics on a few months ago - I love them very much ❤️). Joel and Layla are on my Masterlist.

Anything outside of fanfiction Nerdie? Please say that’s not the only thing you do. 🙄

I have a job you know. I actually worked this weekend. I visited my mom while she had a cold earlier this week. She’s very into Tom Hiddleston. Not a bad choice, I too appreciate his accent and baritone voice. She enjoys his dancing. 🕺🏽 I’d watching Loki with her and finally got her to watch Andor - she liked it but called it “low budget Star Wars” because she didn’t know any of the actors. I swear she’s so goofy. I love her. She also said that Andor grew on her like The Mandalorian and she wants to see more. I may be able to get her on board with both Lunas eventually. 😝

I’ve been working on my Statistics class. It’s difficult but I’m pushing through. 😵

Finally watched two Garrett Hedland movies this week! Country Strong and Four Brothers. The first was bittersweet but I liked it. He did sing a lot which was wonderful. The second one I’ve seen multiple times with little brother (he loved the movie when we were younger.) Garrett looked so young! It was from 2005 though.

Well Nerdie, your week sounds full. Good luck!

Have a great week everyone!

I jammed to while some music while looking at a picture of Gabriel Luna that @musings-of-a-rose sent me because she knows me well and is always willing to share: 😍

One of the songs was:

Stay safe and feel better to all those who are feeling under the weather,

Love Nerdie ❤️

#Spotify #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #weekend update #Nerdie writes #din djarin #joel miller #fanfiction #marcus pike #dieter bravo #Sard’ika Sessions #Benny miller #Tommy miller #gabriel luna #garrett hedlund #movies #the mandalorian #Andor #pickled pena

[sheisjoeschateau]

“You’re there. You were always there.”

A MULTI-PART FANFICTION SERIES, INSPIRED BY STRANGER THINGS, WRITTEN BY MISHA ST. JAMES.

Steve Harrington x fem!character. Childhood friends to lovers.

Slow burn. Angst. Romance. Smut with plot. Spin-off of pre-existing character.

A note from the writer:

—

Hello there darlings. What started off as a rough one-shot concept inspired by my rewatching Stranger Things season one for the billionth time evolved into my new favorite fan fiction series that I have written and created. This truly has become my baby. I said it in my original post when leaving a sneak preview of this work of mine…but I’ll say it again. This piece really has become my baby.

I overthink everything. I like to dive deep beneath the surface of things and overthink things into magnificent new realities. A seemingly random (almost forgettable) character in this show ended up making my mind spiral. As a writer, I believe that all characters in books and cinema have purpose. So naturally, my mind wanted to make something of a character that only appears at random yet crucial parts of the show’s story.

Nicole only appeared in season one and she was assumed to be a friend of Steve’s. To us, she was no one. Yet the Duffers introduced us to her as if she was an already established character in the series. Steve seemed almost too comfortable with her, like there was history between them. But we never explored that past the first season. That really started to bug me during this last binge-watch I had. So being the over dramatic writer that I am, I decided to make something of it myself. And damn, did it just…flow. I had no plans of making this such a big series but yeah, here we fucking are.

I gave her my last name because, well, *hair flip* I’m a narcissistic bitch like that when it comes to writing. ;) So in this series of mine, she is written Nicole St. James. I took some inspiration from The Breakfast Club because, ya know, Claire Standish? Molly Ringwald was an iconic redhead in the 80s film world, and that role in particular really seemed to fit how I wrote Nicole while fitting how she was presented in the show. I also did not want to give her a predictable personality either (because, again, as a writer I’m complex like that). So I did not take the typical “mean girl” route with her character because that honestly would just hit a wall. I wanted there to be a reason for her her in this show. I think the actress who played her did a good job with it, given there wasn’t much for her to work with.

I actually researched the actress a bit (Glenellen Anderson) and she’s actually very talented. She said something in one of her interviews about her role being small in ST but serving a crucial part in the first season of the series, given her being the reason that Steve finds out about Jonathan taking the pictures in his yard that night. Idk tbh I lowkey feel like a stalker who’s obsessing over an actor before they make it big so that one day I can be like YEAH I KNEW SHE WAS COOL WHEN SHE WAS STILL UNDERRATED. Lol ok moving on —

So I guess that’s it then. Time for me to shut up and just let the story I’ve created speak for itself. Thank you to some of my favorite writers on here and fellow Steve Harrington fanatics for inspiring me to release my own work into this universe. I’ve been very hesitant but I am glad to finally be doing it. I want to hear your thoughts and honest opinion while also asking kindly that you keep my emo heart in consideration when doing so 👉🏻👈🏻 If I forgot to tag you, I sincerely apologize. Please remind me in comments so that I can remember next time!

*disclaimer: this is based on pre-existing characters. in the show, nicole is portrayed by a redheaded white female actress so I based my writing around that. I do not discriminate against ANY race or preferred gender roles who choose to read and engage with my stories.

Enjoy and please leave feedback :)

x, MISHA

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY PLATFORMS WITHOUT PROPERLY CREDITING ME AS THE WRITER. I DO NOT GRANT PERMISSION FOR YOU TO CLAIM MY WRITING AND WORK AS YOUR OWN. YES, THIS IS A FAN FICTION BASED ON A PRE-EXISTING SHOW. HOWEVER THERE IS BASIC COURTESY TO BE EXPECTED IN THE WRITING COMMUNITY SO PLEASE RESPECT THAT. 🖤

Warnings: This is very much an 18+ written fan fiction series. Please read at your own risk. There is language, eventual mentions of blood and violence, drinking, sex, etc. There is also going to be mention of homophobia because the 80s were full of misogynistic men and women who were so unforgivingly dense (like fucking Tommy H. and Carol Perkins), so I want to address that as we eventually introduce Robin and Will into the series so that we can have our outstanding LGBTQ darlings welcomed and given the representation that they deserve.

—————

VOLUME I

“You’re there. You were always there.”

——————

Steve Harrington is six years old when he meets you: the girl who carries the other half of him with her. 

He first spotted her playing outside alone, in the yard right across from his. She has a big treehouse, and no one but herself to share it with. And even though you seem content — he doesn’t know why, but it makes him sad. Watching you alone, in your own great big world, and no one begging to share it with you. 

So after a week, he walks across the street to do something about it. He had watched you climb the little red ladder up to the top, making round trips with your backpack and various items. 

The door to your treehouse is made of wood, painted pastel yellow with tiny butterfly stickers adorning it in random places. He hears you, talking to yourself the way you would talk if you had company. Maybe it’s to an imaginary friend. Or maybe, you just like to talk to yourself. Regardless, he knocks, and your gibberish ceases. Eventually, he hears your feet padding closer and closer.  The door creaked open, revealing your curious grey eyes. Your red hair framed your small, heart shaped face, and the cream knit sweater that you wore looked almost as warm as you were.

“Hi,” Steve said. “I’m Steve. I live in that house over there.”

He pointed to the big house that loomed just across the street from you, and you briefly peeked out to look at it before looking back at him. Your full pink lips pressed into a shy smile.

“I’m Nicole,” you told him. “I’m six.”

“Me, too,” Steve tells you, proudly and with a dashing smile. But then he furrows his brow. “Why are you having a tea party by yourself?”

You look back into your little safe haven, following his gaze that stares at the eclectic assortment of tea cups and teapots set for multiple people when it was just you. 

“Oh, well I just like to be ready,” you tell him. “In case I make any friends.” 

Suddenly, you beam at him. Your usually shy demeanor dissolves as the gleam in your eye shines through. 

“Do you wanna be my friend?” you ask Steve, who raises his eyebrows in response.

“Umm, yeah,” he finally responds, nodding his head. He stuffs one hand into the pockets of his little Levi jeans, fastened with a belt and all, already a charmer with his polo sweater. His other hand goes to push back some of his floppy chestnut hair. “Yeah, let’s be friends.”

You smile brightly.  “Okay.”

And so you are, just like that.  Friends.  As you pour Steve a cup of chocolate milk, which you both confidently call hot tea without remark, you quietly hum to yourself.

Steve watches you, thinking you’re really pretty.  Whenever you go to pass him a teacup, he takes it and quickly looks around, pretending he wasn’t just staring at you.  He was in awe, really.  Fairy lights were strewn about, with potted flowers in the windowsills.  There was a table with lots of crayons, markers and gel pens, unfinished drawings scattered underneath them.  A few completed drawings were hung up on the walls.  

“Doesn’t it get scary up here all by yourself?” he asks you, genuinely curious.

As you set the little teapot back down, you shrugged your shoulders and shook your head. “Mm-mm,” you tell him. “I’m safe up here.”

You raise your teacup to your little pout to sip.  You seemed so content all by yourself, as if the word ‘lonely’ was completely foreign to you.

Steve is six years old when he sees the reflection of his better self in you.

_______

Steve is 7 years old when he calls you his best friend.

You’re both playing at recess, roped into a game of duck-duck-goose. A little girl named Carol is sitting next to you, and Steve watches her roll her eyes and huff throughout most of the game. You’ve been smiling and laughing this whole time, except when she gets mad that you don’t pick her when you’re circling the group of kids and selecting someone to chase you.

“Nicoooole,” she whines. 

You look at her as if you’re terribly afraid of what you could have done wrong. Carol crosses her arms, pouting.

“You’re supposed to pick me,” she complains.

“Oh,” you said, eyes wide.  “I-I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

You shuffled your feet, your loafers twisting in the grass.  Your ponytail blew in the breeze, along with the little flyaway baby hairs, and you looked a little embarrassed – almost ashamed – as the kid you had picked goes to sit in the assigned mush pot, since she couldn’t catch you.

“Well I do,” Carol said, matter of fact. 

Steve grimaces. He hated seeing you so uncomfortable, and he really hated the way this girl was talking to you.

“Those aren’t the rules,” Steve argued, defending you. 

You looked at Steve, a little relief becoming evident in your timid eyes.

“It’s not not in the rules,” Carol snarks back. Alright, now Steve is just plain bothered. This girl is annoying. And shamelessly entitled. 

Carol looks back at you, glaring. “Pick me next time.”

You slowly sit back down next to her, sinking into the grass with a frown. You look so timid, sad even. Steve wanted to drag you across the circle to sit next to him, but he didn’t because you were suddenly standing again, stuttering a little “Oh,” realizing it was still your turn. 

You cautiously made your way around the kids, placing your hand on top of everyone’s heads while saying “duck.”  You started to sweetly grin as you approached Steve, who grinned back. You plopped your hand on top of his head, definitely messing up his hair, but he didn’t mind. It was you, and that was okay. Anyone else, no. 

You fearfully dubbed Carol duck as you passed her, and her jaw clenched. She kept her arms tightly folded, watching you like a hawk. Steve narrowed his eyes at the snarky girl, already hating her. You patted his head again, “duck,” and Steve watched you curiously. Surely, you weren’t gonna pick her. Then again, he was afraid of what would happen if you didn’t. 

But sure enough, you did pick Carol. 

Goose. 

Carol smirked so fast before bolting upright to chase you around the playground. 

Steve was wildly chanting your name, along with the others.

“Go, Nicole!” he shouted, rooting you on. The others echoed his cheers. Your red hair flipped in the wind, ponytail bouncing behind you as you dashed back towards him in your school dress and loafers. 

Carol looked so convinced that she was gonna take you down, but you were faster. She chased you with a devilish smile, which began to quickly dissolve once she saw you getting closer to homebase.

Suddenly, you plopped down beside Steve, out of breath. He and the others hurrayed, and you smiled as you panted.

But Carol scoffed, finally making it over to you all in the circle. She buckled over her knees, trying to catch her breath.

“Ha-ha, Carol,” some boy sneered jokingly. 

“Yeah Carol, mush pot time,” Steve chimed in, a little too happily.

She scoffed again, louder this time. “No way, that’s not fair.”

Steve twitched incredulously. “W’you mean it’s not fair? She beat you.”

Carol’s jaw clenched again, and she stared daggers in your direction as she put her hands on her hips with a sour attitude. Steve cringed at the sight of just how nasty she looked, hating that it was being directed towards you. You shrunk back in your seated position on the grass, looking afraid. As Carol stalked over to sit in the middle of everyone, she kept staring at you with a look that could kill. You looked to the ground, and Steve kept his place next to you with a newfound wave of protection washing over him.

“Fine, well,” Carol sneered.  “I’m not your friend anymore.”

Carol’s words were nothing but laughable. To any mature adult — hell, any human not in kindergarten — her remark would have meant nothing. But to you? A seven year old with a heart of gold, and the desire to just make everyone feel included? Her words were detrimental. They meant you were a horrible person. You were to blame.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t —“ you stumble, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to, Carol, I-I…”

Carol whipped her head around to not face you. Your eyes were really sad now, and Steve’s heart sank.  You brought your knees to your chest, and your grey eyes went a little glassy.

“I can switch w-with you,” you kept trying. “I’ll sit—”

“Shut up,” she barked. “I said you’re not my friend.”

“Yeah, well she’s my best friend.”

Steve’s words landed hard. 

Carol whipped her head around again, now facing him. Everyone in the circle stared at the perfect-haired boy, including you. Sweet, innocent you. Your grey eyes peered over at him nervously. But there was a glint of hope in them, too, and if you weren’t so shaken up and close to crying you would have smiled. 

Steve shot one last disgusted look in Carol’s direction, then rose to his feet.  He reached out a hand, taking one of yours from your knees.

“C’mon,” he told you.  “Let’s go play somewhere else.”

You blinked, but didn’t hesitate to follow his lead.  You looked at him, giving him a small smile before looking downwards again.  Steve wrapped his fingers around your hand so tightly, and your little heart fluttered.  He was so warm, and you felt so safe.

Carol huffed, appalled.  “Since when are you best friends with ugly redheads, Harrington?!”

Your heart sank even lower as you saw Steve’s eyes go fierce, his jaw clenched.  He whipped around to look at Carol.

“The only ugly redhead here is you,” he shot back at her, and her jaw dropped.  All the kids reacted, some laughing and some making amused remarks.  But Steve didn’t pay them any mind as he stalked off with you, hand in hand.

