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#it's all I can think when they say Molly like that
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Okay I need people to look at these two gifs together:
This gif made by @lousolversons
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And this gif by @not-psychotic
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THAT IS THE SAME SMILE. THAT IS HUGH DANCY'S ROMCOM SMILE AND I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS ABOUT THE DIFFERENCES IN THE WAY HUGH PRESENTS IT FOR EACH MOMENT.
First of all, the moment presented in the first gif is why I believe Will did love Molly. Yes, I'm a firm believer that Will still held feelings for Hannibal while he was with Molly, but I don't think she was a placeholder. The way I think Will's love for Hannibal and Molly works at the same time is like when you meet a widower who remarried.
Yes the widower (Will) still loves his first spouse (Hannibal), and it's terrible that they were ripped apart the way they were, but he can eventually move on. And he loves his new spouse (Molly), but there will always be a part of his heart that belongs to his first spouse. Except in the case of this analogy Hannibal isn't actually dead and he will come back.
And I mean, honestly, if the love of your life died and came back completely in one piece and still loved you after years of separation, what would you do? Would you tell them to move on because you've found someone else that you love almost as much as you loved them? Or would you discard your new spouse for the one you had always imagined you'd stay with? It's a really difficult decision.
But anyway I do wanna analyze these smiles. Obviously in the second gif Will is smiling at Hannibal, but in the first gif, Will is smiling at Jack while talking about Molly. They're the same smile but they're also so different.
In the first gif, the "romcomness" of the smile almost feels exaggerated. It's the way he smiled and kind of laughed but especially it's the way he broke eye contact. He breaks eye contact but the smile stays. It says "Molly and I can't see each other completely, but I'm happy enough." It reads as coy in a way we know Will Graham is not. It's a performance, but it's a performance based on a truth.
On the other hand, in the second gif, Will's smile is there but more subdued. Of course it could be just that he's tired and/or in pain as he's obviously injured, but to me it's lesser because it's just him and Hannibal. He doesn't need to wear his mask for Jack or for Molly or for anyone else. And he keeps eye contact with Hannibal even as his smile falls away because he and Hannibal can see each other. They accept the good (the smile) and the bad (the loss of the smile) in each other but that's okay for them because they're true to each other like they are to no one else.
The way Will smiles at Hannibal in the second gif is so much more intimate than the way he smiled about Molly in the second gif, and I can't help but wonder: if we got more scenes where Will and Molly were interacting face to face (because let's be honest there's not many), would Will smile the same way he did in the second gif? Would he even smile at her the same way he does talking about her in the first gif, or is that just him trying to appear like the happy/satisfied husband in front of company? I know Will loved Hannibal, and I know Will loved Molly, but these two gifs side by side just confirm for me that what he felt for Hannibal was so much more impactful for Will than his love for Molly.
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abboutross · 2 days
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Anywhere u go - part six
Author’s note: hello my fucking favourites, I told you my shitty mental health wouldn’t stop me from writing and here you have part six 🫡 this one is a big dramatic 🫢 also put your birthday hats on and let’s all just wish the happiest of birthdays to our girl 🫣 hope you enjoy this!
wc: 2337 - English is not my first language! Feedback is always appreciated
Warnings: there’s a fight and some mentions of blood in this
Part one, two, three, four, five
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You did as you said. You’re still with George, trying to get your mind off Ross. And with the end of your classes, it got a little easier, since you stopped seeing him everyday in the school hallways. So, now you just want to enjoy your first summer break in this town with your friends. It’s summer, it’s hot outside, the sun shines bright, the flowers look so pretty and the birds sing along to a happy melody. How can you not be in a good mood?
A few weeks ago, you were feeling so down, sad, and you would see the world in such a dark shade. Now, you feel lighter, you’re happier, you go out with George and you actually love being with your boyfriend - valuing the fact that you got such a precious boy by your side. At the very first day of summer break, George already had a lot of things planned out for both of you. You went to the pool, you went to the movies, you did cute picnics in the park. And your days have been filled with love and laughter. The sun touches your skin and it feels warm again, in a way that warms your heart, just like George does every time he kisses you.
Molly is still seeing Jamie, something about giving him a chance of him being her Prince Charming that she’s pretty sure that he will end up kissing her in the rain. She definitely didn’t got over that moment that happened between you and your boyfriend.
You were doing a walk in the park with George when he pulled you out of your thoughts.
“You know, every single year, me and the boys go to the beach together. Matty’s parents have a house in the coast. He said you and Molly can come with us this year” - he explains to you.
Spending some days of your summer break at the beach won’t hurt you. You could really use some days at a different place. Mental note: making sure that Molly will go with you.
“And we can celebrate your birthday there, since it’s only a few days away” - your boyfriend smiled at the thought of throwing you nice a birthday party, just like you deserve.
“I would love to go on vacation with you guys” - you smile wide, matching George’s expression.
When you got home, you obviously called Molly.
“Hey! Got your bikinis ready?” - you asked right away.
“Huh?” - she said confused.
“George said to me that Matty kind of invited us to go spend some days at the beach with the boys” - you explained to her.
“Oh yeah, Adam said something to me about it. I was waiting to actually talk to you and check if you were going” - she answers.
“Yes! I mean, a few days in other place won’t hurt. I think I really need to get out of here to clear my mind a bit” - you admit.
“Well… do you think he’s going to be there?” - Molly asked cautiously.
“I don’t know? I hope not, to be honest” - you reply as you start thinking about it.
You were really looking forward to these vacation. But what are you going to do if Ross is there as well? That’s definitely not going to help your “out of sight, out of mind” phase. He will be in your sight every single day. You are going to be living in the same house as him for a few days.
“Well, maybe I’m not going” - you say on the line after a moment of silence.
“What? Shut up. You’re going to let a guy ruin your vacation? No way. I won’t let that happen! Not on my watch!” - Molly says strictly.
And she is right. You know she is. You can’t let some guy ruin your days at the beach with your boyfriend and your friends.
When you’re packing your bags, you can’t help but feel undecided. Your mind is a mix of thoughts, something along the lines of ‘is this bikini cute enough to take on vacation?’ and ‘what if Ross is there? Will he talk to me this time?’ But you decide to brush it off.
You meet Molly at her place, you’re going with her and Adam to meet the rest of the group at Matty’s house.
After you greet them, Molly surprises you with what she says next.
“Adam, will that-one-guy-you-know-we-hate be there too?” - she asks fearless.
Her brother chuckles at her question. “Ross? He’s invited, but he hasn’t said anything yet, so we don’t know if he will show up there” - he says and looks at you. “Don’t worry, either way, Olive is definitely not invited” - he smiles at you and you pretend you don’t care about what he just said. On the inside, you are feeling a bit of relief, at least you won’t have to deal with her.
On the ride there, you were sitting between Molly and George in the car. Your hand was intertwined with your boyfriend’s and you couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful he looks. He catches you staring at him and smiles at you, giving you a peck on the lips. The sun is hitting your skin, feeling so good inside that car, just like how you’re feeling on the inside, excited to spend some days with George, and even more excited to celebrate your birthday with your closest friends.
Once you get to the house, everyone’s first instinct is run to the beach. You drop your bags and follow them, when you notice George staying behind.
“You’re not coming?” - you ask him.
“No” - he simply says with a smile. “You go and have fun. I’ll prepare everything for the party tonight”.
Oh shit, you totally forgot. As soon as the clock turns to midnight, you turn 16. And with all the excitement to go to the beach, you forgot you had to help George getting everything ready for the night.
“Oh, right! I’ll stay to help you then” - you say as you start gathering your things.
“No, it’s fine” - he simply says. “Go get some fresh air, I’ll start arranging everything” - he gets closer to you to give you a small kiss and you take his advice.
Once you get to the beach, it’s like the time stopped. Feeling your bare feet in the warm sand, hearing the sound of the waves crashing into the rocks. Your friends are already in the water, laughing and enjoying the good weather. You take your time, loving the way you feel so good right now. You don’t remember feeling this way for a while. You’re grateful you’re here, in this place, in this moment, in this time and space. And you’re grateful Ross hasn’t showed up. You’re really looking forward to enjoy your days with no distractions, no drama, no sadness.