You kept up with him as best you could with your little legs, feeling his grip on your hand tighten.  He looked so mad, and you gulped.

“Steve?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Don’t listen to them,” he mumbled, shaking his head.  He was staring straight ahead, mind racing.  You could tell he was really upset, and it made you feel bad.  “Or her.  She’s a bitch.”

You gasped, eyes wide.  “Steve!”

“What?  She is.”

You were shocked to hear him curse.  A few moments passed as you kept walking beside him, completely taken aback.  But then, you felt a grin tucking your lips upwards.  You stifled a giggle, and Steve turned to look at you in surprise.  You glanced up at him shyly, really giggling now.  His hard expression turned soft, a smile of his own creeping on his lips.  Eventually, he laughed too.

The two of you made it over to the swingset, and Steve let go of your hand.  You already missed his touch, the warmth of it.  He walked to stand in front of the tire swing, nodding his head at you to join.  You walked in front of the tire, reaching up to grip the chains from which it hung.  Steve crossed over to stand behind you.

“Here,” he said, placing his hands on your small hips.  You felt yourself flush, heart fluttering again.  A whole flock of butterflies swarmed your stomach.  Steve was happy you couldn’t see his face, because he felt himself flush too.  He wasn’t sure why a surge of electricity shot through him as he lifted you up into the tire swing, but as you swung your legs into its open middle he could smell your lavender shampoo.  It made him melt, and his hands lingered just a little longer than needed on the hips of your jeans.  You were safely seated now – had been for a moment.  Maybe two or three moments.  

Steve cleared his throat, rounding the wheel to climb onto it and sit across from you.  He tossed his feet into the hole, hands wrapped around the chains.  You looked at him with that signature warm, slightly shy smile of yours, and he returned it.  His smile was definitely more confident, though.  Charming, even for a first grader.

Your feet dangled in the air, so Steve used his to touch the ground and help you both begin to swing.  For a little while, you both just listened to the breeze.  The leaves were beginning to turn brown, a sign that autumn was approaching.  Kids laughed in the distance, buzzing with energy.  You figured you both only had a little time left, before you would have to return to classes.  But spending the last bit of playtime alone together was more fun than with the bratty kids you’d been spending time with earlier.

“Am I ugly?”

Steve had been watching a butterfly swarming nearby when you spoke.  He almost hadn’t heard you, with the way you spoke so quietly.  You sounded so small, fragile.  You were staring at the ground, your loafers criss-crossed as the two of you swayed on the swing, looking so vulnerable.  It made his heart split in two, the fire inside him burning again.  

“No,” he said, a little too harshly.  Your eyes shot up at him, a little surprised at his tone.  But he continued with no filter, cause what 7-year-old boy has one of those?  “Carol’s a liar.  You’re not ugly.  At all.  You’re beautiful.  Way more than her.”

Your eyes shone, and Steve watched your cheeks go rosy pink.  A small but real smile found its way onto your little lips, and you looked at him so sweetly before you glanced back down at the ground.  You kicked at the air, thinking to yourself.  While you weren’t looking, Steve memorized each eyelash concealing your grey eyes and the curve of your eyebrows.  He noticed that you only had a small sprinkle of freckles on your nose, but nowhere else on your porcelain skin.  He felt his heart skip a beat, losing himself in you.  God, you were perfect.  How could anyone ever call you ugly?  

“Wanna come over for dinner?” Steve asked.

You looked up at him, snapped out of your own thoughts.  “Yeah.  I’ll have to ask my mom and dad if that’s okay.”

“I think my mom is ordering pizza,” Steve continued, mouth watering.  “Do you like pizza?”

“Yeah, but I like mushroom pizza.”

Steve scrunched his nose.  “Eww, why?”

You giggled, shrugging.  “They’re really good!”

“Bleck.”

“You should try them,” you insisted.  

Steve would normally say something along the lines of hell no, but to you?  That was impossible.  He pursed his lips, nose still scrunched and shivering at the thought of eating fungus on pizza.  But he relented, sighing.

“Alright, I guess,” he said, kicking to swing you both again.  “But if I don’t like it, you have to help me with the dishes.”

You smirked.  “Deal.”

You both swayed, listening to the trees rustle.  Steve watched the teacher approaching everyone from her perch, knowing she was about to whistle for everyone to make their way back for school.

“Hey Steve?”

He turned back to look at you.  ‘Hmm?”

You paused, contemplating your words.  But then you gave him the kindest smile in the world, and it rendered Steve speechless as you spoke with more certainty than you had all day.

“You’re my best friend, too.”

__________

As the next few years went by, you and Steve continued to become a permanent part of them for each other.  

Your parents had easily become friends with his parents, making it a regular thing to have each other over for holiday parties and gatherings, or even just casual dinners.  Both your parents and his were too wealthy for their own good, too caught up in their own worlds to really pay either of you any mind.  Sure, they knew that the two of you were friends.  Close even.  But they didn’t really know much beyond that.  Steve’s parents were just glad to know that their kid had something to do other than bother them every day after school and on weekends, and your parents were so used to you playing by yourself that they didn’t really notice much difference.  Your families both lived in a swanky neighborhood, so becoming acquainted with one another hadn’t been something that required much consideration on their part.  They ran in the same circles.  Timeshare mutuals, and plastic veneer smiles who shared travel itineraries for whatever bougie seminar was happening that month, or the next.

Until you came along, Steve had been a lonely kid destined for a life of abandonment.  Once Chet Harrington had been given a son by Paula, he stopped the bloodline there.  “Good,” he’d remarked.  “Someone to carry on the family name.”  As far as he was concerned, that’s all his kid’s purpose served.  Take over the family business, get a trophy wife and repeat the cycle.  Siblings?  Why bother?  One kid was enough to handle.  They cost money and time, and the Harringtons didn’t just hand those out like charity.  If it weren’t so heavily frowned upon, or a threat to their reputation, they wouldn’t have even bothered with hiring a babysitter.  It was mainly Paula Harrington who insisted on it.  After all, she did love her son.  She just wasn’t a nurturing mother, giving her care to her pearls and pristine walk-in closet maintenance far more than her little boy, so her love was never felt by her son.  As far as Chet was concerned, once Steve turned 10 years old, a babysitter was no longer a needed expense.  Because that’s all it was to him: an expense.  So come the double digits, and Steve would just be a kid left to fend for himself, all alone in his great big house with no parents.

But so were you.  You, Nicole St. James, were just as doomed as he was.  Your parents were more aloof than anything.  They weren’t quite as cold as the Harrington’s.  But they weren’t all that warm either.  Ken had impregnated his wife, Alison, on a spontaneous trip overseas.  You’d been the result of a heavy night of gin, blue curacao and dirty talk.  Filthy sex and silky sheets in a Five Seasons were the blissful combination the night that you were conceived.  It had been a surprise for both of them, when that little strip read positive with a pink stripe.  They’d made a fuss of it, planning a frivolous baby shower with tons of guests and a plethora of gifts for their baby girl on the way.  They had found out the gender as soon as they could, not wanting any more surprises.  Your arrival had been a very anticipated event, so when you had been actually brought into the world the excitement fizzled away.  It seemed more exciting to celebrate having you, rather than actually having you.  Granted, your parents loved you.  You were spoiled with toys, new clothes every week, and social outings.  Not that you ever asked for any of those things.  The only thing you ever sought out from them were hugs, which they half-heartedly returned with barely a fraction of the love that radiated through your tiny arms.  

You had your mother’s hair, though hers was more auburn while yours was pure fire.  And you had your father’s grey eyes.  But what you had that they didn’t, was your spirit.  They were boisterous, loud and shallow.  You were quiet, shy and soft.  You radiated only genuine kindness, oftentimes just observing your surroundings and being in your own little world.  Your parents were party animals, constantly busying themselves with events and planning vacations.  It’s why they busied you with the same types of things by default, assuming you to be just like them.  Constantly wanting company, people to distract you and noise to drown out the silence.  But you weren’t like them.  You loved the silence, the chirping of the birds and the whoosh of the breeze.  You loved books instead of toys, and gardening tools instead of dolls.  Not that they paid attention to that, though.  Instead, they just bought you whatever the flashiest new item was.  Or, if you just so happened to take a liking to something, the St. James’ bought it to appease you quickly and not bat an eye.  Screw sentimentality, if it made you happy then by all means you could have it.

The only reason they had a treehouse built for you, was because Ken St. James had discovered his daughter’s makeshift fort outside.  It consisted of amateruly constructed cardboard boxes, with random blankets propped up on sticks.  He and Alison had just gotten home from a business trip, and your aunt had shrugged her shoulders when they asked how her stay had been.  She told them you had spent the whole time outside, playing in your disastrously built utopia.  Your parents didn’t give much thought to it, hiring a few carpenters to come and build you a proper treehouse for your sixth birthday.  You had beamed, telling them thank you a thousand and one times.  They’d thought it was cute, at first.  Until one night, as they got ready for a gala, you had gone to hug your mother as she coated her lips with a red rouge.  She’d yelped, surprised at your sudden touch.   

“I love you, mommy,” you whispered to her.  

“Nicole, darling, what are you–” she stammered, one hand holding her lipstick and the other swatting at you.

“For my treehouse,” you continued.  “I love it.”

“Oh, psh, honey,” she scoffed wryly, slowly peeling your little arms off of her shoulders.  “Enough now, you’ve thanked us too many times to count.  It’s a little exhausting.”

She had chuckled humorlessly, resuming her pampering.  You had watched her reflection, and if she’d cared to look at yours instead of her own she would have seen the look of longing and saddened wonder that filled your eyes.  She would have seen the way your full lips parted, no more words being spoken.  And she would have seen you quietly pad your way back out her bedroom door, where you made your way back to your room.  

Instead of finding love through your parents, you found it in your treehouse.  You found it in the swaying of the trees, and the butterflies that swarmed your front yard.  You found it in yellow crayons, and glitter gel pens, and the weeds you insisted were flowers as you pulled them and placed them into little pots.  You found love in the changing of seasons, and the twinkle lights that glowed at night in your safe haven.  You found love within yourself, and you found love in Steve Harrington.

The bike rides down the neighborhood streets, and down to the convenient store to buy snacks with your little weekly allowances.  The swapping of ice cream cones on hot summer days — when Steve noticed the way you eyed his chocolate waffle cone, as he secretly wanted your strawberry sugar cone instead.  The afternoons into nights spent in your treehouse together, playing make believe and coloring.  The fairy wands and pirate swords, and the battle of neverland that you fought side by side in your tulle dress while Steve wore a green polo and birthday hat with a red feather crudely taped to the side of it.  The field trips and summer camps with your classmates, always sitting beside each other on the bus and whenever you all had to eat in between activities.  Lord knows, if you two were sat apart, one of you would complain until it was made right.  The innocent secrets you told each other, and the way you both laughed at the silliest of things until your sides split.  The countless hours that you spent at his house, no parents or nanny in sight, playing hide and seek.  One time, it took him so long to find you that he panicked.  He was pretty sure you had actually disappeared for good, and his breathing quickened.  It took him calling out your name several times, until eventually it sounded like he was blubbering.  You had made your way out of his closet, where you’d proudly buried yourself underneath all of his clothes.  Steve saw you crawling out with a worried look on your little face, saying his name in such an assuring tone.  He had run over to you and hugged you tight, sniffling.  But when he pulled back, he’d already roughly rubbed his eyes so that no tears spilled.  The two of you resumed playing like nothing had happened.  

Most days were spent in your treehouse, except when a thunderstorm was coming.  That’s when the two of you would throw a bunch of blankets and pillows together in his or your room, making a fort.  A shelter, if you will.  The thunder rolled as the lightning streaked across the sky.  One night, you had both curled up with a big bowl of popcorn, boxes of cereal, pop tarts, sodas and candy, no trace of actual substance in sight.  You had flashlights and cards, playing Go Fish and War.  At some point, Steve had asked if you believed in ghosts.  You shuddered, nodding your head yes.  His eyes had gone wide, clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders.  You pulled the pillow in your arms closer to your chest, your grey eyes just as wide as his.

“Do you think…” Steve had started, his voice soft.  He gulped, a thought crossing his mind.  “D’you think we’ll ever have to fight monsters?  You know, like aliens or something?”

You gulped, too.  “I dunno,” you started, voice soft like his.  “I think that monsters in books and movies are really scary.  I don’t wanna fight them in real life.”

Steve nodded, thinking.  “Well, if we ever do… I’ll protect you.  Promise.”

You hugged your pillow tighter, your worried eyes shining and a shy smile meeting your lips.  “You will?”

“Yeah,” Steve assured you, with absolute certainty.  Because he meant it with all of his heart.  No monster would ever hurt you.  No ghost would haunt you.  And nothing would ever take you away.  “I always will.”

CRACK.  That’s when lightning struck the electricity box, and all the power in Steve’s house went out.  You screamed, and Steve gasped.  He grabbed one of the flashlights, shuffling his way over to you.  He wrapped the blanket around both of you, as the two of you huddled closer together underneath the pillow fort you both built together.

“S’okay, I’m right here,” he soothed you, feeling you shiver against him.  Your little arms were wound around his torso, your grip fierce.  He clung to him with so much trust, melting into him, even though you were scared.  He melted right back into you, holding you close.  “I got you.”

The winds howled outside, thunder still rolling and lightning flashing around you both in the quiet, still room outside of the walls of blankets enveloping you both.  

“Do you think there’s a monster out there?” you asked him, your frightened voice the cutest whisper in the world.

“Nah,” Steve said, but even he wasn’t so sure.  He couldn’t be scared, though.  He had to make you feel safe.  “But if there is, it won’t get you.  I won’t let it.”  He rested his chin on top of your head.  “Not ever.”

Even at nine years old, Steve knew he would never break a promise that he made you.  You did, too.

And right now, as you turned ten years old, you were surrounded by a bunch of faces.  Most of them, you didn’t really know.  Some were kids from school, and others were their parents.  Lots of random adults, buzzed with champagne and spirits.  But as you sat in a chair behind your pink birthday cake, all aglow with ten gold candles, there was one face you recognized and loved.  Steve’s.

He grinned at you, his smile growing more charming each day.  His hair was still iconic, always styled just right.  He wore a preppy polo with a collar, and khaki slacks with nice shoes.  His brown doe eyes shone in the candlelight – and even though the others spoke loudly over each other, he spoke so that only you could hear him.

“Make a wish, Nic,” he said, seated right next to you.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY GIRL!” your mom squealed, the inebriation evident in her voice.

“Wait, honey, wait,” your father chuckled, gripping his whisky.  “We gotta sing first.”

“Damn,” Mr. Harrington remarked, also laughing.  “These women just don’t have any patience, do they?”

The two men snickered, and Mrs. Harrington playfully scoffed and swatted at them before wrapping an arm around your mother.  She, too, was a bit tipsy.  

“Alright,” she purred, a smirk on her lips as she raised her glass.  “All together now.”

And so the song began.  Happy Birthday rang all throughout the house, echoing off the dining room walls of your childhood home.  Kids sang with enthusiasm, while adults sang in a million different pitches.  Some voices were happy, others were bored, and a few were drunk.  But the only voice you listened to was your best friend’s, who sat by your side with one arm resting on the table and the other perched on the back of your chair.  You beamed at him, and he beamed at you.

Steve swore in that very moment, that you were perfect.  The way your little baby hairs still escaped your hair that was pulled into a little half-up do.  You were wearing the simplest, most feminine pastel yellow dress.  The sleeves had tiny ruffles on it, your shoulders peeking out and arms bare.  Your face was clean of any makeup, aside from the white face painted butterfly wings around your grey eyes.  It was so whimsical, making you look even more like a princess than you already were.  Steve watched you look around the room, enchanted by your enchantment.  And as your gaze circled back to meet his own, he smiled bigger.  Your smile grew, too, and the crowd of people in the room ceased to exist.  You’d both forgotten them, until they started to cheer wildly as your birthday song ended.

“Nicky!” your mother squealed.  

God, you hated when she called you that.  You broke your gaze from Steve, looking at her.

“Come on, baby, make a wish!”

You looked back down at your candles, scrunching your eyes shut and thinking.  Steve’s eyes never left you, entranced with the way you looked in the orange glow of the birthday candles.  Selfishly, he made a wish too.  It wasn't his birthday, but it didn’t have to be.  Steve wished for all your wishes and dreams to come true.  He wished for this to be the best year yet, for you and for him.  He wished for you to never move away, to always be his best friend across the road.  He wished for you to never outgrow him, or want to be better friends with somebody else.  He wished it would always be like this, that no matter what changes came he would always have you.  He wished that he knew what you were wishing for, and he wished for you to be wishing for him.

Little did he know, he was your only wish.  It was already true, and as you blew out the candles, you wished for it to always be true.

________________

Steve was twelve when you saw him cry for the first time.

His parents had gotten his report card, appalled at the C and D despite all other A’s.  Paula Harrington was disappointed and embarrassed, but Chet Harrington?  Well, he was furious.  

“I didn’t raise someone stupid,” he spat at Steve, who leaned against the kitchen counter with his head down, shoulders slumped and arms crossed.  They had been arguing over this for at least thirty minutes.

Steve swallowed.  “I’m not stupid, dad,” he murmered, voice defeated.

“Sorry, what was that?” his father egged him on, voice bitter.  There was zero trace of kindness or understanding, and Steve’s mother could only watch them from the dining table with a pathetic pout.

Chet stepped closer to his son, sneering.  “Speak up, son.  Couldn’t hear you.”

“...said I’m not stupid,” Steve tried again, hating the way his voice still shook despite talking a little louder.

“Stop being a little bitch and look at me,” his dad spat, the air escaping his lips and onto Steve’s face.

“Chet, please –” his mother tried, pathetically. 

Steve felt the hurt inside of him bubbling into anger, unable to control himself.  

“I said I’m not stupid!”  He shouted back, having taken enough of his father’s bullying for the past thirty minutes.  The past month.  Several months.  Years.

But he was only rewarded with a slap to the face, so sharp it felt like a knife.  If it weren’t for the ringing in his ears, he would have heard his mother gasp.  The impact had made him turn a full 180 degrees, and he was stunned into silence as tears sprang to his eyes from the harsh blow.  Slowly, he turned back towards them.  He first made eye contact with his mother, whose hands were clasped over her mouth.  Eventually, he made eye contact with his father, who seethed and showed no sign of remorse.

“Your report card says otherwise,” he slithered.  He slowly backed up towards the kitchen table, taking his seat again.  He took a sip of his brandy, clicking his tongue at the taste.  “Raise your voice at me again, and you’ll see stars next time.”

Steve could hear his own breathing, could feel the anguish that spread throughout his mind, body and soul.  His heart ached, and he longed for comfort.  But the two people who sat in front of him wouldn’t offer him that.  Nobody would.

Except you.

So he bolted his stairs, seeking privacy so that the unshed tears threatening to spill over wouldn’t show his weakness any further.  He held them at bay, biting his lip so hard he was pretty sure it would bleed soon.  He ran into his room, throwing open his drawers as he breathed hard.  Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his only thoughts consisting of getting a change of clothes and heading over to you.  He threw a backpack over his shoulder, locking his bedroom door and sneaking out his window.

He knew the route all too well by now, having done it since he was six.  He crawled down the side of the house, walking towards the house next to his and the one after that.  Then, he made his way across the street, where he walked behind one house, then two, and then made it to yours.  This way, his parents wouldn’t see him heading to your house out their window.  

Once he was there, he climbed up the side of your home where your window was dimly lit by the glow of your bedside lamp.  Good, he thought.  You were home.  His heavy heart swelled with relief, and he mounted the side of the house and up onto the roof the way he always did when sneaking into your room at night.

Your window was cracked open, always ready for him.  The curtains were drawn, and he saw you sitting on your bed, reading a book.  Your brows were closely knitted together, your eyes intensely focused on whatever you were reading.  One leg was crossed over the other, glasses perched on your nose and hair tucked back into a messy topknot.  

Steve swallowed back the large lump in his throat and tapped the windowpane, just enough for you to hear him.  Your head snapped up, pulled out of your bookworm trance.  Grey eyes met brown, and you went to smile until you saw the distress in his features.  You set your book down and removed your glasses, padding over to him, quietly but quickly.  A large t-shirt hung to your thighs, landing just above your knees and accentuating your slim legs.  You pulled the window all the way open, looking at him with the most concerned expression.

“Steve?” you asked, voice gentle.

The dam broke.  Steve couldn’t hold it in any longer, any plans of trying to do so completely demolished as a choked sob left his lips.  His shoulders heaved forward, and you felt your heart break at the sight.  This was new.  This was very new.  You’d never seen him like this.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him tightly.  He gripped you back like a lifeline, crying into your shoulder.  You stayed there for a moment, before pulling back to bring him inside.  He clung to you, not wanting to let go, but when he realized that he was still in the window frame he allowed you to move away from him and followed you inside to stand behind you.  You quickly closed the window, turning to face him again.  

He was a good several inches taller than you, so you looked up at him.  Your expression was so soft, so full of empathy it only made him break down more.  You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest.  He buried his face into your shoulder again, weeping until the sleeve of your shirt was soaked through.  He shook in your embrace, the sound of his cries the saddest sound you had ever heard.  You stroked the nape of his neck, fingers playing with his hair.  His arms around you were so tightly wound, you thought he might never let go.  And you didn’t want him to, so neither of you made a move to do so.  You just stood there, holding one another, letting Steve cry until he couldn’t any more.

After a while, you slowly pulled back to look up at him.  Steve’s brown eyes were bloodshot, his stylish hair ruffled and messy – yet somehow, still perfect.  Even when he was sad, he was still so pretty.  

He rubbed at his snot sodden nose with his elbow, fruitlessly trying to wipe it away.  He sniffed roughly, not used to being the one who needed comforting.  But as you reached up to thumb away a few of his tears, he didn’t pull away.  Anyone else, he wouldn’t have let seen him like this, let alone touch him.  But you were the exception to every rule, and he wouldn’t dare pull away from you.  Not when you were so understanding, not casting any judgment towards him.  Any walls he had built around himself in front of others, he let come down in front of you.  Because when he was with you, he didn’t have to be strong, or brave, or cool.  He could just be Steve, a boy with big hair and an even bigger heart.

You smiled at him gently, waiting for him to speak.  He sighed.

“My dad said I was stupid,” he started, voice shaky.  “He said I – he said…”

Your small smile faded, your eyes boring into his.  He looked shown, shuddering a breath.  You took his hands in yours, guiding him to the bed.  You both sat down, your hands still intertwined.  You sat facing him, your legs crossed in Indian-style.  He mirrored you, matching your position and staring down at your dainty fingers in his.  You wore a few rings, minimal sterling silver bands.  Steve always loved how they made your piano fingers look even longer, delicate.  He twiddled in thumbs around yours, absentmindedly tracing shapes as he spoke.

“They saw my report card,” he continued, sniffling.  “I got a C in math.  And a D, i-in science.”

You furrowed your brows, still listening.  You wanted to say so much already, but you will yourself to stay quiet and let him finish.  He needed to let it out.

“It didn’t matter about the other grades.  Dad, h-he just cared about the bad ones.  Like no matter what, I’m j-just a failure.”

You shook your head, not having any of it.  “Steve,” you started, voice firm but kind.  “You’re not stupid.  And you’re not a failure.  You’re smart, and you study just as hard as anyone else does.”

He sniffled again, eyes still downcast.  “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled.  “S’not enough.”

“You’re enough.”

That made him look up at you, his sad glassy eyes meeting your fierce ones.  The love that poured from your grey irises shot straight into his brown ones, and he knew you were being as honest as they come.

“He hit me, Nic,” he murmured, tasting bile as he admitted it. 

You felt a wave of emotions hit you all at once.  Anger.  Heartbreak.  Anguish.  Rage.  Pain.  And love.  So, so much love for this beautiful boy, who you got to call your best friend.  The thought of his dad hitting him – anyone hitting him – made you see red.  He didn’t deserve this.  Any of this.  And as you noted a slightly red mark on his cheek, you felt your soul split open.  Tears of your own sprang to your eyes, and you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching a hand up to cup his cheek.

“Steve, I’m so sorry,” you whispered.  

His face crumpled, and you pulled him in close as he started to cry again.  You silently cried too, grateful that he couldn’t see you.  He kept one hand in yours still, resting on your laps.  The other wound around your waist, the hand you had placed on his cheek now draped around his neck.  You lightly swayed, allowing the silence and Steve’s breathy cries to wash over you both.  

Eventually, Steve’s tense shoulders sagged and his cries subdued.  He relaxed into you, and you could tell that sleep was finding him.

“Hey,” you murmured into his neck.  “Let’s get some sleep.”

Steve slowly pulled back, watching you pull the covers down.  Normally, it would be weird.  A boy, watching his female friend offer to sleep in the same bed without their parents knowing.  But you’d both fallen asleep together so many times over the years.  In your treehouse, on his bedroom floor, on the couch while watching a movie.  Even in the same bed, when studying or doing homework. Now was no different, as far as you both were concerned.

So as you nestled yourself underneath the covers, gesturing for him to follow, Steve didn’t hesitate to crawl in next to you.  He pulled the covers over the two of you as you turned out your light, only the moonlight illuminating your face in the dark room.  You both laid on your sides, facing each other.  You placed a hand on the mattress, in the small space between you both, palm up. He placed his hand on top of yours, wrapping his fingers around yours.  He sighed deeply, eyes fluttering shut.

“You can stay here anytime you want,” you whispered beside him, your eyelids drooping but still watching him.  

Steve squeezed your hand tightly.  He felt an overwhelming sense of relief, his heart swelling with love for you.  He peeled his eyes back open, taking in your beautiful face.  If there was an angel watching over him, it had to be you.  God couldn’t have possibly given him a better one, because you were it.

“I don’t wanna go back,” he whispered back, timid.  “Unless you’re there.”

You sighed, nuzzling into your pillow with a little nod.  “Okay, then you won’t.”

Both your voices were tired, but the words you shared with one another held so much truth and conviction. Because you meant what you had said. Steve never had to spend a single night alone in his great big house, whether or not his parents were there.  You stayed there, or he’d stay with you.  It became an unspoken routine, refuge.

No matter what pain life threw his way, or yours, you both knew that so long as you had each other, it would be okay.

____________

But one morning, several months later, Steve’s mom found you in his bed.  

The two of you were sound asleep, her son starfished across the mattress and you curled up into a little ball.  At first, Mrs. Harrington just froze.  How long had this been happening?  That’s the question that sprang her into action.  Her motherly instincts decided to actually make an appearance, storming over to the bed to jostle you awake.  

“Nicole St. James, what in blazes are you doing here?!”

Your eyes shot open, finding Mrs. Harrington’s frantic eyes.  She had a firm grip on your arm, and you shrunk deeper into the mattress.  

“Steven,” she said through gritted teeth.  “Wake up.”

Steve stirred, not really waking up.  Such a boy.  A tornado can’t wake boys when they’re not even thirteen yet.

You, on the other hand, were wide awake.  Groggy, but alert.  You felt your cheeks flush crimson, knowing this looked bad.  Sure, at twelve years old you’re not fully aware of just how bad this actually looked.  But a boy and a girl, sharing a bed, behind their parents’ backs?  That had trouble written all over it.  As far as any adult was concerned, that screamed bad news.  And nine times out of ten, it was often a result of youthful scandal.  

But for you and Steve?  It was simply comfort.  Safety.  Codependency.

That’s not how his mother saw it, though.

“Steven!”

He bolted awake, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.  When he looked over to find you staring at him, your grey eyes terrified and lean arm in his mother’s manicured grip, he began to come to.  The reality set in, and Steve felt his chest clench.  You both had been caught.

His mother’s eyes held a fire that he had never seen before.  Even in all her beauty – loosely curled blonde hair, wispy bangs and silky white blouse to match her high waist trousers – she looked intimidating.  Steve realized at that moment, he had never truly felt intimidated by his mother until right now.  She looked absolutely furious, appalled even.  Her lips were pursed together into a tight, thin line, and by the looks of her clenched jaw he could tell she had gritted her teeth.