When you and your friends get back home, your mouth opens at what you’re seeing. George had already decorated the entire living room with balloons, a banner saying ‘happy birthday’, and Matty’s mom was walking in with some snacks and drinks.
“You did this all on your own?” - you say surprised.
“Denise helped me. I just wanted to make something nice for you” - he answers shyly.
You hug him tightly and thank him for making something so nice and thoughtful for you.
“We have four hours left until you’re finally 16. Let’s get ready for the party!” - Matty announced.
So you did. You and Molly went to the bedroom where you two would be staying, and started choosing the best birthday outfit for your party.
“George really is the sweetest for arranging all this for you” - Molly said with a smile.
“He is. I really want to enjoy these days with him” - you admit, feeling your heart beating a little faster just at the thought of those next days.
“Hey! And with me too!” - Molly nudge you and laughed. You mirrored her expression.
A few time later, you and your friend are still in your room when you hear some loud noise, like someone is yelling.
“Oh it’s probably the boys just messing with each other” - Molly says, trying to calm you down. The muffled sound doesn’t allow you to understand a word of what’s being said.
“You’re probably right” - you decide to ignore it.
As you’re finishing your makeup, you hear a loud thud, like someone has been pushed against the wall. You and Molly decide to go check what’s going on, and once you get to the living room, you can’t believe your eyes. Ross is lying on the floor, his face full of blood. Olive is screaming like crazy, saying something among the lines of her and her boyfriend not being welcomed near your group of friends.
When you look at George, his face is red and he’s fuming, completely furious out of his mind. Matty and Adam are trying to calm him down.
“What’s going on? What happened?” - Molly asked.
“She wasn’t supposed to be here! No, you are not welcome here, so you better leave!!” - George screams to Olive.
“She’s my girlfriend, she has all the right to come with me on vacation!” - Ross gets up and shouts in George’s face. Matty and Adam separate them again, and George can’t control himself.
“She’s not allowed to come on vacation with us, we don’t like her! And if you want to be with her, go somewhere else” - George says as he punches Ross’ face again.
“Hey what the fuck? You’re punching his face because of some stupid vacations? Stop it now!” - you say as you push George away from Ross.
“You two look like kids right now. Just stop whatever this is. It’s not worth getting your nose broken for” - you say sternly.
In a minute, the entire room falls into silence. Matty is the one interrupting it.
“It’s past midnight already” - he says quietly.
“Happy birthday…?” - he tries to hug you, but instead you just let go off him.
You go outside to catch some fresh air.
Happy birthday to you. You’re turning 16 - but your ‘sweet sixteen’ started out as anything but sweet.
Your mind can’t stop comparing the way you were feeling just a couple of hours ago, and how you’re feeling now. It makes you laugh ironically. You thought these days were going to be so cool. You were going to the beach, you would go out to new places with your friends. You would finally have a good time, with no worries or unnecessary drama - something you haven’t had in a few weeks already.
But you were wrong. It seems like trouble haunts you, follows you anywhere you go.
A few hours back, you were worried that Ross might come here. Now, you have Ross AND Olive in the same house as you, forcing you to deal with both.
And you can’t take it anymore. You’re tired, you just want to have a normal boring life, you don’t want fights, don’t want arguments, you don’t want to hear anybody screaming and you don’t want to be anywhere near drama.
Molly meets you outside and immediately engulfs you into a hug.
“I’m sorry your party turned into all this mess. But tomorrow will be a better day. Happy birthday, I love you” - she tries to comfort you.
“I want to go home” - you say to her.
“What? Y/N we are supposed to stay here for four days. Let’s just enjoy this place for a bit” - she tried to reason with you.
“No, I’m not dealing with all this for four days. Plus, I’ll have my dance presentation in six days and I’d rather go home and prepare myself for that” - you say, sure of yourself.
George meets you and Molly outside, his lip is bleeding as well now.
“I’m so sorry. I really wanted to give you a nice birthday party” - he says, feeling guilty.
“If you really wanted to give me a nice birthday party, you could’ve, at least, control yourself and not punch someone in the face - twice!” - you scream at him.
“I couldn’t help it! She wasn’t supposed to be here. I don’t want them to make you feel uncomfortable” - George says while trying to get closer to you.
You get out of his grip. “You don’t have to worry about it anymore, I’m going home” - you explain.
“What? Why? We were supposed to spend this week together!” - he tries to reason with you.
“No. I’m not doing this. I’m going home and I really don’t care about anything you can say or do now. You can punch everyone’s faces if you’d like. I don’t give a shit and I don’t want to be in the middle of this. I’m going home and that’s my final decision” - you say sternly.
Molly looks at you and doesn’t say anything.
“You can stay if you want to” - you simply say to her.
“No, I’m coming with you. I’m not letting you leave all by yourself” - Molly says as she walks inside to pack your things.
George looks at you and, when he tries to talk to you, you turn your back at him. You can’t forget the image of Ross on the floor, his forehead sweaty, breathing heavily and touching the blood that was on his face. You’re absolutely disgusted that George caused all this. Beating up Ross was definitely unnecessary. You end up going inside as well, meeting the two people you never wanted to look at again, to your ruined birthday party, to the expectations you created in your head for this vacation. And the realisation that it all blew up. Bitter sixteen - that’s what you’re getting.
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bugflies00 · 26 days
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its always really entertaining watching how tommy and molly bounce off each other because even though she's much quieter and sweeter she can bounce off tommy by literally just looking at him after he says shit. and its extra funny bc he lays the asshole persona on even thicker and you can tell she's just not impressed
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People saying laudna should stay dead I see you but respectfully I do not agree with you.
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wizardnuke · 2 years
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it's just. how do you be normal after All That happens to you. how can you handle being around someone who looks exactly like and sometimes kinda acts like your dead friend who is also someone who looks exactly like and sometimes kinda acts like one of the most terrifying people you ever met. also your friend died for you and you killed that other guy. how. jester lavorre what is your post canon mental state I need to know how you're doing
#this goes for all of them but jester specifically I think was hit VERY hard and she also spent a hellish amount of time with lucien#paying very close attention to him to prove her theory that molly was influencing him#she was so close to molly and close to lucien in another way and just. like. what happens when you start seeing echoes of the wrong guy in#this new guy. how do you handle that. it's not kingsleys fault!! the thing is she would want to be friends with him too!! but oh my god#she would try to do that right off the bat literally less than two weeks after dealing with lucien's everything shes hanging around this#guy who looks exactly like and sometimes acts like him?? like. babe??#yasha would also have difficulties but in a different way. she doesn't fucking care about lucien she just sees molly and. this isn't molly#this isn't molly this is someone else who is entirely deserving of the freedom to be someone else and sometimes molly is so visibly in him#but the difference is yasha sticks with beau while jester and fjord go off with king#fjord I think would be able to compartmentalize a little better until he can process it just bc he was never like. attached to molly in#the same way jester bleeding heart lavorre was and because like. yeah I'm sure he saw molly in lucien but lucien was never anything but an#enemy to him so yeah he sees molly and lucien both echoing thru king but king is his own dude and. I think just. fjord is just more likely#to leave a room if he's in distress than jester is jdjfkfngn. he can say hey king you're great but I need a sec. jester would hate to make#king feel like he ever upset her even tho it literally isn't his fault and he knows it but also he would still feel a little bad and she#can't do that to him so it's a mess. beau and caleb both arent around him a lot for a while and are probably careful when they are around#him until they're sure they're not going to panic. I think caddy would like to not be afraid of him but like. lucien was fucking scary#essek too but I think like. caddy could at times just fully vibe even with lucien around. sometimes he just. vibed with lucien#essek only interacted with him during that awful final stretch that was just. racing against him and fighting him and like. that time in#aeor/cognouza was the weirdest thing any of them ever went thru but at least they all went thru some weird shit before that? essek did Not.#his life was nobility and comfort and treason and regret and friendship and cold and then the absolute worst week of his entire life#so I think he would visibly startle at kingsley the first dozen times they meet afterwards just like. bc that's that fuckig lucien guy
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bcofl0ve · 6 months
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Ppl gettin worked up...over an unfollow ☠️ they were coworkers and maybe hooked up, shes nt obligated to keep on following him. No need to make it Olivia vs Kaia, one is an upcoming actress and the other is a model who has a famous mom, Kaia has a leg up regardless
lolll i knew when i posted it that the usual anons who don't like her would come, which i mean- whatever. at the end of the day i am a gossip blog and here to provide gossip just as much as i am fan content. and objectively, this whole debacle is gossip at it's finest! there's theories! there's petty! there's taylor swift!