Steve swallowed, feeling the panic seep in.  “Wait, mom –”

“Not a word,” she cut him off.  “I didn’t raise you like this.”

You didn’t raise him at all, you thought to yourself.  If it weren’t for the fear you held, you would have had to really fight to stay quiet.  But as Mrs. Harrington kept going, you couldn’t have found your own voice if you tried.

“Bringing girls up to your room to sleep with them?  What filthy movies have you been watching?  Did you… Oh my god, did you find one of your father’s?!”

Steve’s eyes went wide with horror.  “What?!  No!  Mom, please –”

“I don’t know what vile things you’ve had put in your head, Steven.  By your friends, your father, porn or whatever the hell you kids are doing these days.  But this.  Ends.  Now.”

Your terror-stricken eyes expression became all the more terrified, and as Steve’s mother wrenched you off the bed you let out the most heartbreaking little yelp.  Steve felt his heart jump into his throat.

“MOM, PLEASE, DON’T –”

“And you,” she turned to face you, dragging you beside her out of his bedroom.  “You’re a young lady.  You should know better.”

You felt absolutely sick to your stomach.  Hearing Steve’s mom accuse you of being capable of doing something so grimey – of being a slut – made you feel so small.  And Steve’s panicked shouts weren’t helping.

“But I–I,” you stuttered, your voice so shaky and low it was almost inaudible.  How could she think you and Steve would do such a thing together?  It wasn’t like that.  He was your best friend.  Your safe haven.  Your favorite person in existence.

Mrs. Harrington slammed Steve’s bedroom door shut, trapping his shouts.  She was dragging you down the stairs as you heard him fling the door back open and barrel after you.  She whipped around, waving a finger up at him.

“You stay right there,” she ordered him, voice fierce and booming.  Then, as she kept going, she told you, “I’m taking you straight home to talk to your parents.  This friendship is over.”

The way that Steve wailed ‘no,’ had to have been the most excruciatingly painful sound you had ever heard.  Tears sprang to your own eyes, and you didn’t even try to conceal the whimpers that fell from your lips.  Mrs. Harrington couldn’t have cared less, ripping her car keys off the wall next to the front door.

“Mom, wait, just wait!” Steve’s voice was strained, but desperate.  

You tried to look back at him, only catching glimpses as you were being hauled away by his mother.  You could see the petrified anguish etching Steve’s features, his tired eyes practically popping out of their sockets.  His hair in complete disarray, his sweatpants hung low and his t-shirt all twisted.  He was the most beautiful mess, and you were being taken away from him.

“Not another step, Steven Harrington!” his mother barked, voice shrill.  

Steve came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, and even though he was a good distance away now you could see his shoulders shaking and bottom lip trembling.  Your heart thudded in your chest, and you felt like throwing up.  

Paula Harrington was now standing next to her car, opening the passenger side door.  No way in hell was she going to march you over to your house, directly across the street, just so that all of your neighbors could watch and stare from inside their respective homes.  She ushered you in quickly, giving you no choice but to obey.  You crawled into the front seat, pulling your knees to your chest, crying into them.  You felt so ashamed and embarrassed – and for what?  Falling asleep next to your best friend?  Yeah, that’s exactly what you had done that caused this twisted guilt to stir up inside you.  

“I’m taking you straight home,” she told you, cold and fierce.  “And you’re not to step foot over here again.  Do you understand?”

You bit into your knees, clenching your eyes shut in shame.    Mrs. Harrington slammed the door shut, making you jump.  The sound, along with her words, rang in your ears.

This friendship is over.

Your mind was reeling, stomach churning.  You clutched your legs, tugging them impossibly closer to your chest and you rocked in the front seat of Paula’s car.  You looked out the window, watching Steve run towards you.  His mom held out a hand, and you could hear their entire conversation through the thin glass window as you sniffled.

“Mom, nothing happened,” Steven insisted, voice broken.

“You expect me to believe that?!” Mrs. Harrington shot back at him with zero sympathy.  “How many times has this happened, Steven?”

Steve raked his fingers through his chestnut hair, distressed and breathing hard.  “You don’t understand, we just fell asleep –”

“How many?”

“Whenever I can’t sleep!” Steve screamed at her, and his mother visibly pulled back.  “Because y-you –”  Steve gasped for air.  “D-dad, it’s just –”  Steve pressed his lips together, words failing him, so painfully frustrated with himself and this entire situation.  “God, it’s nothing, Mom.  Nic comes over here, and s-sometimes I go there –”

“You sleep at her house?” his mother interrupted, shocked.

“It doesn’t matter!” Steve cries.  His mother is now frozen, taken aback by the hysteria in his voice.  As her son stares back at her, tears threatening to spill over and lips parted, she finally shakes her head.

“You’re almost thirteen years old, Steven,” she says, voice low and bitter.  “You’re too damn old to be having little sleepovers with girls.  You know how this looks.  I know what you were doing.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve shook his head, violently.

“Yes.  I do.”

“NO, YOU DON’T.”  Steve wailed, completely falling apart.  “You don’t know anything.  And I don't care that you don’t, because Nicole knows and that’s all I care about.”

His mother gawked at him, and Nicole could tell that his words stung her a bit.  Still, Paula stood her ground.

“Well whatever you two are doing, it’s over,” she said, coolly.  

Steve’s face crumpled.  “No, please –”

“You’ve got plenty of guys you can hang out with, Steven,” Mrs. Harrington said, tongue sharp.  “They can sleep over whenever you want.  Go call them.”

Steve flung his arms up in the air, running his hands through his hair again as he whirled around in a full 360 before facing her again.

“I don’t care about them –”

“Start caring,” she said simply, turning to walk towards the car again.  She was approaching the driver’s side to open her door.

“Mom, no, NO!”  Steve lurched forward, trying to grab her car keys.  His mother jumped back, reacting just in time.  Her reflexes served her justice as she whipped the keys out of his reach.  

“What is the matter with you?!”  Paula looked absolutely stunned now.  

But Steve wouldn't listen, still trying to wrench the keys from her hands.  They rustled, arms and limbs tangled as they both struggled to overpower the other.  Paula stuttered verbal protests, while Steve whimpered and grunted.  You couldn’t help but feel your heart swell, despite how utterly broken you felt.  Because Steve wasn’t letting you slip away that easily – and while you were too timid to speak up for yourself, he wasn’t.  He was always the brave one.  At school.  Whenever you fell off your bike, or slipped on the playground.  Nobody could pick on you, so long as Steve was there.  Not even his parents could, apparently.  

Eventually, Mrs. Harrington got the upper hand.  No doubt due to the fact that Steve wouldn’t actually be physically aggressive towards his own mother.  She tugged hard, causing Steve to lose his footing and stumble back onto the ground.  He collapsed, landing on his side and barely catching himself.  Paula gasped, watching him make a harsh impact with the concrete sidewalk.

“Steve, baby –” she breathed, noting the bad scrape on his arm.

Steve began to convulse with ugly sobs, curling in on himself.  He gritted his teeth, lips stretched thin.  Mrs. Harrington stared in horror for only a moment before kneeling beside him to assess the damage.  She might not have been a warm person, but she wasn’t a violent one either.  That was all his father.  She didn’t believe in putting a hand on her kid.  She just didn’t do anything to stop it when Mr. Harrington did.

“Give me your arm,” she said, her voice shaking now.

“Please, mom, please,” Steve bawled, pulling away from her and cowering back.  Paula noted the way her son wouldn’t look at her now, and she hated it.  It reminded her of the way he was around his father.  And she was not his father.  She was hardly a mother, but more importantly she was not his father.  She swallowed hard, pride overcoming any deeply buried traces of warmth and love within her.

“Listen to me,” she tried again, voice still shaking.  “Give me your arm.”

But Steve just unabashedly wailed, now feebly sitting up.  Tears streamed down his cheeks, drops of blood forming on his freshly scraped arm.  The guttural cries escaping his lips were so agnonized, Paula couldn’t understand it.  She had never seen him like this.  He just kept murmuring unintelligible things that sounded like don’t, don’t, don’t, and please, no, and pathetically trying to get the keys from her.  His efforts were futile, but he wouldn’t back down.

“Steven,” she said, incredulously.  “Stop.”

“Mom, she’s the only friend I have.”  

Steve’s tortured words landed hard, on both you and Paula.  They hit you like a freight train, piercing your heart.  

Steve cried and cried, finally looking at his mother again as he admitted this treacherously painful confession in a wrecked voice.  Paula couldn’t believe it.  There was no way that Steve didn’t have friends.  She had seen him.  At his games, and social gatherings.  He got along with everybody.  She didn’t have to be at school with him to know he was popular.  All the girls had a crush on him, and all the guys wanted to be around him.  No way were you the only friend he had. No way was he as lonely as he was saying that he was.  He wasn’t, he just wasn’t… Was he?

But then Paula realized it wasn’t a matter of him not having friends.  It was only a matter of you.  You, his other limb since he was the age of six.  You, who spent every birthday and holiday with him.  You, who sat with him on the bus, and at lunch, and any party you both went to together or with your families.  You, who somehow seemed to be everywhere, in every memory.  She’d never really thought much of it, assuming it was just some childhood crush or next door neighbor that you would both eventually outgrow.  And when she had found you in his bed, naturally, she assumed the worst.  You and Steve were both in middle school.  This was prime time for puberty, and exploring sexuality.  It was the pre-high school danger zone.  No way around it.  But come to think of it, she’d never seen you act as anything other than friends.  Not that that mattered.  Friends liked each other, too.  It all had to start somewhere.

Paula glanced up at the passenger window of her car, spotting you.  You still had your knees to your chest, fresh tears of your own spilling down your cheeks.  She would never admit it, but the sight of you looking so hurt – thanks to her – made her heart ache.  She knew you were a good girl.  If anything, you were obnoxiously good.  Sometimes she wondered if you had a single mean bone in your body.  It was infuriating, really.

She turned back to her son, who was still weeping uncontrollably and waiting for her to respond.  That really drove the knife deeper into her heart, and she could feel herself cracking.  The brutal truth of it all was landing, the realization dawning on her.

You were Steve’s home.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would never be that for their son.  Nor would their great big house.  No social status, or money, or upper class school would give him refuge.  But you?  You did that.  Have been doing that for the past six years.  

Steve didn’t lack friends.  He lacked family.  And you were far closer to family than his actual family was.

Mrs. Harrington took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose, keeping her emotions at bay.  She pushed her bangs out of her face, slowly rising to stand.  She closed her eyes briefly, mustering up whatever strength was left in her.  Then, she made her way towards you with a collected yet somber expression etching her feminine features.

All you could do was watch her, unable to breathe as you anxiously waited to see what she was about to do.  To your surprise, she reached for the handle…and opened your door.  You sat there, frozen in place.  Mrs. Harrington didn’t hurry you back out of her car, seeing how visibly afraid you were.  Instead, she just tilted her head slightly, and you knew that was your cue.  Newfound relief surged through you, and you felt the ice pick that was lodged in your chest finally melt.  Cautiously, you made your way out of the passenger’s seat, your bare feet touching the grass.  You looked up at her timidly, finding her expression to be blank.  

Then you turned to Steve.  Beautiful, sweet Steve.  He was still on the ground, his cries steadying.  When he saw you step out of the car, he stumbled to his feet, hiccuping.  You kept your head low, shoulders slumped as you made your way towards him.  You crashed into his chest, feeling the weight of the world lifted off your shoulders as Steve’s arms wrapped around you.

Steve’s entire world had ended just a few minutes ago, and now it had begun again.  The second you were back in his arms, everything was alright.  He still hiccupped and whimpered, but you did too.  You just held each other, crying softly.  

All Paula could do was watch.  Something about the way her son held you – so protectively and so full of love – made something inside her stir.  A sour taste filled her mouth, wanting to feel touched by it but too bitter at her own miserable reality to let it do so.  Because her son resonated more love than her husband ever could.  The way that Steve clung to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he swayed you both side to side, was the truest form of love that Paula had ever seen.  Her friends had never held her like that, when she was a little girl.  Even all grown up, Chet had never held her like that.  Not even close.  Not even at their happiest, years ago.  Maybe she had assumed that their son would naturally be the same way.  

God, was she wrong.  Because as you fiddled your fingers in the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, whispering how sorry you were, causing Steve to just shake his head against your shoulder and tell you not to be, Paula Harrington saw the epitome of true love shine through her son.  And, by extension, you. 

She hung her head, unable to look any more.  It upset her too much.  So she quietly made her way back inside, refusing to speak of this ever again.  Not with Steve, or with you.  Your parents would never know, and Chet Harrington would never know either.  

As Steve held you close to him, refusing to let you go, somehow you both knew that you would never have to worry about this again.  You weren’t going to be pulled apart, or stop being there for each other.  Because even if you had been driven away from him today, Steve would have persisted.  You would have done the same.  Tethered souls cannot be untethered.

Steve was twelve years old when he found that out.

___________

It was Steve’s fifteenth birthday when he kissed you for the very first time.

His parents were out at some party that night, having brought yours along too.  So the house was his for the night, until they drunkenly stumbled home.  All of his friends were elated.  Big house, no parents.  That’s the way Carol Perkins always puts it.  Steve Harrington’s house was the coolest on the block.  Huge pool with a deck.  Two stories, plus a man cave basement with a fully stocked mini bar that felt like an underground speakeasy.  And best of all, no parental supervision.  

Steve had become quite the hit, come freshman year.  He was captain on the swim team, and his body showed it.  His charm was as enticing as ever, winning every heart of every girl at school.  His boyishly handsome features blossomed day by day, growing cuter by the second.  His hair had become his statement piece, coining his nickname, Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.  He had it goin’ on, and everyone knew it.  Including you.

You, too, were a catch.  Your hair was longer, and you’d trimmed layers into your long red locks so that you had little side swept curtain bangs that all the girls wanted.  You were a cheerleader, but you really loved photography.  So you took that up, too.  You also had a great house for parties, which your mom was always too willing to host for you and your cheer squad girlfriends.  You never really planned those, so much as she did. And sure, you shared the same circle of friends as Steve.  But you still had that introverted loner streak in you, liking to do your own thing.  Steve was the social butterfly, his posse of admirers increasing more and more.  You were popular, given that you were the freshman heartthrob’s best friend.  ‘Steve’s girl.’  