no one has to tell me that olivia is a) kinda a nobody and b) a messy person who can be petty on purpose. i know both of those things. i don't put my faves on pedestals i don't want them to fall off of and that goes for everyone (kaia, austin, taylor swift, elvis, riley, priscilla etc)- but olivia very much included. i don't like her because she's perfect, she's not!
but i prefer my like, two civil anti olivia anons who accept my opinions for what they are to whoever the fuck was sending me 5 anons per 120 seconds last night barking up my ass about it all and saying i "turned on austin". if olivia posts agitates you that much you might benefit from simply muting her name. i had to mute a bunch of jonas brothers words on twitter bc i could feel myself getting agitated by things fans of joe were saying and didn't want to keep feeling pissy everytime it came on my timeline. you gotta do what you gotta do to find your peace on the internet!
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phantasieandmirare · 2 years
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Actively making that sound that Travis makes when he’s excited over the last episode
#critical role#cr spoilers#I totally get that some people are freaking out but like#I’m not even concerned about this#Matt has a plan y’all I don’t think this was accidental#I also don’t think it was intended don’t you dare misinterpret my words#let me repeat that I’M NOT SAYING MATT WENT IN PLANNING ON PEOPLE DYING#y’all Matt’s talked about this kind of stuff in the old gm tips videos HE HAS A PLAN FOR THIS#this doesn’t feel even /remotely/ like Molly’s death#which as we all know was accidental and they had no ‘out’ planned for that#I think matt has a way out planned for them this is him seguing into the big arc this isn’t the end this is just the beginning#I can only see one of those things actually sticking#sorry to make another wot reference but this is /literally/ the scene with nynaeve in episode 4 you can’t convince me otherwise#all that I’m saying is that I don’t think we should call this resolved until it’s like ACTUALLY resolved#the episode ended on a super ominous cliffhanger that could have long reaching effects I don’t think we should call this#until the story fully and actually calls this#this is also me personally doubting that Matt would make THREE people at his table roll new characters#especially when he’s spent the last handful of episodes also building their stories#I don’t think he’d throw out that work#could he? YEAH. it’s his table it’s their table they can do what they think is best#but we don’t KNOW what happens next till it actually happens#look we should just wait and see what happens next week because WE DON’T KNOW
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server i'm in just instated a rule break warning system that there was no mention of before, because i simped too hard and forgot that "for a man in his 40s ryan can get it" isn't something most people say
have to take it in stride and wear 'being the first to get warned in this server' as a badge of honour i suppose 🤷 at least they didn't ban me LMAO
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fazcinatingblog · 8 months
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the 8th netball team is apparently going to be based in south east melbourne, awesome!!!! i know a great place they can play home games ((((dales park))))
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rthko · 2 months
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to add to the whole proud faggot thing: i rmbr at age 15 me and my friend (both newly out) would say faggot all the time until a teacher told us off and my friend (v cocky) said actually miss i can reclaim it to which the teacher was like ...its still a swear word ur still not allowed to use it like its not that deep. and that was a sort of revelation like 'oh yeah this word obvs holds meaning and whatever but at the end of the day us reclaiming it isnt revolutionary its just two kids who got their hands on a new curse word to use' & ever since then i try to figure out whoevers using faggot in a useful or meaningful way vs whoever is just excited to use a forbidden word. n i think for a lot of ppl its the latter
So for context, I saw a post where someone had left a comment with Israel apologia, and someone else responded by screenshotting their blog, which has a cutesy Tumblr aesthetic, and added a screenshot of another post about what it called "Smol bean Zionism." I noticed the blogger's bio also said "proud faggot," so I tagged the post:
"Are we ready to admit the 'proud faggot' is not contradictory to the smol beanification but part and parcel to it?"
I see sentiments on Tumblr that "I call myself a faggot to scare the tenderqueers," but I think the cute harmless approach and the edgy approach are two sides of the same coin. Molly Rose on substack writes about how she as a Black woman could never get away with "tenderqueer" behavior. She writes: "As far as I can tell, the hallmark of a true tenderqueer is an unwavering avoidance of responsibility or culpability at all costs, paired with the use of social justice and personal advocacy language to ensure that lack of accountability." The real problem with this type then is not that they're too sensitive, but that their sensitivity is a tool by which they act like they could never be in the wrong. So we see a soft type and an edgy type, but both wear their victimhood on their sleeve to feign superiority and avoid any kind of interpersonal conflict. The former will invoke queerness or neurodivergence to guilt trip you, and the latter will act above it all and treat you like you're stupid for even caring. It's "enough discourse, we should be making out with tongue" when trans women try to talk about transmisogyny, etc.
With all these discussions of the "tenderqueer," It's easy to forget that "queer" was that transgressive word said to connote political radicalism, or rather, speak political radicalism into existence just by uttering that very word. And while I have heard people prop up "fag" and it's equivalents as the solution when the former has been watered down, they are not getting to the root of the problem. If the problem is that some have turned the supposed magical powers of a word into a political dead end, the solution is not to go find other magical words to replace it. I am aware and respectful of the fact that to some, these words really are a political statement, or a symbolic gesture that they're not afraid or have moved beyond past wounds. Any word is what you make it. But to get back to your point, yeah, some people have that same teenager's mentality of getting their hands on a new curse word. And it does not automatically make them meaningfully transgressive or even interesting.
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prismatic-bell · 29 days
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You know, I had a thought about this new “teens shouldn’t have intergenerational relationships” thing, and you know what I’m wondering?
If the death of the live-action kids’ show has anything to do with it.
Like okay, off the top of my head as a kid I had Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, Lamb Chop’s Play-Along, Big Comfy Couch, Zoom, Gullah Gullah Island, Zoom, Eureeka’s Castle, Reading Rainbow, Sesame Street, and Crocodile Hunter, and while I never got into Zoobomafoo, it also existed. I was a little too young for Pee-Wee’s Funhouse and The Electric Company, but only by a bit—my sister remembered both.
And on all of these shows except Zoom (which was all teens and tweens), you had adults talking to you. And each of these shows was aimed at a different childhood age group—I think only Mister Rogers was truly ages 0-12. So from babyhood onward, you had adults modeling for you what an adult/child friendship should look like, and also often reminding you that grownups who made you uncomfortable were cause to talk to a grownup you trusted. Yes, these were parasocial relationships, but they were teaching you how to have real relationships with similar age gaps, and the way, say, Shari Lewis treated you when you were Lamb Chop age was very different from how Steve Irwin treated you when you were Crocodile Hunter age. They were never condescending, but a three-year-old and an eight-year-old have very different wants and needs and these shows were aware of this.
This didn’t die out with my age group. Older Gen Zs had Blue’s Clues and Reading Rainbow kept going for awhile. But by 2012, when I was helping take care of my niblings, I didn’t see a single show like this on TV. Even Sesame Street seemed to have phased out all the human characters. Mister Rogers, who’d taught my generation the importance of knowing reality from fantasy, had been replaced by animated versions of the characters from The Land of Make-Believe. Muppet and puppet shows were a thing of the past. Shari Lewis was long dead, and nobody had taken her place. Gullah Gullah Island was cancelled and Big Comfy Couch was gone.
I can’t help but think this is a factor in this fracture. If your at-home adults are dysfunctional, or don’t take you places where you can safely interact with other adults as a child, OF COURSE you’re not going to feel safe doing it when you’re a bit older, because you literally never had it modeled for you what it’s supposed to look like. The respect I was shown by Steve Irwin and Shari Lewis and Fred Rogers and Molly the Clown never got shown to later Gen Z.
So how do we fix it?
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nonpoppin · 2 months
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MEDDLE ABOUT
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Summary: Farleigh wants you but for what?
Warnings: errmm–fingering, public sex, talk of drugs, dubious consent maybe?, drinking. Farleigh is high at one point but I never stay on what! Tell me if there's anything else!!
Notes: Farleigh is bratty in this. He's a switch but he's more dominant in this one! This is 3k + words and didn't really go in the direction i wanted so I'm gonna post this n ignore it 🧘🏿‍♀️
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You've been around high people before.
Whether it be molly, ecstasy, weed, or coke. You've been around it, seen in action when your classmates slump into corners at parties, dead to the world. You've seen the overdoses, the withdrawals, the handshakes that pass off little baggies as you make your way through parties. You've even taken to bringing your own drinks to parties at this point because if you learned anything in Oxford is that the student body of 2007 has a fucking drug problem and the punch is almost always spiked with something.
The music blares as you make your way through the party, the bass is so loud it makes the speakers shake with each beat. There's a thick smoke that curls through the room and you swallow back a cough as someone crashes into you, their drink spilling down the front of your dress. You jump back, eyes watering as the alcohol splashes everywhere— it's strong, whatever they're drinking could probably bring the dead back to life with a drop of it.
“Shit!” The man exclaims and you look up, squinting through the flashing lights. The man, Farleigh is frowning down at his spilled solo cup, “That was good.”
You can't help the scoff that leaves your lips. You know better than to expect an apology from Farleigh, he wouldn't know what an ‘I’m sorry,’ was even if it punched him in the face but still, you expected something— a glance, a huff of acknowledgement even! The Start man is still frowning down at the drink when you try to step away but his eyes flicker to you when you move, crinkling as he sneers at you. “Oh, it's you.”
“Farleigh.” You greet him with a tight smile. “I would say it's a surprise seeing you here but we both know you like to frolic wherever there's alcohol.”
“Oh, that's cute. You learned a new word; frolic? Who am I fucking to, Jane Austen?” Farleigh snorts. You roll your eyes and turn away from him and he follows, calling your name.
You and Farleigh aren't friends but you aren't enemies either. Yes, there's a mutual dislike for each other but you assume it's because you're both Americans with something to prove or maybe, it's because you're both in the same major, the same classes, and sharing the same air that makes him an annoying know-it-all. One week he's at the top of the class, the next, you're knocking him and his stupid smile from his pedestal with perfect scores and excellent marks and he does the same to you the next week. It's an endless cycle of fighting, clawing your way to the top— you're trying to prove something, you think. Farleigh doesn't know what it's like to be on the bottom, doesn't know what it's like to take a beating to get what he wants and you think if he just lets you win, he'd lie back and—
You shudder as he runs cool fingers across the back of your neck. “What are you even doing here?” Farleigh wonders out loud, he doesn't move his hand, his fingers ghosting the cusp of your ear and you jerk away before he can tug it. There's a sharp look in his eyes as he smiles at you, “It’s a school night, thought you'd be in your room.”
You shift away from the music, going deeper into the house and farther away from the party as you swallow back another cough. Farleigh is still on your heels, “I was invited.” You finally say as you come to a door, you enter the room quickly and are relieved to find it empty even if the bed looks a little suspicious. You quickly go to the window, unlatching it and pulling it up to breathe in the fresh air.
Farleigh pauses by the door, frowning as he glances behind him— back to the party, and you see him debate whether to follow you into the room or cut his losses and go back to the party. After a moment, he steps into the room, closing the door behind him, “You’re always invited.”
You give him a flat look. “I was invited by the dude who's actually throwing this party.”
Farleigh draws closer to you, plopping down on the bed without a care in the world. “Sebastian?” Then his lips twitch like he's fighting back a smirk, “Sorry to break it to you babe but if you're looking to fuck him he's currently three inches deep in Alice–”
“Oh my god, no!” You rush out, “Sebastian is– is cute and all but god, he's just a friend and I'm not interested.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Why are you?” You shoot back and with ease, Farleigh reaches into his back pocket and pulls out what looks like a baggie of red gummies. “You– you came here for candy?”
Farleigh laughs at you, “You’re so cute, you know? Sure, baby, let's call it candy.” He goes to pocket them again but you're frowning and it makes him pause, he looks at you with raised brows. “Come on, you can't be that dumb. It's not actually candy–”
“Obviously.” You snap, your face warm. You aren't stupid and don't appreciate being treated like you are. You clear your throat and roll your shoulders back, “I know it's not candy. It's–” You let your voice drop to a whisper, “It’s drugs, right?”
Farleigh snickers. “You don't have to fucking whisper it. No one can hear us over the music, look–” He takes a breath and, “Fuck! Fuck, your pussy is so–!”
You nearly scream in your effort to run and cover his mouth. You nearly topple him over in your effort and he's laughing against your hands as his own settles on your waist to keep you balanced, “Are you insane–?”
He shakes your hands off his face, he's still smiling and it's the softest you think he's ever looked at you. Your eyes dart across his face, taking in the way his nose crinkles when he smiles to his pupils that are twice the size. You swallow and lean back, “You’re high.”
“Mhmmm.” Farleigh hums, “As a fucking kite, baby. You've always been so smart.” And any other day, that'd be an insult falling from his lips but today, right now, he looks like he means it and you don't know why it bothers you so much. You squirm and realize you're still basically on Farleigh’s lap when his fingers flex against you, “You’re wet.”
You try to pull away like you're on fire but Farleigh keeps you planted between his legs so you settle for clearing your throat.“What?”
Farleigh doesn't answer verbally. He instead uses one of his hands to press against the still-wet stain on your dress, you shiver and you tell yourself it's the breeze floating in from the window is the reason why. Farleigh lets his finger trail the stain then pinches the material of your shirt, “This is really thin fabric. It won't make it through the washing machine.”
You blink at him, your mouth opening, closing then opening again. “What the fuck are you on? Molly?”
“No but I ate a gummy. Sebastian makes them and they're fucking good– taste like cherries.” He squints up at you and he's smiling again, “You want one?”
Your mouth goes dry, “I don't– I don't do drugs.”
Farleigh makes a face. “It’s barely a drug.”
“I could get deported–”
“I wouldn't let that happen to you.” He interrupts you and he sounds so sure of himself. “Not you.”
Refusing to unpack how loaded that was, you still shake your head, and Farleigh whines. “Please? It’d– it'd feel so good and I want you to feel good, can I make you feel good?”
That… You blink, yet again clearing your throat as Farleigh nuzzles against you, begging in soft whispers that have your legs subtly clenching together. You remember your high school days and all the hours spent in D.A.R.E., they always told you people around you would try to peer pressure you into doing coke with them, they'd bully you into doing a line at a party or something but this… You don't think they ever covered what to do when someone like Farleigh is moaning in your ear about making you feel good. He's begging you to take it, to just open your mouth and your hands rest against his shoulders as you push him back enough to look at his face, “Farleigh, what are you asking for right now?”
He looks up at you and for the first time, you really realize your position. Farleigh looks up at you from his place on the bed, you towering over him as he tries to pull you closer. Farleigh is just so big, he's six foot five with hair that makes him a few inches taller but like this, under you, he looks small. Farleigh licks his lips and your eyes follow the movement before he takes one of your hands from his shoulders, he drags it across the length of his slowly panting chest then, lower to his pants and—
He's hot. You can feel the warmth radiating from his dick through his jeans, it pulses when your fingers are led there and Farleigh presses his hand down against yours, moaning as his hips buck up against your palm. “Please?” He asks again and there's no hiding it now, how he's begging you to fuck him. “I’d eat you out–”
“Farleigh, you're high.” You interrupt, “You don't want this–” He presses his lips against yours, swallowing your complaints. A startled noise leaves you and Farleigh slides his tongue into your mouth, twirling around yours before he leans forward and sucks on it. Spit leaks from both of your mouths as Farleigh humps against your hand, his other hand goes to pull you closer and he's kissing you like his life depends on it. You're the first to pull away, choking for air as he moans openly into the air.