Except you weren’t his girl, though.  Not really.  Yeah, you two were inseparable as ever.  That hasn’t changed.  But you weren’t technically his.  At least, not romantically…

“C’mon, big boy!  Chug the rest’a that beer so we can play some spin the bottle!”

Tommy H.  Somehow, that rowdy kid had gotten into your circle.  You weren’t really sure how.  He played basketball, but he was mostly on the bench.  His daddy was rich, too, but he was a drunk and a slob.  His step-mom was somewhere in her twenties, probably leaning more towards the younger end.  No one really knew much about his actual mom, but the mommy issues definitely showed.  Not that this had stopped Carol from being all over him.  Those two had their tongues down each other’s throats all the time, ever since she hit on him at one of the games.  They had snuck behind the bleachers to make out.  Probably more.  They bickered, sometimes being downright cruel to each other.  But it seemed to be their thing.

Oh yeah, and about Carol.  She was pretty much the same as she was in kindergarten.  Bratty.  Obnoxious.  Loud.  But when she had noticed you and Steve were still friends, and Tommy H. had made it clear to her that that wasn’t changing anytime soon, she’d retired her days of picking on you.  She pretty much had since that day at recess, but especially after seeing you were this untouchable princess in Steve’s world.  She didn’t get it, but she didn’t care to try.  She merely accepted it, and so you let it be.  You were stronger than you had been back then, having more of a voice.  But you were still a good girl at heart, soft spoken and a little too forgiving. 

“Oh Jesus,” Steve muttered, chuckling as he swiped at his perfect hair.  

Tommy H. has an arm slung around him, getting everyone to cheer him on.  You sat on the couch next to Stacy and Liz, your Paps Blue Ribbon in hand, grinning.  Chug, chug, chug, everyone chanted.  Soon enough, Steve’s bottle was empty and a circle was forming on the floor.  You settled on the ground across from him, shooting him a cute smirk.  He winked — and it didn’t matter how long you’d known him, it always made you blush.

“This seat taken?”

You looked up to find Christopher Cazaway standing above you, a soft smile on his lips.  You returned it, patting the empty space beside you.

“Be my guest.”

He obliged, not hesitating to take you up on the offer.  Christopher was a sophomore.  Blonde, handsome, 6’5” and a basketball superstar.  He was bound to get a scholarship somewhere great, no doubt in anyone's mind.  He was every coach’s dream, along with every girl at the school.  But as far as his personality goes, he wasn’t the jock type.  He was sort of a gentle giant, with a heartwarming smile and hearty laugh.  He could dribble and shoot hoops like no other, and he was drop dead handsome, but there wasn’t a vain bone in his body.  Christopher was surprisingly soft spoken, almost shy.  He was mature, sometimes seeming a little wise beyond his years.  He seemed to talk better with adults than teens in ways.  Still, everyone adored him.  He got invited to every party, hosting a few of his own but rarely.  

Secretly introverted kids like you noticed other like minded souls when you spotted them.  But little did you know, it was Christopher who had noticed you first.  Sure, he liked your vibrant red hair and ocean grey eyes.  Yeah, he noticed the lean build of your legs and slim curve of your neck and jawline.  Absolutely, he thought you were beautiful.  He liked the thin little rings you wore on your fingers, and he thought your laugh was adorable.  More than anything though, Christopher liked the way you carried and presented yourself.  He liked that you were so aware, observant.  You weren’t aloof, or like all the other girls that flung themselves at him.  You were real.  And he liked that.  A lot.  He kept liking more things about you, the more you both sat together in chemistry class or saw each other at basketball practice, since that’s where you had cheer meets.

“Man,” he said, crossing his legs.  “Haven’t played spin the bottle since middle school.”

You hummed a light chuckle, setting down your drink.  “Well if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never played period.”

He cocked an eyebrow, grinning at you.  “Is that right?”

You smiled sheepishly.  “I don’t get out much.”

He had to chuckle at that, knowing you were half kidding.  But he didn’t doubt that you’d never played before.  Not because you seemed awkward or uncomfortable, but because you weren’t like the other girls.  Or anyone here, for that matter.  You weren’t the typical snobby rich girl, from her snobby rich family.  You were different.

From across the room, Steve watched you two talk.  He found it interesting that Christopher and you talked with such ease, never having realized you two might be friends.  But Stacy and Liz chimed into your conversation eventually, and Tommy H. was back to hollering again.

“Everybody, shut up!” he shouted, silencing people for the most part.  He clapped his hands together, grinning like an idiot.  “Let’s fuck some lips.”

Girls made faces and sounds of disgust, while most of the dudes snickered in agreement.   You kept a straight face, not really phased by his antics.  Christopher found the kid gross, but knew he was just an ignorant freshman who thought he was hot shit.  So he didn’t really let it irk him much.  

“Wait,” Carol interjected, cracking open a peach schnapp.  “What if, like, a guy lands on a guy?”

Tommy H. snorted.  “Then you roll again.  No one’s gay up in here.  This isn’t a faggot party.”

Steve’s nose scrunched at that.  “Tommy, c’mon, man.  Don’t say that.”

You squirmed, adding softly, “that’s really not nice.”

“What?!  It’s true.”  Tommy H. took a swig of his beer, shrugging.

“Okay, then what about girls?” Carol pressed.  Her boyfriend smiled devilishly.

“Nah, that shit’s hot,” he sneered.  

“Ugh, that’s not fair!” Carol whined, but her grin contradicted her complaint.  You internally rolled your eyes.  Oh sweet misogyny, you thought to yourself.  The selective homophobia of an insecure male asshole was enough to make you wanna puke.

“Okay, can we just — play?” Someone interjected.

“Alright, alright,” Steve said, waving his hands.  He placed his empty beer bottle in the middle of the circle, looking up to wriggle his eyebrows at everyone.  “Who’s first?”

“You are, big guy,” Tommy H. said, clapping him in the back.  “Birthday boy always kicks us off.”

Some of the teens oooh’d and giggled, dramatically.  All the girls were just itching for it to be them that the bottle landed on, so that they could smooch the hot new heartthrob of Hawkins High.  Their very own small town Prince Charming.

Steve shrugged, reaching to give the bottle a spin.  

As you watched the bottle turn and turn, you couldn’t help but feel the anxious butterflies dance in your stomach.  You weren’t sure why you hoped it landed on you.  Then again, you were.  In fact, you totally were.  You’d loved Steve for as long as you could remember.  It was inevitable, given your history.  You knew he loved you, too.  It just probably wasn’t like that.  Still, you wondered if maybe he wanted the bottle to land on you too.

But it didn’t land on you.  It landed on Becky, who couldn’t help but gasp.  She looked absolutely ecstatic, giggling like a school girl.  Steve look at her with a grin and raised an eyebrow, somehow looking both shy and confident.

Oh shit.  Were you about to watch him kiss another girl?  You hadn’t had to see that before.  Sure, you knew he’d kissed another girl before.  A few, actually.  Steve’s first kiss had been Elsie Fitzgerald.  8th grade, behind the P.E. building.  You knew that, because Steve had told you first thing.  He’d nudged you in line at the cafeteria, telling you in a low voice as he plopped a milk carton on his tray.  And you’d listened, pretending that it didn’t make your heart break.  He was pretty happy about it, more so for himself than he was actually lit up about having kissed Elsie specifically.  She had passed him a note in class, asking to be his Valentine.  Your heart really sank after hearing that, wishing it had been you.  After that, Steve had a few kisses with girls under his belt — none of which were with you.

You were still waiting on your first kiss.  

And as that reminder floated around in your head, you watched Becky crawl across the floor to lean in and kiss your best friend on the lips.  He sat still, kissing her with ease.  You wondered what it felt like.  The touch of his lips, which you always thought looked so soft.  Becky lingered a little while, and eventually Steve pulled away with a charming smile.  She squealed, flitting back to her seat and flipping her hair.  The butterflies in your stomach felt blue, but you kept a light smile on your face to mask it. 

Now, Tommy spun the bottle. One by one, teens kissed.  Some girls even kissed, making you flush.  You watched Steve kiss a couple other girls, all of them doing a horrible job at concealing their giggling fits.  At some point, it was your turn to spin — and it landed right between Steve and Tommy H. 

Now you really felt butterflies in your stomach. Their dance was a little angry this time, though.  Your anxiety spiked, dreading the thought of kissing Tommy but nerves wrecked as you thought about getting to kiss Steve.

Your eyes glanced up at your best friend by default, finding that he was already looking back at you shyly.  Tommy barked a laugh, clapping his hands.

“Look, I don’t wanna make any calls here,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender.  “But uhhh, I’ll let the birthday boy take this one.  As much as I’d love to rock your world, princess.”

Your eyes narrowed at him.  “That’s one way to put it.”

“C’mon, birthday boy,” Carol snickered.  “Kiss your best friend.”

Steve felt himself blush, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt.  God, he had wondered what it felt like to kiss you for so long without even realizing that he had until this very moment.  The way you were looking at him right now, looking so calm and content, he never would have known that you were so completely in love with him.  He was pretty sure that he was a party of one, in that department.  

Tommy kept making gross kissy noises.  Steve cleared his throat, feigning lighthearted cockiness as he looked wryly at Tommy.  

“Knock it off, man,” he mumbled, turning back to face you.  

You watched him eye you with curiosity, as if he was silently asking you if this was okay.  But you just smiled warmly, welcoming the contact.  So Steve got on his knees and crawled over to you, meeting you halfway.  As he got closer to you, he could see those tiny sun kissed freckles that lightly dusted your nose, and the smooth surface of your porcelain cheek.  He could see the light whisk of mascara on your eyelashes, and the very neutral shade of lipstick on your full lips.  He felt himself swallow, his usual bravado failing him.  You looked so gentle, sweet as ever.  He wondered if your tongue tasted as sweet as you were…

You sat back on your knees and heels, hands placed in your lap as you looked at him, patient and a little sheepish.  Steve was so close to you now, basking in the scent of your soft perfume.  It smelled like the ocean, with faint traces of coconut and vanilla.  He wanted to kiss you.  He really did.  

“Oh my god, kiss already!” Carol screeched.  

But neither of you flinched, even as the others echoed their sentiments.  You breathed a tiny laugh, making Steve grin.  Without thinking, he found himself placing a hand to the curve of your jaw.  Oh.  He hasn’t done that with the other girls.  His breath lightly hitched at the contact, realizing he’d never actually been this close to you.  Which made no sense, given you’d fallen asleep in the same bed for how many years now?  But this was different.  This type of intimacy wasn’t the same.

You subtly leaned into his touch, eyes never leaving his.  His thumb stroked your cheek, the corner of his lip tugging upwards.  Your noses touched, the sharp tip of his against the little perky end of yours.  His breath was warm against your skin, feeling like a blanket wrapping itself around your face.  You both kept leaning in, slowly.  Ever so slowly.

Finally, his bottom lip grazed yours.  And those butterflies in your stomach were doing a full blown ballet now.  Steve felt his heart skip a beat.  Maybe several beats.  

Damn, he thought.  Since when did kissing feel like this?

It was the way your lips moved against his, so graceful and supple.  The way your fair skin felt like satin beneath his finger tips.  Steve felt a rush of euphoria overcome him, reveling in the feeling of your mouth against his.  Becky didn’t kiss like that.  Elsie didn’t, or any of the other girls.  People always said that kissing is an art.  Steve did have a reputation for being a good kisser, even at just fifteen years old.  He just didn’t really think much of it until he was enchanted by your kiss.  

Part of him thought that there was no way you hadn’t kissed somebody before.  Not with how incredible you felt brushing your lips with his.  Then again — maybe it was because you had never been kissed before that it was so magical.  That innocent bliss of being ‘untouched,’ not yet tainted by anyone or anything.

Meanwhile, you reveled in the rhapsody of Steve’s kiss.  It was everything you ever could have dreamed it would be, and more.  His lips were soft, cloud-like to the touch.  He was gentle in the ways you thought he might be rough, and tame in the ways you thought might be wild.  He didn’t rush anything, taking his time with even the most microscopic of movements.  The light yet firm grasp of his hand on your jaw was slightly edging down towards your neck, and it was all you could do not to hum with lovesick satisfaction.

Yeah, no, everyone thought.  He definitely hadn’t been this tender when kissing the other girls here.

It made those other girls watch you with envy, guys cocking an eyebrow and making immature, snide remarks under their breath.  It was so obvious, the magnetic pull between the two of you.  Anyone could see it.  Even the two of you did, but neither of you would ever admit that.  At least not anytime soon.

And as the kiss ended all too soon — well, too soon for you guys, not necessarily the others — Steve’s pillow soft lips parted from yours as he ever so slightly pulled back to look at you.  Your angelic face was still just an inch or so away from his, your eyelashes fluttering open to reveal your grey irises, exposing a new tint of lovesick blue.  They sparkled, dancing as you looked into his brown eyes that now looked more like the color honey.  You bit your lip, a timid smile finding your freshly kissed pout.  

God, Steve thought.  He would've kissed you again, right then and there.

But as Tommy H. hooted and hollered, snapping your two out of your gaze, reality sunk in again.  This was a party, and it was just a game.  It wasn’t a real kiss.  It was prompted by a bottle and reckless youth.  Nothing more.

Right?

“Well alrighty then, lovebirds,” some guy chided with a dark laugh.

You blushed, casting your eyes downwards.  You composed yourself, watching Steve do the same.  Yep, it was just a dream.

“Yeah, since when did this become a love making session?” Tommy H. jested.

Steve shot Tommy a scowl, before watching you scooch back to where you’d been sitting.  You gave him a shy smile, twiddling your thumbs in your lap.  Steve quickly scooted back to his place too, across from you in the circle.  He smiled back at you softly, before Tommy gave him a macho shove.  Steve shoved him back, but with half the strength.  He was still snapping out of it.  Soon, he cleared his throat, forcing his mental fantasies to the back of his brain again.