“I don't want this? Fucking dreamed about how you'd cream on my face–” He whines going for another kiss and you almost let him but the door opens.
“Holy shit!” Felix yells and you rip away from Farleigh as fast as you can and shove him back against the bed. Felix stands at the door with wide eyes for only a moment before his lips creep into a smile.
“I have to go.” You rush out before Felix can even open his mouth to speak again. You're wiping at your mouth when Farleigh calls your name but you're already shoving past Felix and out the door before either can grab you.
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Avoiding Farleigh is like asking the sun not to rise.
You two are in the same course, the same classes, you two share the same air. You'd sooner see a unicorn than ever successfully avoid him and in your attempts to do so— you fall behind in classes. Farleigh has been at the top of the class for nearly three weeks, uncontested by anyone and you're in the library trying to figure your shit out when he comes storming in, a scowl planted on his face as he pulls out a chair from your table to sit, throwing his bag to the side.
You blink at him, your lips thinning but don't speak and that seems to make him angrier somehow.
“What the fuck is your problem?” He hisses.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re bombing every test.” He starts, “Like it's actually embarrassing, what's the point in trying for a good grade if I know no one is gonna top me?”
You pucker your lips. Biting back a comment about him always wanting to be topped, not the time nor the place but it makes Farleigh scoff and he waves a hand towards you. “And you keep doing that. Holding back like I'm a fucking child or something, just say it–”
You chose to be a bigger person despite the annoying creeping up your spine. You shift, sitting up in your seat to stare at him, “Is there a point?”
“‘Is there a’–?!” He starts, his voice loud, uncaring of the fact that he's in a library. “I’m sorry, okay? About the party and forcing you to–”
You blink. “You didn't force me to do anything, Farleigh.”
He pauses, “What?”
Narrowing your eyes at him, “Farleigh, you didn't force me to do anything. The only reason I wanted to stop was because you were high and the only reason I left was because I was embarrassed.” You begin to gather your things and he's still watching you with a frown.
“But you're avoiding me.” He says.
“Yeah because when you're not high you're a fucking dick.” You snap, “And I don't feel like hearing how much you actually don't want to have sex with me–”
“You think that I don't want to fuck you?” Farleigh interrupts. You attempt to hit him over the table for being so loud about your conversation in a library out of all places but he catches your hand easily, his fingers lacing with yours. “Baby, I wasn't joking when I said I dreamed about you cumming on my face.”
“Jesus, Farleigh.” You hiss, looking anywhere but where he sits. Your eyes dart to the other studying tables only to find them empty then to the main desk where the head librarian has seemingly disappeared. Farleigh squeezes your hand and it makes your eyes bounce back to him and he's smiling at you softly, like he's not speaking utter filth.
“No one is here but us. I cleared the library.”
You swallow, “Why would you clear the library–” His lips creep into a grin and you're quick to stand up, heat flooding you, “I’m not– I'm not fucking you in a library.”
He stands, rounding the table and you take a step back. You say his name in warning but even you hear how weak it sounds as he slinks closer. Growing up, you used to be obsessed with a channel called ‘Animal Planet’, especially with its shows about big cats and how they hunted their prey, how they ran down the gazelles until they couldn't run anymore, chased them into situations where they could either run into the mouth of the lion hunting it down or the crocodiles waiting at the shoreline.
For a second, you think Farleigh is a lion. With a mane of hair, wild eyes, and a fanged smile— he advances on you like he has all the time in the world, his nails tapping across the tables as he gets closer and closer, you have nowhere else to run when you finally back into a table and your eyes dart to the library doors; the crocodiles. The gossip beyond those doors would surely rip you to shreds, pick the meat from your bones, and still leave you breathing. You'd drown before they'd ever kill you, you'd wish for it to be quick, for them to just pull you under but they'd leave you floating for days when…
Farleigh runs cold fingers across your neck, he slides them upwards, and tilts your head back to him and his warm eyes, he's leaning closer to you, sharing your air, existing in your space. A lion would snap your neck and be done with it, you realize. It is an easier death but it is the end all the same, “I won't fuck you in a library.”
Farleigh hums and it is a soft sound, a purr as he runs a thumb over your lips. “When did I ever say I dreamed of you fucking me?”
Farleigh kisses you and you think he's going to swallow you whole. His hands cup your face, licking into your mouth with a moan— he is all tongue and teeth and he nips at your lips when you try to slow the pace of the kiss. He kisses you numb until you're whimpering trying to pull away. You gasp his name against his lips as his hands slip from your face and down to your body. He gropes you through your clothes, pinching your nipple through your clothes, “Far–Farleigh–”
“I’m not high.” He reassures you as if that's what you're about to say. He pulls back just barely like it pains him to part from you.“And I want you so fucking bad.”
It almost makes you crumple but when he leans further into you, the table digs into your side just enough to bring you back. “This is– this is a public space. It's so dirty I'm not getting naked here–”
Farleigh snorts. “‘Kay.”
Then, he slips a hand down your pants. Your words break off into a choked moan as he shoves your panties to the side and dips into you. One finger bends— rubbing through your folds messily. Farleigh groans at the wetness he's met wet, another finger shallowly fucking into you as he presses himself closer. He kisses you once, it's a quick playful thing before he kisses you again, pulling away with a laugh as you try to kiss him back. When he kisses you a third time, he leans into you; pushing his finger deeper and curling it, swallowing the moan it pulls from you— his other finger rubbing loose circles on your clit.
You've been fingered before, Farleigh isn't your first and he probably isn't your last but this— the way his fingers glide, the way they catch and curl; you can hear yourself. The wetness that's pooling in his palm as he adds another finger, as he goes faster. Farleigh is killing you, you think, picking you apart and cleaning off your bones and he's cooing like you're something precious. Your hips are rolling, chasing the pleasure his hand gives and he chuckles against your lips, “You like that, baby?” then quieter, like he's speaking to himself, “Such a pretty pussy, it's sucking me in.”
He tries to add a third finger and you choke, trying to jerk away, “It’s– Farleigh–” But he shushes you, his lips pressing onto yours once more. He swallows your complaints about it being too much, he tells you to breathe like he isn't the one stealing it from your lungs. The stretch hurts but he forces his fingers deeper, catching a spongy part of you that has you nearly sobbing, “Wait–” You gasp out, hips jerking against the feeling. It feels good but… but wrong, there's a pressure building in your stomach and it only grows stronger as he moves fingers faster, “Ah– ah– F-Farleigh–”
You think you're crying. You blink and you feel the tears fall and Farleigh licks them up. His tongue drags up your right cheek and to your eye and he presses a soft kiss against the lid and you think it's that softness is what throws you off the edge. You're cumming and he's still fingering you through it, he doesn't stop even when you grip at his wrist and try to pull it away, he's making a mess out of you and when he curls his fingers for the last time it has you gushing. His fingers are forced from you as you squirt and he's laughing like a giddy kid, his fingers going to your clit as your head hits his shoulder and your legs nearly give out, you clench your eyes shut and close your legs around his hand and he stops, pulling his hand free and he's still giggling, smiling as he sucks his fingers clean. He looks at you like he's won the lottery and you want the ground to swallow you whole, how the fuck were you supposed to walk out of here with your jeans soaked?
“You–” He kisses you, “Are so fucking–” Another kiss, “Hot.”
“Farleigh–” You start but he's already pulling away and going back to his bag on the table, he opens it and you realize he's humming to himself as he pulls out a pair of large sweatpants. He turns back to you and shoves them into your hands.
“Put these on, we're gonna leave through the employee exit.”
You look at the pants in your hands and then back to him with narrowed eyes. “You– you planned this?”
Farleigh only smiles and it's all teeth. “You’re a smart girl, what do you think?”
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sluttsumu · 4 months
Text
DOUBLE TROUBLE
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.ೃ࿐ feat. atsumu + osamu miya
in which: the twins have a little bet, and you’re their next target. who can make you cum the most on halloween night without anyone knowing, keep quiet virgin or you’ll get caught.
warning: 18+, college!au, fratboy!inarizaki, oblivious!reader, non+ dubcon/peer pressure, threesome, corruptive thoughts, misogyny (?), manipulation, drugs (molly), vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, unprotected, petname: angel, oral (f!receiving + m!receiving), virginity loss, exhibitionism + voyeurism, implied orgy (with suna), sunaosa TEASE, they’re sleazy hoes. wc: 2k
ೃ࿐ ki’s note: this is fic was supposed to kickstart my kinktober series. i hope you love this as much as i do because i had the best time writing it! in my mind it’s still october 😭 divider: @cafekitsune
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two devils, one angel, and fate. being a virgin sacrifice wasn’t necessarily on your halloween bucket list for this year.
— ♡︎ —
“can’t think of anyone to bring ‘samu ?” atsumu piqued, osamu is supposed to be the smart one.
the infamous twins had been thinking for some time on who to invite to their annual halloween party.
there were plenty of guests, but they needed someone special for the night.
atsumu’s fucked half of the bimbos from his fan club, meanwhile osamu was never satisfied with any of his groupies.
“well,” he starts. “i have an idea.” the light bulb in his head flickered before finally going off when he thought of the perfect girl. the dainty little college freshman whom he sees walking around campus all dolled up.
“who’s that girl that we always see with sunarin?” he ponders, in attempt to remember your name. atsumu’s eyes lit up when he realized. he knew exactly who his brother was talking about.
osamu really was a genius.
“y/n..” his tone was unsure, but curious nonetheless. osamu shot a finger gun “bingo.” indicating that his atsumu was right on the money. they paused, staring at one another as if they were reading each others minds. twin telepathy surely was a blessing. if they were both thinking correctly it seems like they’ve got a target.
*incoming facetime from; suna rintaro*
“yes suna?” you answer holding the phone above your face. “what’re you doing tomorrow?” the abrupt question never threw you off anymore, it was common for suna taking you on all kinda of spontaneous adventures on and off campus.
“ ‘m not doing anything, gonna watch horror movies and eat candy.” suna eyed you feigning disgust, what lame plans. “absolutely not..” he scoffs, “the twins invited you to their party tomorrow and you’re going.” the miya twins were mutual friends and have been known to throw some awesome ragers from time to time, how could you decline such an offer?
“i don’t have a costume???” honestly you were trying to find any excuse possible to lessen your chances of coming home wasted on halloween night. but suna had a solution to everything, even this. “wear white, i’ll sort out the rest.” he hung up after the condescending message, leaving you to piece together his surprise.
white, the colour of purity and innocence. nothing is innocent about a college party, especially because,
halloween was the one night a year a girl could dress like a total slut, and no one could say anything about it.
a firm knock was set on your dorm room door. “let’s go” his eyes fixated as you opened the door. suna mildly regrets not taking up the twins’ offer to join them on their escapade tonight, especially with the way that dress hugs your body. he quickly releases himself from the dirty thoughts.
“okay, what’s my costume? you said wear white.” suna’s hand rises from his side revealing a halo. makes sense why he told you to wear white now. it wasn’t until you took in his costume that really made you understand his choice.
he’s dressed in a red button up, except the buttons weren’t being used at all. the devil horns stuck in his hair confirmed the unoriginal costume idea. a few days back he mentioned matching costumes with the rest of his fraternity, and if you had to see the rest of them like this, than you were sure that attending this party was worth it.
the house was loud, as much as it was crowded, suna’s hand around your wrist is the only thing preventing you from getting caught in the ocean of people.
“sunarin! we’re over here.” pi kappa alpha (ΠΚΑ) was one of seven frats at your university, and was definitely the hottest. pretty, rich boys with the world at their disposal. everyone knew this but that never stopped girls from clinging onto them, after all osamu’s arms and atsumu’s abs— focus!
“ah, you made it.” osamu exclaimed opening his arms for a particularly tight hug. you hugged all of them, each cologne scent different from the last. “mind if we steal rin for a minute? won’t be long, promise.” atsumu’s tone of voice couldn’t have been more condescending, talking to you so sweet and saccharin. you nodded, shooting the quintet a small smile, before going to find a drink.
“an angel, cute.” atsumu watched your back was you walked away into a crowd of people. all that clouded his thoughts were all the things he wanted to do to you throughout the night. “get yer head intha game. what are the rules?” osamu chuckled, it was no doubt that he was having the same thoughts as his brother. that’s for sure.
“ ‘ts 10:30, whoever can make her cum the most before midnight first wins. unless you fuck her that is.. she’s a virgin so if you manage to to take her virginity you automatically win. get caught and you have to restart.” the night is young and the rules were set, but there was one question unanswered, whats the prize for a game such as this?
money of course. sex and money have been interchangeable for as long as mankind can remember, no difference here. a thousand dollars put up by each member, totalling to five thousand. winner takes all, loser gets nothing. may the best twin win.
atsumu wasted no time following you to the kitchen hearing the laughs from his friends behind. unfortunate for him bokuto caught your attention a little too quickly. he watched the two of you laugh and introduce yourselves to one another. it wouldn’t go on for much longer, not if atsumu could help it.
“bo-kun! do me a favor would’ya?” he said, slinging an arm over your shoulder. “get some more ice for the cooler, ‘ts intha basement.”
in boy world, this was a territorial interaction meaning; get the fuck out of here.
meanwhile in girl world, you didn’t think anything of it.
bokuto cheerfully agreed uttering “nice meeting you!” before sliding past the crowd of people to go fetch that ice.
“cute costume miya.” you look up to see him above your shoulder. he unhooks his arm from your side, leaning up against the counter. “not too bad yourself. you look,” he pauses for a mere few seconds. thoughts of you and how innocent you look plagued his mind, costume doesn’t help either. something in him was excited to taint that, you’d look so much prettier with your makeup smudged and begging him to make you cum, he thought.
“pretty,” he smiled, eyes shifting around your lips, and neck then back to your eyes. “you look really fucking pretty.”
“nights still young, you like games?” you tilted your head at the question. a suspicious question but how could anyone say no to him. “dependsss..” you drag out the word, tone laced with hesitation. this was all one big game, that you unfortunately didn’t know you were apart of, throwing another in the mix couldn’t hurt.
“how do ya feel about suck and blow?”
—♡︎—
suna forcefully offered up kita’s amex for the game, safe to say that he’s not happy about it.
the game rules were simple; suck and blow, on a card that is. pass the card mouth to mouth without dropping it. drop it and make out with the next person in front of everyone and spend an additional 10 minutes in an enclosed space. sounds easy right? it wasn’t a pi kappa alpha party without this tradition, they have a separate room dedicated for games such as these.
you watched intensely as the card made its rounds over and over you successfully received and passed it on. you were also standing between atsumu and bokuto, yikes! the card was making its way back around and like before it was just a matter of sucking and blowing, until you were locking lips with one of the hottest guys on campus. atsumu ‘dropped the card’ by accident, catalyzing the makeout sesh between the two of you.
it’s hot, it’s sloppy, it’s fucking miya atsumu.
you feel his smile on your lips as he slips his tongue in between yours, aiming for your bottom lip. the whooping, and whistling among the group was enough to encourage the egotism within you both to put on a nice show for everyone. your nails intertwining in his undercut, while his arms hug your waist.
“okay okay,” kita pushes, removing the two of you off of each other. “10 minutes, you know the drill.”
the frat brothers exchange a glance, one of many kita has shared with his little since atsumu started college.
the amount of girls that have survived that room, godspeed.
hearing the door close behind you was almost frightening, even after the spectacle you put on for everyone just now. it wasn’t until you took a few steps in you noticed this is a bedroom, not your average stuffy coat closet.