“Alright, next up,” Steve said, straightening his hair.  Fuck, did anyone else see how nervous he felt?  Apparently not, because everyone seemed to resume the game like nothing had ever happened.

Christopher clicked his tongue and slapped his hands on his knees.  “Welp,” he said, leaning forward.  “Guess it’s me.”

He gave the bottle a good spin.  

Lo and behold, it landed on you.

“Oh shit!” Tommy H. exclaimed, rolling over into a ridiculously unnecessary fit of laughter.  

Carol made obnoxiously loud remarks, too, along with lots of people in the circle.

Yeah.  Oh shit, indeed.

“Aww, little princess is getting all the kisses tonight,” she cooed condescendingly, her high pitched voice so fake and sugary sweet.

You felt your cheeks flush again, allowing yourself to tinker a laugh.  You turned to face Christopher, finding him rubbing his neck with a bashful smile on his face.  He looked at you with slightly timid eyes, chuckling nervously.  He was nervous?  Why would he be nervous, you wondered?

Oddly, you felt very at ease about the situation.  It was just Christopher.  He was always kind to you, and a good friend since you started high school.  If you’d had to kiss anybody else in the circle, you would prefer it be him than some guy you hardly knew.  And you certainly hoped it wouldn’t land on Tommy. 

You shrugged your shoulders, giving him a little grin.  He grinned back, brightly.  The corners of his eyes crinkled, and it was adorable really.  

Given that he was seated right next to you, no awkward crawling towards each other had to take place.  You just pivoted to face him, comfortably.  This kiss didn’t make you nervous.  You’d just gotten your first one out of the way, with the one guy you had been in love with your whole life.  So a second one with someone who was just a friend?  It seemed pretty easy.

Christopher had his eyes intently on you, which dropped down to look at your lips then back up to your eyes.  He leaned back on one hand, which he placed slightly behind you firmly into the carpet.  It gently brushed against your hip, his tone arm ghosting over the fabric of your dress.  He leaned in closer, slow and calculated, so that he was slightly looking up at you.  You still weren’t nervous, though, even as you looked into his dark blue eyes.  You just smiled, waiting.  His loods became hooded as he tilted his head just right, so that yours could tilt the opposite way whenever your lips made contact.  Sure enough, his lips found yours, and it was the most grounding kiss.  It was sweet, a little firmer than Steve’s.  He was soft, just a little more assertive.  Suddenly you felt his other hand cup the back of your neck, his touch tender and caring but secure.  It surprised you, but you didn’t pull away.  In fact, you instinctively placed a hand on his knee. 

If you hadn’t been busy locking lips with Christopher, you would have seen the melancholy expression on Steve’s face.  But you didn’t.  

Steve hopelessly watched you kiss the handsome sophomore, overcome with a sense of dread.  He hadn’t taken this into account when playing the game.  You know, that he’d actually have to watch you kiss another guy.  Maybe that wasn’t really the problem, though.  No, the problem was the way that Christopher kissed you.  Was still kissing you.  Steve could have sworn that he saw the blonde athlete move his lips against yours a second time, and envy creeped up his spine.  Christopher definitely hadn’t kissed Linda or Molly like that earlier in the game, when the bottle had landed on him during their turn.  Nah, this was just with you.  Why the hell was he kissing you like that?

…why the hell was he still kissing you like that?

Steve squirmed.  He felt as though he might laugh, or shout, or blurt something without being able to control himself, and he probably would have had it not been for you finally breaking contact with Christopher.  Oh thank Christ, Steve thought, as he let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding this whole time.

You simply gave Christopher a warm smile, but your eyes looked slightly dazed and confused.  Because you were.  It had caught you a little off guard, the way that he’d just kissed you.  It definitely lasted a little longer than needed.  Not that you minded it.  You didn’t really know what to think of it, actually.  One thing was for sure, his gaze on you was not one he’d given any of the other girls that night.  You knew that much.  You might’ve been uncharacteristically oblivious to Steve’s feelings for you, but you weren’t blind to someone else’s.  Before now, though, you never really thought that Christopher felt anything for you aside from friendship.  But now, it seemed that he did.  It seemed he very much did.

Huh, you thought.  Interesting.

You still hadn’t looked over to see Steve’s disheartened expression in the midst of all the immature teenagers in a circle, making a series of noises and comments following the kiss.  He hoped that no one was watching him.  Then again, would he even care if they did?  That didn’t matter, not when he cared way more about the fact that some other guy was looking at you like that.  It didn’t sit right.  It really didn’t sit right.  

But what was he gonna do about it?  Say, “Hey Christopher, it’s my birthday, so maybe back off my girl?”  No, because you weren’t technically his.  You were your own.

…but your heart was his.

…and his heart was yours.

Steve doesn’t really remember much after that.  He knew they hadn’t been playing for much longer, and that eventually everyone wanted to shotgun some more beers.  He knew that Linda and Becky had been saying something to him in the lavish living room, as they twirled their hair and batted their lashes.  He knew that Tommy H. had been daring everyone to jump in the pool, dragging Carol in with him.  Teens screeched and hollered, splashing and laughing while the Eagles blasted in the background from the Harrington’s flashy stereo inside the house.

Steve does remember when “Sweet Emotion” by Aerosmith had started to play.  He was leaning against his kitchen island, making small talk with some of the guys.  You were out by the pool, red solo cup in hand, and you had started to sway to yourself.  The skirt of your dress flicked at the corners, your toned legs sashaying you from side to side.  You turned a little, so that he could see your profile.  You were grinning ear to ear, in your own little world.  He loved when you did that.  You were so damn adorable when you did that.  You lifted a hand into the air – the one not holding your cup of booze – closing your eyes, and singing the words.

Sweet emotion…

Sweet emotion…

You talk about things that nobody cares

Wearing out things that nobody wears

You turn so that you’re now facing the open sliding glass door, opening your eyes as you fix your gaze on Steve.  Your eyes are a little hazy, but still glow.  You point your finger at Steve, serenading him in your buzzed stupor.  Your grin deepens as you sing the next words along with Steven Tyler.

You’re calling my name, but I gotta make clear

I can’t say, baby, where I’ll be in a year

Steve can feel himself smiling like an idiot, shaking his head as he lets out a throaty chuckle that’s drowned out by the music.  He bites his lip absentmindedly, watching you just exist.  You throw your head back, smiling at the sky, hips still swaying.  

Stacy makes her way over to you from the other side of the pool, definitely more drunk than you were.  She sings loudly, catching your attention.  You look down from the black night sky to look at her, and you laugh when you see her wanting to join you.  She grabs your hand, twirling you around and singing everything off key.

Some sweat hog mama with a face like a gent

Said my get up and go, must've got up and went

Well I got good news, she's a real good liar

'Cause the backstage boogie sets your pants on fire

As the guitar solo rips through the stereo speakers, your dancing intensifies.  Everyone in the pool seem to be getting rowdier, also singing Aerosmith at the top of their lungs.

Stacy’s footing betrays her and she stumbles, laughing drunkenly.  You catch her, making sure that she’s okay and stifling a laugh.  But once you see that she’s clearly fine, you laugh too.  Liz makes her way out of the pool to check on her, squatting down and clutching her hands and still singing while Stacy just keeps laughing.

Steve takes the opportunity to approach you as you stand alone again, sneaking up quickly to grab you and spin you around.  You squeal, feeling his chest pressed to your back as your legs dangle off the ground.  You hold onto his toned arms tightly, giggling uncontrollably.  When he sets you back down, you turn so that you’re looking directly at him.  

Sweet emotion…

Sweet emotion…

Your stomach does flip-flops, seeing his signature Steve Harrington smiled directed only at you.  His brown eyes hold a certain mischief in them, and you can’t help but feel a rush of love for this boy you’d known since you were just barely in kindergarten.  He lifts your hand to twirl you, and suddenly you’re six years old again, dancing in your treehouse with Steve.  The real world ceases to exist, and it’s just the two of you in your own fantasy world.  No matter what ups and downs, highs and lows, good days and bad days, heartache and joy, that reality throws both of your way – the one constant you both have had is each other.  Somehow, that’s never changed. 

You both sing to each other, hand in hand and hips in time with the music.

I pulled into town in a police car

Your daddy said I took it just a little too far

You're telling her things but your girlfriend lied

You can't catch me 'cause the rabbit done died

Yes it did

Now everyone around you is losing their mind, screaming the words and partying like animals as the song continues to blare.  It’s an 80’s rock-n-roll kind of vibe, full of teen angst, booze and sexual tension.  Guys shotgun more beer by the pool, couples make out in the deep end.  Girls hold each other with limp limbs and sloppy smiles, slurring the words and proclaiming their girl power love for each other.  They won’t remember it tomorrow, but for tonight it’s the glorious eternal truth.

As for you – Nicole St. James, the freshman mystery girl and princess in the making – you’ve only got eyes and moves for your best friend in the world.  Steve Harrington, Hawkins High’s soon-to-be very own King Steve.  Two best friends and lovers in denial, hopelessly devoted to one another, just without the title.  You both dance around the truth together on his posh pool deck.  The confident shake of his hips and thrusts of yours fool you blind from seeing that you are just as equally afraid as he is to make the wrong move.

Stand in the front just a shakin' your ass

I'll take you backstage, you can drink from my glass

I'll talk about something you can sure understand

'Cause a month on the road and I'll be eating from your hand

Steve knows that something’s gotta give.  He knows that it can’t go on like this forever.  But for him, this is safe.  This is forever.  What you two have guarantees that you’ll both make it.  That you’ll never go away.  You won’t abandon him, or lose interest in him.  If he keeps his distance, even tangled up in your arms when dancing in his backyard or falling asleep next to you, then he’ll always keep you close.  All the money in the world, but he could never afford to lose that.  Not ever.

And you don’t say anything to make him change his mind.  To make him ask you to be his.  To make a move beyond a kiss shared in a public game of spin-the-bottle.  To tell you that he doesn’t just love you – but that he is in love with you.  You don’t confess it either, no matter how fiercely you want to do exactly that.  Because as selfish as it was, you were content too.  You never minded being on your own, but a world without Steve stopped being fathomable in 1972 on that brisk afternoon in your treehouse.  The second he had knocked on your pastel yellow door, in his little sage green sweater, jeans and converse, your solitude had made room for a second person.  He was your other half, so it really wasn’t even surrendering solitude.  It was simply completing it.  Steve completed it.  Completed you.

_________________

To be continued…

VOLUME II next month 🖤

TAG LIST: @loveshotzz @creelhousesteve @t-lostinworlds @freezaz123 @zbeez-outlet @cutiecusp @unhealthyobservationsloves @sunioli

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #steve au #steve the hair harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington one shot #team steve #joe keery #king steve #steve harrington au #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington oneshot #Steve Harrington x fem!character

[sarascamander]

If you love Kit and Ty, you HAVE to read the Adventure of Holloway Holmes — it gives the EXACT VIBE of KitTy. I'm not even kidding. We have two wannabe sleuths absolutely pining for each other, crimes to solve, amazing banters, and just so much more! One of the similarities:

1. The main character is Jack Moreno who Kit wished he was. I LOVE KIT but Jack stole my heart in a way he didn't lmao. They both are sarcastic, hilarious, independent and undeniably in love with their partner in crime. Honestly, being in Jack's head is one of the best experiences of my love. It's so fun!

I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to smack my head against the steering wheel. Off the top of my head, I could make a list: some fairly good weed, a lot of addies, condoms (not that those were illegal), unopened vapes (those were), this rare tentacle porn manga that Ty Bryce had paid me for but asked me to hold on to. After I got out of prison in thirty years, I already knew, Dad was going to make me have a super awkward sex talk.

2. And Holmes aka H (as Jack fondly nicknamed because Holloway Holmes is such a posh name in his humble opinion) is so precious!!!! I want to wrap him in a blanket burrito even though he is actually capable of breaking my arm without blinking. But god! Someone needs to take care of him. Although it's never been specified in the book, I'm 80% sure he's autistic. Either that or he was badly abused (which he was). He reminded me of Ty by the way he speaks and acts.

I examined his face. Then I gave him a smile. He was doing a Holmes thing, not looking me in the eye, so I moved my head until he was. This was something we’d been working on.

3. You know how Kit will suddenly drift to a paragraph of how beautiful Ty is? Well, Jack Moreno might give Kit a run for his money (he's so obsessed with H's knuckles and the thousands of shades of gold in his hair, it's embarrassing)

He made a frustrated noise. Then he smiled. The expression was a little stiff; he wasn’t used to doing it, and it was another of those things that he was self-conscious about. I’d read about people who get up at two or three in the morning—on vacation, no less, when they’re in Hawaii—and then they drive hours and hours, and all of it is to see the sunrise from this one specific spot, and I thought, Come to Utah if you want something worth your time

Context: they're in Utah. Jack basically said that Holmes' smile is prettier than the sunrise!! 😩

4. Their relationship is literally so pure and one of the things that get me insane about them is their communication!! They always worked hard to communicate with each other and sort things out it's so satisfying to read!!

“I lied,” Holmes said, but he still wasn’t looking me in the eye. “I am angry with you.” “I guessed.” “I don’t want to do this right now.” “It’s good practice."

5. Their banter is *chef kiss*

“I’ll tell him it’s a sex thing.” “Good,” Holmes said. “He’ll be pleased that all your hours of mindless pornography are finally paying dividends.” My jaw legit dropped. “H!” “Desk, please.” “That was so amazingly bitchy.” “Desk.” “And, like, also kind of evil. Which I loved.”

And there are literally hundreds of reasons to read this trilogy if you are craving for Kit and Ty. And although their vibes are similar, they are also their own people. And words can't say how much I adore them. The story and relationship is really beautifully written. I honestly don't care much about the crime but I'm obsessed with these two

Some of my favourites quotes:

He sat there in silhouette, head down. I knew the curve of his spine. I knew the span of his shoulders. Anywhere, I thought. I could be anywhere and know you

“You are my soul, Jack Moreno. I do not know why John Watson wrote his stories that way, why he wrote himself so small, when he was so much more. I do not think I will ever understand. But I do not want to know what I would be without you.”