“suna teach you to kiss like that or what?” he teases, watching you stare at him in disbelief. “can’t believe he hasn’t fucked you yet.”
guess i’ll be the first, he thought.
suna? fucking you? confusion was an understatement really. unbeknownst to you they all thought you were sunas secret fuck buddy till he told them you were untouched.
atsumu almost forgot, and the realization ran through his blood with pure mischief. he was ready to get his hands on you and play with his toy of the night.
“let’s have some fun, yea?” he quips, walking towards you. “fun like what?” unintentionally you take a step back, the two of you flowing in a seamless b-line towards the bed as he goes forward and you go back.
“you’re a big girl right? in college now. ya know what big girls do?” his tone was informative signalling that there’s more to his mini monologue. “big college girls…kiss, and suck, and fuck boys.”
the smooth of your calves hit the sheets.
“a-atsumu i’m—” you’re a stuttering mess, and he finds it adorable.
“you’re what?” he mocks, lifting his voice up an octave to replicate you. it was only a matter of seconds before you were pushed onto the bed with his body caging yours beneath him.
it was all happening so fast, it’s not that you didn’t want to but this has never happened before. being stuck in a room with a guy especially an experienced one was never on you to-do list for today.
atsumu’s done this to many girls. he’s used to fucking bitches every week and you were no different. he never looses and he’s damn sure nothing will change that tonight.
“i’ve never done this before…” shame drowns your conscience as you confess what you thought was a secret. little did you know, he knew.
“s’okay,” his lips pecked against your jaw lightly, he could feel how tense you were but curious as well. “just wanna make you feel good, hmm?” you could feel atsumu’s hand creeping between your thighs though his eyes never leaving yours. this look on your face, the look of a virgin, never gets old for him.
the inquisitive look of “maybe it’s not so bad” staring back at him as he pulls your panties to the side running his fingers along your wet folds. you didn’t protest, or squirm, or defy, you just laid there beady eyes staring, legs spread for him awaiting his touch.
simultaneously, his fingers slide into you with ease while sharing a kiss to keep you quiet, earning a soft moan onto his lips. your body can’t help but concentrate at the foreign feeling of someone else other than yourself fingering you. “ahhh—! s-slow down ‘tsumu, too much!”
“no can do angel, got a lot ridin’ on ya.” completely dismissing your feelings, he continues to pump his fingers into your leaking cunt. “hurts..” you whine. “atsumu it hurts!”
“don’t lie ta me pretty, i can feel you clenching ‘round me.” your face flushed at his words, fluttering around his fingers. besides the slight discomfort it felt so fucking good, you really couldn’t get enough of it.
the humiliation you felt hearing the lewd squelching of his digits fingerfucking you was apparent. you watched in awe as he sped up, arm now jackhammering in and out of you at an ruthless pace. “fuckfuckfuck!” you cry, eyes brimming with tears.
atsumu traps your lips in a messy kiss, tasting a mixture alcohol on each others tongues. whines and whimpers escape fall from your lips onto his at the feeling of the coil in your stomach about to break. the euphoria that overcomes your body when your legs begin to tremble, thighs squeezing around his hand, your virgin cunny covers his fingers in sticky cum.
but his assault on your pussy doesn’t stop there, he’s still going; fucking you through your orgasm. “can’t stop there, you can give me another one baby, know you can.”
“no! c-can’t take it! i—” his hand quickly cups around your lips, muffling any sound that dares to come out of your mouth. time’s almost up and atsumu would throw more than a fit if he got caught and had to restart already.
he could feel it again, your pussy clenching around his fingers. atsumu continued at his gruelling pace, with a slick smile on his face. It was so cute seeing you like this, half an hour ago you walked into this party as an innocent little thing, and now he had you exactly where he wanted you — under him with his fingers buried inside of you, on your second orgasm.
“cumming… ‘m cumming—!” you mumble under the weight of his hand, eyes fluttering shut. “atta-fucking-girl angel.” your chest heaved and knees buckled while you creamed on the blondes fingers once more this time at full force, making you see stars before he pulled out of you.
“wasn’t so hard now was it?” he smiled sucking your slick off of his fingers. atsumu is now leading by two points and cocky was an understatement, he can feel himself growing hard watching your body go limp against the sheets. if he had the time, he’d take you right then and there but there was always an opportunity for that.
“make yourself decent before you come out.” was the last thing he said to you, chuckling while the door clicked shut behind him.
get yourself together! the sound of your own voice mentally cursing you was enough to spring you back to your feet, pulling your dress down, and fixing your hair. luckily for you, everyone continued their conversations, dancing, and games as you crept out the room exhaling heavily with relief.
a few eyes lingered, especially kita’s. he peered at you from afar, while atsumu whispered in his ear. he raised the red solo cup with an upward tilt of his head before smirking in your direction, taking a sip from the cup.
frat boys are just the equivalent to mean girls.
hell, it hasn’t even been five minutes and he’s already going around telling everyone. you couldn’t bare to see it really, causing you to relocate somewhere else in the house, the stairs.
you sat on the wooden steps, eyes glued onto your phone screen. the feeling of someone walking down was evident as the hardwood took a dip at the weight, it was osamu.
he pondered, swirling the liquid courage in his hand. how could he get you on his white linen sheets? he thought. osamu smirked at the idea that popped into his head soon after remembering the common denominator between his bed and that dress you’re wearing.
starring at your back from a few steps above, his eyes moveded to suna who was situated mere meters away from where you sat. he feigns tipping his cup, eyes pointing down to where you sat then back to the brunette.
it was genius, if he ruins that pretty little dress of yours you’ll have no choice but to take it off.
“do it.” suna mouthed covering his words with a cupped hand.
the weight of someone walking down the stairs returns after having paused, you didn’t think much of it until alcohol poured down your shoulder and into your bra from above you.
“sorry angel! that was my bad.” osamu quips, downing the rest of his cup.
“you’ve got to be kidding me..”
“relaaax,” he drawls before reassuring that “you can come change up here.”
—♡︎—
osamu scanned his closet looking for one of his old flings’ clothes murmuring, “no-no-no-too big-too small— damn i should call her..” as he looks through the assortment of clothing.
you waited on his bed partly disgusted at the fact that these clothes were equivalent to trophies.
“check that drawer ta’ your left for something.” he gestures a waving hand, pointing to the side table next to his bed.
the drawer was less then helpful, containing: condoms, an agent provocateur set (brand new, mind you), a bottle of dior sauvage, and a miniature plastic bag with two smiley face pills in it.
he has drugs just laying in his room?
“what’re these?” prodding at the drugs you ask, dangling the bag between delicate fingers.
he turns to face you, smirking when he sees what caught your curiosity. “a pretty girl named, molly.” osamu banged a girl with that name now that he thinks about it.
“you guys seriously take these?” eyes narrowing at the tiny pill analyzing it’s appearance, but wanting to know more at the same time. “are they fun?”
osamu closes the closet door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. his attention is focused elsewhere when you display genuine interest in the party drug.
“wanna find out?” he asks with the tilt of his head.
fuck around and find out was an understatement, getting fucked after finding out was more accurate really.
“fuuuuck ‘samu..” your manicure runs through silver hair, as he messily laps at your cunt.
every flick of his tongue making your knees buckle, the pleasure was overwhelming your lower half as he teased your clit with the tip his tongue.
you couldn’t get over how good it feels, what was the point of staying a virgin when there’s men who will pleasure you like the miya twins.
“pussy tastes s’good princess.” he mumbles onto you, sending vibrations up your spine, continuing to eat you like you’re his last meal.
he could feel now eager you were to get off, grinding yourself against his face in hopes to chase the orgasmic high that your body was so close to.
the loud noises of his mouth smothered against your pussy and broken whimpers fill up the room.
loud enough for suna to hear through the bedroom door he’s standing on the other side of. he could feel his erection growing, listening to his best friend taint his virgin girl bestie on the most sinister night of the year.