I knew that he was something more than me, something vast and wonderful that I could only touch the edges of. But for someone like me, the edge was enough—just a glimpse was enough. And, more importantly for right now, I knew what he sounded like when he’d been hurt, the quality of his breathing, because I’d hurt him in a way few people ever had. Which was why, in those rare midnight hours when I could be honest with myself, I knew it was better this way, as friends. Because I didn’t deserve him

“But he was so much more. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant detective, Jack. He would have been that regardless of other circumstances. But he was a good man—he was a happy man—because of John Watson.”

“What do you say to that, I wanted to know. What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to say? But what I was really asking was, How am I supposed to do this again? I barely survived the first time; what am I supposed to do when you leave me again?”

I had seen, this spring, jacaranda blossoms so pale they were almost blue, trembling with the breath of the mountains. I had seen, when I'd been twelve, a foil of goldfinches flocking against the crushed dusk. I had seen a shooting star once, thinning across the sky like combed silver. And I had seen Holloway Holmes smile.

There's so much but I don't want to spam so I really hope you give it a try!!

#jack moreno #holloway holmes #ty blackthorn #kit herondale

[beautifulpersonpeach]

GODDAMMM JIMIN YOUR VOICE!!!!!

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Ask 2: What’s your verdict on Vibe bpp? Im not very knowledgable but it sounded like what i heard in radios back in the 2000s, i saw people say that its not very kpop, do you agree? I wasnt into it until jimin came in dunno if I was just biased lol.. I’m was very surprised at the level of participation Jimin had in this song.. Turns out he even wrote some of the lyrics enough to get credit.. and i feel like he got half of the verses And spotlight in the MV too! Maybe cuz its his first official collab but I was surprised at him advertising it in his ig lol he’s never done that before.. it looks like theyre planning on doing music shows too!!! Curious to see how this collab will do in the charts too.

*

Ask 3: So. What did you think of it? Doesn’t Jimin look absolutely gorgeous? My heart.

#Vibe #ParkJimin #KillMe #WhatImDeadAlready

*

Ask 4: WILL HE BE PERFORMING AT A SHOW?!?! LIVE?!?!?!

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Ask 5: heyyy bpp!! with the bigbangtan collab turning out to not be a hoax a lot of people are now hoping for a blacktan collab someday. do u think its possible? imho it might be a possibility but tbh i just cant see there styles and philosophies meshing well at all at least not until bp comes out with music that is very diff from what theyve done so far and i just cant see that happening any time soon bec even their solos so far arent that good imo. what do u think?

***

Hi Anon(s)!

VIBE is very much giving me 80s groove mixes, stripped back. Only thing missing is a Kenny G saxophone solo.

My favourite parts/timestamps:

1:55 - I love how they stripped back the instrumentals in Jimin's chorus so we really **hear** him. God, his voice. It's almost acapella and I'm glad Teddy had the sense to not bury that magic under useless synths.

2:17 - What is it with Jimin and bridges? He understands the assignment. Every single time.

*

Because I was aware of my bias going into it, I gave this song a few more listens than I typically do before forming an opinion. And like I suspected, the only reason I like this song is because of Jimin.

Taeyang gave me nothing to work with I'm sorry. The D'Angelo aesthetic failed to land, the only person who brought sauce to this joint is Park Jimin. I think even Taeyang, Teddy and co recognize that too, because though it's Taeyang's song and technically a feature, it feels like Jimin's song with Taeyang featuring. (The lines split is also smart from a business POV because it will get ARMYs and Jimin solo stans to buy/stream it more). Jimin has writing credits [*] so I can only assume he wrote his verses because the difference between his verse and Taeyang's is like night and day, and in Jimin's verse, the lack of gendered pronouns is something I can't help but notice.

In terms of jikook/ML collabs so far, I actually prefer this to Left & Right and Dreamers, but I like Bad Decisions more. So I'm giving this song a solid 6.8/10. It's a decent track and the hook is fun to sing. And thankfully, the song is short enough.

Frankly, if this single was supposed to whet people's appetites for Taeyang's album, it does the opposite for me, but it does do that for me with Jimin with PJM1. I **need** to hear more Jimin.

Anon in Ask 4, Taeyang has said there's a live performance so it's possible we get to see Jimin perform it live with him. (Jimin is blonde right now, in case anyone forgot)

Anon in Ask 5, you might not have heard, but ARMYs have a running joke that the tannies collab with people unlikeable to the fandom. I think a collab between Blackpink and BTS/any of the members is certainly possible (everything is possible in Chapter 2), but it will be a character building exercise for everyone involved.

And y'all know all I really do in those sorts of situations is laugh.

My favourite shot:

*

It's a bit unfair to Taeyang to have him dance beside Jimin, honestly. But he managed to hold his own for the most part. The live will be fun to watch.

*

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(Jimin's dance lines are perfection)

***

[*] EDIT: Updating this to correct that Jimin has composing credits on Vibe, not writing credits. Only Taeyang and Vince have writing credits. So for Jimin’s verse I can assume Vince did the writing, and if Taeyang did then even more kudos to him honestly (though it begs the question… you know what, I’ll drop it lol). And again, the lack of gendered pronouns for Jimin’s verse sticks out (which is probably true for any queer listener tbh).

#jimin #park jimin #jimin x taeyang #vibe #bts #bts in chapter 2 #bts chapter 2

[texasdreamer01]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Self-tagging from @ygodmyy20! 👋

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

80!

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

239,131.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently Stargate Atlantis, but I'm considering the Hobbit fandom again due to some fandom events.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Psychopomp (Space Australians fandom, technically origfic) Twixt Primroses and Hawthorns (Hobbit fandom) All we are, and all we have… (Star Wars TCW / Prequel fandom) Ādfȳr (Hobbit fandom) Nice Manners for a Thief (Hobbit fandom)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I do my best, even if it's just to say thank you. I've gotten some puzzling comments before, so I haven't gotten to them yet.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uhhhhhhhhhh I guess it depends on the fandom? I write angst a lot, anyway, so it's difficult to tell which is the most angstiest story. Maybe The Serenity Protocol, for the Star Wars fandom?

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

In terms of most satisfying resolution, maybe Svabhāva from YGO DM.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I had this one guy who left comments on every single fic on FFN below a thousand words saying "This is not a drabble.", which I suppose counts?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yep! According to my commenters, "hot".

10. Do you write crossovers?

Yyyyy-no? I have one drafted but it's not even remotely finished.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Once! And it was even from someone commenting on my fic! They did a terrible job filing off the serial numbers for it, too.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I've translated my own fics as practice, but never by anyone else.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Accidentally, yes.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I have a multitude of ships because of different dynamics and fandoms, so honestly I couldn't pick between them?

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Kintsugi, in the Sherlock fandom. I had to take a break from it and don't know if I'll ever be able to re-dedicate the time it needs.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Verbiage. I used to write a lot of poetry before doing long-form, so the word choices carried over.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Writing while tired or otherwise preoccupied, mostly because I write to think out an idea rather than to attract attention, so I'm not terribly concerned with quality until I re-read it.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Pretty fun for some fandoms! It gets frustrating with some conlangs that are obviously under-developed, or if it's a fandom that's typically English-only and you have characters that know other languages but for some reason never use them.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Danny Phantom.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Ehhh. I can definitely say I've improved with my writing, but I've never gotten into the habit of genuinely liking my work because I know it could be better.

No pressure tags: @spurious, @pandora15, and anyone else that wants to do it!

#ygodmyy20 #long post

[alex-a-fans]

BTTF Year-End Tag Game!

AAA THANK YOU @cheriboms AND @bttf-dork FOR TAGGING ME!!

This year:

How many times would you guess you watched the first back to the future movie?

Too many times to count...

Did you get any sweet bttf merch? If so, what!

Yes! BTTF Playmobil advent calendar and an off-brand Funko pop Doc!

How many cans of Pepsi Free did you chug this year?

Pepsi free? None. Normal Pepsi on the other hand.... Over 50 cans for sure.

What was a favorite bttf fanfic you read this year?

There were so many good ones, but if I had to choose... I choose 3!

Oh, How the World has Changed by @itsthemorph I just love the idea of Clara in 1985, even if it's only one chapter, I am sure the other parts will be great :)

June of Doom: let the Suffering Begin by @unknooooow. Now these ones are dark. They have become my Roman Empire, so I think about it once every few days. But again, I love angst, especially realistic. :)

Double Visions by @daryfromthefuture. While there were many good ones this one stuck out due to it having the talk of Citizen Brown (the not-so-silly doc). And it's also very touching and captures the friendship spirit greatly!

A favorite bttf fanart you saw this year? (please give us a link, not a screencap/repost!)

AGAIN MANY GOOD ONES.

this one by @future-boi LITTLE MARTY LITTLE MARTY

this one by @maxintime Cause Browns my beloved <3

this one by @bttf-dork (do u have any idea how long it took for me to find it, I thought I imagined it) THE COLORS, THE SHAPES AAA.

This one by @cheriboms The silly, the goofy, the little Baby Emmett (I WILL EAT THE FANART)

Did you create any bttf fanart or fanfic? If you did, what one(s) are you proudest of?

My time to shine :) /j

I am especially proud of June of Doom chapter 11 (Better known as Doc Has a Stroke literally). It took me two months to write, and it is still the longest one chapter I ever wrote (3k words). Also! I am afraid of hospitals and blood, so I have no idea how I wrote it. Also believe it or not, it was inspired by the animated series...

One more writing project I am proud of is Alteration. It is not because of how much I wrote, but how much I am still planning, and how many Ideas I have for it. I have every single detail planned :)

With art it's a bit more tricky. Since I am not THAT proud of any of them, but BTTF 2 end scene redraw is still one of my favs :)

How many times were you late for school this year?

At least three times, due to reasons outside of my control. But I hate being late.

Did you watch any other movies/tv shows with BTTF actors in them?

My Favourite Martian (1999) Where Lloyd plays an Alien. I watched it because of my silly alien doc au. And I had an amazing angst idea out of it (I wrote it for June of Doom)

That is about it...

Was there a memorable moment you heard a Huey Lewis song this year?

In the car. My parents are tired of me ranting about BTTF so Imagine me (not a singer) scream-singing Back In Time. :DDD

How many times did you fall down this year?

Honestly, either I didn't. Or I did too many times to count. Cause I don't remember

Did you get to see BTTF: The Musical? What was your experience like!

No...

How many times did your mom retell the story of how she and your father met?

Not many, maybe once.

If you could describe your year in a BTTF quote, which one would it be?

This one is the toughest.

It will either be "I repeat, Verne, this is a fool's errand." "Does that mean you're coming?" I always tagged along when I knew my friend was making a dumb decision.

Or “Why do we have to cut these things so damn close?”

⚡️LIGHTNING ROUND⚡️ Did you get to: go on any trains, skate on a skateboard, ride a horse, drive a Delorean, run in the rain, go to a dance, hang up a clock, play the guitar, pull an all-nighter, read science fiction, or drive thru Burger King this year?

To the dance, I even went as Marty McFly. (Even if it was 80' themed I did not win, they did not get the joke :(

Your future is whatever you make it! So what are you going to make of this coming year?

More art. Even more angsty fanfiction :)

I am tagging @unknooooow and I believe everyone else has been tagged. Maybe @jayisnotdrawing @bri-to-the-future @brinkle-brackle and @bentothefuturee @pine-killer55

Game by: @mjf-af

#bttf #back to the future #bttf ask game #ask game #bttf tag game

[k-renee]

this thing i wrote

topic : sad shit about jeff (and monty, i guess) dying

pairing : jeff atkins x poc!fem reader

a/n:: this is like 80% accurate and there's like ONE made up character. the brother of reader, essentially. sorry it's shit <3

jeff atkins had always been my best friend. since the day i met him. the day he died. the day i watched them lower him into the ground. always.

my twin brother andre and i had moved in next door to him and his parents. my mom had forced me and and dre to go outside until they were done unpacking, which wouldn't be for hours. so we sat on the porch, bored out of our tiny little kid minds.

then jeff came out.

he had skin a little lighter than his brown hair, but it was the summer, so he was darker. we all were. he had diamonds in his ears—and he was lying to us about it cuz they were actually rhinestones, now that i remember—and i thought he was so cool for that. i mean, dre and i both had our ears pierced, but it was different because dre only had one ear done, and my earrings were all kawaii and had faces and shit.

but for real, i think the coolest, craziest, most...exotic—if you will—thing about jeff was his eyes. one minute they were blue, the next they were green. it just beat me and dre's plain dark brown eyes that were so dark you couldn't see the irises.

anyway.

he asked us to play baseball with him in his backyard, since he only had one player. himself. i honestly believe he's the reason why i sometimes feel bad for only children.

so we did. and jeff was damn good at it. i don't even know why he asked us to play like he was up for a challenge, because he beat us easily, even though he was outnumbered.

but after that, it was history. we all went to school together. we grew up together. we spent all of our summers together. and over time, one more kid came around.

montgomery de la cruz.

and monty, he was an asshole. a stupid, insane asshole who was like two years younger than us only because he was held back. he was almost a spawn of satan. but he was our friend. we all changed together, no matter how bad of a person one of us (monty) was.

then high school came around. that…that changed everything.

those were the summers that i literally turned pretty. i started to sprout and grow into a woman, and monty and dre and jeff were all there to see it (kinda weird if i think about it now). and everyone noticed. everyone. but i didn't care, because the most important one, that was jeff.

and i was always in love with jeff, i knew that. andre knew that. hell, maybe jeff knew. but the summer before freshman year was when it really mattered. when i really felt it. he’d always have given me some stupid weird fluttering in my stomach everytime he smiled or laughed, but that summer—it was butterflies.

eventually, we started dating. “going out”, essentially. and it was great. i didn't need to argue with him because we agreed on everything and we always had since the beginning of time. i didn't need to be too scared to tell him stuff because he already knew everything. that is—or was—my favorite part about our relationship.

and then just like that, he was gone.

one hour jeff and andre were dragging me to a party. we were having fun. jeff had one drink. dre and i shared three cans of diet coke. jeff went on a beer run i told him not to go on.

the next hour, clay was calling my brother in hysterics.

i was screaming for monty and zach to drive us to the hospital. my nose was bleeding because of my blood pressure, and i had an ice pack on it on our way, but it didn't do anything because i was crying so hard. we got to the hospital. his parents were there. the doctors looked at me. looked at us. looked at our colored faces with no sympathy and told us jeff was already dead. lifeless, in a hospital bed. they didn't even bother cleaning him up. just brought him in and didn't do a damn thing to help save him.

and they all made up this fucking story that he had been drinking and driving. he was drunk, and that's why he died. he crashed on his own, and it was his own fault his life was over.

but that wasn't it. and i learned that two years after he died. i believed this false narrative everyone had made up, and i hate myself for it. i knew him better than anyone, and when i should've been there for him when all people were doing was talking shit, i wasn't. i let them talk because i believed their bullshit.

every day i think of how they put up posters that discouraged underage drinking right after jeff died. how drinking and driving would get you killed. were they not aware or sensitive about my feelings? our feelings?

jeff and i had plans. me, dre, and him were graduating that year. jeff got his full baseball scholarship at some college and i got into an hbcu on a 95% scholarship. dre was gonna get into something, we knew it. we had faith even though his grades weren't too great. we were all gonna visit each other and call everyday. and then jeff was gone. he fucking crashed into another car and it was all over. everything he'd worked for had all gone to shit because he fucking died.

and i hate myself for putting him in that position. letting him leave in the first place. going to that party with him in the first place.

then years later, monty was killed after he was sent to prison.

i'm not gonna say that monty didn't deserve everything that came at him. i can't deny that monty was a terrible person. i can't deny that he was a monster. because he was.

but it's hard to admit that when you grew up with the monster. when you were a close friend of the monster. when you loved the monster.

nothing romantic, but i loved monty. we all did. not because of how sick he was—he absolutely needed help—but because we knew him. those who need help get thrown in prison and are locked away from the help they deserve. the other, worse monsters, like bryce walker, don't get put in prison. walker did ten times worse than monty and only got a measly community service sentence. monty couldn't get half of what he needed because he was—let's face it—darker and poorer than bryce was.

and that monster died too.

maybe bryce's family feels the same way that i do about monty. they hurt so many people, including me. but i can't say–no one can say–if they truly deserved it.

the funny thing is that monty and bryce were friends. so i really don't know if they both deserved it or if they both didn't. and maybe you think they have more in common than i let on. maybe you think that they were both monsters that used people for their own satisfaction, for their own pleasure, and they ultimately paid the price with their lives. and maybe that's true.

but who fucking knows. we're not god out here, but nobody here is an angel.

jeff wasn't perfect, i know. but he was trying. he tried. we all were. we all do. he just wanted to cheer up anybody who he thought was unhappy. he wanted to help people. he wanted to have fun.

and that's all he wanted. he wasn't selfish. he wasn't a drunk bastard alcoholic. he wasn't a jock who was a jerk like scott. he wasn't a somewhat-okay guy who had a good heart somewhere like zach. he wasn't a monster that used people for his own benefit like monty and bryce.

jeff was an angel. to me. to his family, to everybody. and he deserved better. he deserved more than that.

#13rw #13 reasons why #jeff atkins #jeff atkins x reader #13 reasons season 2

[midnightrings]

So, I watched the latest episode and I have a lot of thoughts about it. Tbh, I feel like this should’ve been 2 episodes instead. I really loved Hawk and Tim’s dynamic here, plus I needed more 80s scenes and Markus/Frankie. But anyway … what I was thinking about most is where the show will take it from here.

I was really curious to see how the show manages to show Hawk and Tim in the 60s without revealing anything about the ’57 stuff yet. And I was also hoping they’d show some hints to what might have happened, but … I feel like there were basically no hints at all? At least nothing obvious. I only watched the episode once, so maybe I’ve missed something, but if I didn’t know that they met again in ’57, I don’t think I would’ve assumed that much happened between episode 5 and 6. I mean, Hawk and Tim definitely didn’t talk like people that haven’t seen each other in over 10 years, but it doesn’t seem as if anything drastic happened.

I’ve been wondering for a while now if maybe Tim doesn’t know yet about whatever Hawk did in ’57, and won’t learn about it until some time before the 80s scenes. Mostly because this could explain how their relationship (kind of) continues into the 60s and 70s. Tim does appear to be way more wary of Hawk in this episode than before, but Hawk also doesn’t really seem to show remorse or anything that could hint at him doing something horrible to Tim. It even seems like he wants to get back together with him. So maybe, there isn’t any actual ‘betrayal’ on Hawk’s part.

I haven’t really kept up with any behind the scenes stuff, so I don’t know if there’s anything mentioning that Hawk will betray Tim in ’57. The only reason I thought something awful will happen is because of the storyline in the book, and the fact that the ’57 scenes won’t happen until the last episode. But at this point, I honestly find it difficult to believe that Hawk did something unforgivable to Tim. Though he is a complicated and troubled characters, so maybe he still did – I guess we will see.

I’ve also wondered whether the letter Tim wrote to Hawk might come into play at some later point. I mean, I do hope that Hawk learns about it, but maybe the letter will be overall more important to the storyline. I don’t think that it has to be important – it already functioned as a bridge between this episode and the ending of the last one, and was used to let Lucy know about Tim. But maybe the letter also had some impact on whatever happened in ’57.

I’m not really sure when the flashbacks in this episodes are set. I don’t think there was any mention of the year? (But please correct me if I’m wrong) Considering Jackson is probably like 12/13 in this episode, I guess the flashbacks happened some time before ’57. So maybe Hawk not reading the letter will have some consequences. I don’t think those have to be heavy consequences either. Tim believes that Hawk has read the letter – so if Hawk continues to disrupt his life, despite Tim telling him repeatedly that he needs to leave him alone, I can see how Tim might start feeling resentment towards Hawk. So there might not be an actual betrayal on Hawk's part, but their relationship in the 80s is just the cumulative result of Hawk's actions throughout the years.

Another thing I’ve been thinking about is what might happen to Jackson, and how it might impact Hawk and Tim’s relationship. I’m going to assume that he will probably die in the next episode. And judging by what we learned about him in this episode, I think it’ll either be suicide or a drug overdose. And maybe, Hawk will be away with Tim when this happens.

Considering that Lucy (rightfully) called out Hawk for putting his family in danger, and the constant conflict between his family and Tim in the 80s, I can definitely see him not being there for his family when his son dies. Jackson directly talked about how Hawk’s lies (or his parent’s lies in general) affect him negatively, and if Hawk loses his son while he’s with Tim, he will definitely feel responsible for his son’s death, and as a result of his guilt, might decide to cut all ties with Tim. I guess we will see next episode.  

Honestly, I love how there’s only 2 episodes left and I still don’t know what direction this show will take. I really thought there would be a clearer picture after this episode, but if anything, I just ended up with even more theories lmao

#fellow travelers #ft spoilers #meta

[armed-saphire]

if you had been writing the women in metal gear what would you change with them (a lot i know) because i feel like just the idea of women being written well in metal gear will benefit us all

I'm answering but just so we all know my qualifications here are just that I'm a woman I am not a writer or game designer or whatever also as it goes on I get more pissed off so it gets a little messy structure wise hope that's ok anyways here's what I wrote:

Um ok, so it would take sooo long to write a full structured analysis so I'll give little things for each character. Uhh mgs1 make Meryl less of just a flat love interest stand-in because the rest of her backstory in that game feels like it’s shoehorned in to make it seem like she has actual character when she's just meant as the glorified damsel in distress (not to say she can't need help but a lot of it felt like a bunch of "leave me Snake, I can't help you I'm just a GIRL!!"). Also, this is just my personal HC but it would add so much to her if she was transgender but it's not like NEEDED- anyway also Naomi was meant to be brown idk what happened but I would return her melanin to her I think. Mei Ling is mostly fine character-wise but I would remove all of Snake's weird advances and comments about her. I would actually remove that from all of his interactions with women in that game I think. OH and Sniper Wolf should put the thangs away I'm thinking like a fur coat and also I want her whole character to be more than just a sexy lady with a tragic past. her speaking in a seductive voice 80% of the time and just being honestly creepy was stupid. I think she could just be a person maybe. that would be cool I think. She could've been just tough and standoffish and then revealed her true feelings as she was dying instead of all the weird seductive stuff

Ok now Mgs2, Fortune is pretty much fine but I wish she didn’t have her booty cheeks out on the seemingly cold big shell bc Raiden was shivering and sneezing like a little wet dog when he lost his suit so I'd assume she’s cold too. if she was wearing some cool pants or something that would be neat but other than that I think she's pretty well written. next Emma ummm her personality itself isn't the issue to me but I didn’t like how Raiden was kind of creepy towards her (not really but like. “You should wear contacts” I'll punch him maybe). Also, she should've had a cooler outfit but that's it. Honestly, I’d have to rewatch or replay Mgs2 to get a good grasp of her character but I see no crazy issues. Rosemary omg I think she’s fine but I hated how it kind of felt like it was Raiden and Campbell vs Rose and she always loses even in non-canon codecs it was so annoying. Other than that once again I will have to listen to the codecs again because I haven't heard all of them in a while. Actually, I just remembered I didn't like how she was kind of written to be oddly insecure?? Ig?? I mean she spent a lot of time in codecs talking about personal stuff and not the mission which I guess was intentional but I found it odd. Olga’s fine no notes. Don’t think there's anyone else. (skipping mgs3 bc it only has 3 women and I think they’re all written ok I don't have many issues.) Ok, mgs4 for the B&B unit I will refer you to this post because I’ve already talked about it. other than that Meryl was actually really good until the final part on outer haven that was so bad “I can't protect anyone” or whatever she said girl fuck off the only reason she said that was so that big strong man Johnny Sasaki could come to save her omg fuck you also Johnny Sasaki should die that's crucial to this anyway, Mei Ling was fine but I’d remove the codec call where Otacon and Snake say that Mei Ling probably just slept with older men to get to her job position I just think I wouldn't have that in the game probably. Naomi ok so I haven't finished mgs1 so I can't tell you exactly if what she does in Mgs4 is fucked up compared to how she is in mgs1 I mean personality wise but also I was eating a really gross ass sandwich when I watched one of her long cutscenes and it skewed my perception of her a bit oh also I would personally like to button her shirt up for her. uh idk Rose once again was fine but also I’m killing everyone for the mistranslation from the JP version of mgs4 that in English made her seem like some evil liar idk anyway you look that up if you really wanna know it’s on Twitter. uh who else does Sunny count doesn't matter she's fine no issues. 

GZ you already know what I'm going to say also TPP so I'm skipping it also I'm not wasting my time getting triggered for no reason so like read my mind or something

Because I skipped 3 games I’ll do MGR Courtney her character itself was fine I didn't like the codecs where 1 Raiden jokes that she should get lipo and 2 the call that's just Raiden and Kevin talking about how much they don't wanna date her also her design is so like beauty standards boring as shit at least make her look cool or something idk. and Mistral I’m so tired of femme fatale characters in Metal Gear it’s not cute it’s not like empowering the way it’s done her entire character is sexualized and it is JUST because she's a woman. I said this about Wolf too it’s hard to feel bad for a character’s sad war backstory when it is also very clear they’re just meant to be a sexual object with no substance it’s not cute either it's just stupid. Also, there’s other stupid sexist codecs about her too obviously lastly uh Sunny’s also in it she's fine whatever

also i just noticed i skipped peace walker but like whatever its fine lol

#im not tagging everyone i talked about #asks #mgs #metal gear solid #mgs2 #mgs4 #mgr #metal gear rising

[quinloki]

Quin Muses, kind of.

This is going to be weird, but I need to kind of say it out loud and into the "air".

I don't know where else to put it, so here is where it'll go.

CW: gonna talk about personal loss of a friend, and really explicit smut.

A good, 12-15 years ago, I started playing D&D with a DM who would eventually become my spouse, and a circle of people I didn't know - but who all became incredible friends.

We gamed that game for TEN YEARS. Start to fucking finish.

It was glorious.

Then we started playing new D&D games, I DM'd one, and another player, Rades, DM'd the other. Rades was something of a WoW-celebrity, so if the name strikes a chord, maybe you do know him.

We were all so close that one of the players officiated my wedding, two other players acted as "support", and everyone who could attended. Rades, for valid reasons, couldn't make it. But he pulled together a one-shot.

One of the supporters ran it, her first time DM'ing and it was amazing. Everyone had a blast, it was monster-PC Honey Heist, located in the world Rades was running for us.

The events of the one-shot IMPACTED his D&D campaign. It was, honestly, the best gift I think he could've given us.

Then, unexpectedly, Rades died.

It was long enough ago I can say it, and still so painful it makes my heart hurt still. There was no warning, no lead up, nothing. Not even 40, and gone.

Outside of D&D Rades was one of the best, and at times most infuriating friends I could have ever been honored to have. I improved, not just as a person, but as an artist, because he doesn't ... he didn't let up. His support and love were relentless without being too much.

I don't know, maybe it's part of why it's so hard to draw lately.

But I digress.

Today is Rades' birthday. Was. No, Is. Always will be.

I tried to write Franky x Reader and despised it, but still posted it. We learn from everything.

In its place I wrote something unplanned and completely for myself. I went into it entirely for me, and part of it was just because I wanted to make up for the lost time of trying to write Franky, but part of it was also because Rades was very much "Do what you love How you love it When you love to do it."

In a way, I wrote Benched because of Rades, but for myself.

It feels a little odd to say "I wrote hardcore explicit kinky smut in honor of my dead bestie." But, I did, and Rades would've read it too. I wrote smut about our D&D characters one time and he approved.

Anyway, I don't really have a point to all this, I just needed to say it in some way. If there's any point to it, I guess, it would be cherish all the moments with your friends. The good, the ugly, the arguments, the falling out and mending. They come into your life, and sometimes they leave because people change and no longer vibe, and sometimes they leave because statistics are cruel and not everyone makes it to 80.

#quin muses