“righthererighthere! ‘m cumming— oh fuck!” the euphoric feelings of the drug in your system enhanced every last nerve running through your veins.
you’re loud, high pitched whines falling from your throat as you throw your head back, eyes shutting tight.
osamu’s face pushed into your cunt with force, nose nudging at your clit. little did the two of you know, the brunette purposely walked into the room with you on the verge of a mind blowing orgasm and osamu’s mouth quite busy.
“you cumming?” suna asks, gripping your face with slender fingers.
your eyes shoot open to see one of his hands planted on the back of osamu’s head pushing his mouth deeper into your pussy, the other holding your face, taunting from above.
“oh yea, you’re fucked.” he taunts, pushing your lips into a kissy face forcefully moving your head from side to side, observing your features.
suna’s done his fair share to know you weren’t all there, your dilated pupils, flushed face and very vulnerable state gave it away.
“don’t be shy, go on. might be ‘samu going to town on ya but your attentions on me, hmm?”
seeing you tweaked out on the verge of your third orgasm of the night really did it for him.
it was torture, watching and hearing the twins have their fun with you meanwhile he had to watch.
absolutely no fair. he’s the reason you even considered coming to the party at all it wouldn’t be all that bad if he used you as a reward for his efforts, now would it?
“rin!!” you whine, “get out! this is embarrassing!”
suna doesn’t bother listening to your protest. he’s already slid his shirt off, unbuckling his belt watching osamu make you cum.
“move it.” he chuckles, tugging at grey locks.
“hey, i had her first.” osamu scoffs at his friends audacity.
“technically atsumu had her first, but it’s my turn. so, are you gonna keep bitchin’ or get your dick sucked while i fuck her?”
the two boys spoke as of you weren’t even there, like you were just an object for them to play with. this wasn’t about the bet anymore. this was about you, and the fact that they’d never get the opportunity to see your tweaked out, legs spread, off molly ever again.
a once in a lifetime opportunity with you in a position to not protest.
suna’s shadow hovered over you, manipulating your body to fit both of them on osamu’s mattress.
hazy eyes stared into his green ones with incoherent mumbles falling from your lips. seeing you fucked out made him want it that much more.
“hang in there for us pretty.” his voice sounding so sincere, meanwhile rubbing the tip of his cock along your slit.
he pushes into you without warning, stretching your cunt around his girth.
“shit..” he hisses through his teeth. “definitely a virgin, fuck.”
“ah—!” your hand flies to his chest in attempt to get him to slow down. “s’too much..”
“none of that,” osamu coos, grabbing your wrist.
you didn’t even notice that he slid his boxers off, smearing precum on your lips like lipgloss.
“hey ‘samu where’s the—” atsumu says, swinging the door open to the lewdest live scene he’s ever seen. “holy hell.”
“are you gonna stare or join?”
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sluttsumu 2023
2K notes · View notes
sophiethewitch1 · 2 months
Text
What We Want - Chpt. 1 - Not Quite An Isekai
In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe
(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!
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SUMMARY
Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.
Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?
As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.
And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.
Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?
(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)
PREV - NEXT
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You awake to the sound of your phone ringing. You slap to the edge of your couch, aiming for the rickety side table. Your wrist smacks against the corner, and you hiss in pain. It’s a few inches too high, and wood, not metal. Seems you somehow got to your bed during the night, but you didn’t remember it. Still, you get your phone. Through squinted eyes, you find the screen, its 3:15, far too early for your drunken suffering- Wait no, it’s mid-afternoon. Still, you feel tired, and you want to sleep.
You answer the phone anyway, putting it on speaker and resting your head back against the pillow. Your head doesn’t hurt that bad anyway. God was smiling down on you today.
“Miss, are you awake?” a man’s voice rings through your apartment.
Who was that? Who called you Miss of all things? Your boss didn’t remember your name sure, but he just called you ‘intern’ instead. You’d been an official employee for six months now. Right, conversation, paying attention, replying like a normal person.
“Hm, yeah, I’m awake,” you say, fighting back the urge to yawn.
“You don’t sound very awake, Miss,” the man replies, his tone familiar.
“Who is this?”
He sighs, “Miss, are you being sarcastic?”
“What? No, I’m serious,” you confusedly answer.
“…This is Alfred, Miss. Now, Master Wayne has asked me to-”
“Master who now?” you cut this Alfred off, doubly confused now. Wayne? Like, the Wayne family? The rich, philanthropist one?
He sighs again, “I understand the relationship between the two of you is quite strained, and this is a personally difficult day for you, but he insists on seeing you. Your birthday gala starts at 7, as I’ve told you, and your assistant will be over at 4. I ask that you unblock both their accounts, as I would much rather I didn’t have to talk to you when you’re like this.”
“What?” you repeat, like the idiot you are.
“Good day, Miss. And happy birthday.”
He hangs up. You blink down at your phone. And then you roll your eyes, because oh my god are Molly’s pranks getting ridiculous. You never should have told her about your weird fascination with the Waynes, she was getting back at you hard for your drunken mistake.
You make a lot of those. Well, life goes on. You’ll put glitter in Molly’s car’s vanity mirror or something.
You turn off your phone, and let your face slam right back into your pillow. For a while, you try to go back to sleep.
…Something about this isn’t right. You, like the freak you are, take a deep inhale of your pillow. It smells like you, like the laundry soap you use, but it also smells like… Well, you don’t know. All you can think about is your new boss’s wife and her awful perfume that swallows the office space like noxious gas.
Your pillow… kind of smells like that. Your first ungodly thought is that, somehow, you spent a torrid night with your boss’s wife. The second is that Molly needs to die for her crimes.
You let your crusty, bleary, stinging eyes blink open.
Hm. Why is there a chandelier in your bedroom? You shoot upright in the bed, silk sheets falling to your lap. Silk sheets you can’t afford. You look around the room, eyes widening at the space. The bed is king-sized, while you had barely been able to afford your twin-sized mattress. The living room isn’t in the same space as the bedroom. You can’t see the kitchen and the bathroom to your right has shining marble tiles. And even then, the decoration’s are luxurious and clean, compared to your livable chaos.
You look to your left, and your mouth drops open.
A floor-to-ceiling window, showing the Gotham horizon with the morning sun. Fog and clouds twist around spiralling gothic towers, reaching down to the people down below. You’re looking out over the bay, and you can see the Narrows barely peaking through the mist, desperately clawing for any sunlight.
The sun rises on the right of your building, not the left. You don’t have a view, you’re on the fourth floor and there’s a brick building directly across from your window. You live in the Narrows.
You live in the Narrows. You press your face to the cool glass and look down. Oh my god, you can’t see the streetside. You’re too high up. You’re somehow on the opposite side of Gotham City.
Stumbling away from the window, you do your best not to touch anything, because you know it’s all too expensive for your peasant hand. Let’s start thinking… whatever was happening to you, through. Molly might kidnap you for a joke, sure, but she was barely any richer than you, and that was just because her boyfriend lived with her. She could not afford this level of fuckery.
So… so… is this, what? A big joke from the universe? Did someone else kidnap you? You have to have been kidnapped, right? Why the fuck would someone kidnap you?
Did the Joker kidnap you? Was he coming to finish you off? End your family line?
You reach down and pinch yourself hard enough you yelp. When the dazzlingly perfect apartment doesn’t disappear, it’s much harder to force yourself not to panic. Okay, okay, okay. It’s fine. This’ll be fine, and it could still be a dream. That whole pinching thing was a myth, right? Argh, maybe you should’ve listened to Molly when she was trying to get you into astral projection.
Wait, Molly!
You go back to your bed and pick up your phone.
It’s… it’s not your phone. What was this? The iPhone 27? You didn’t keep up with those sorts of things, but it looked expensive. Everything here looked expensive.
You think you’re going to go into anaphylactic shock. Wait, no, it’s hyper-something. What was it? Argh, you can’t do this right now!
You press your thumb to the ‘on’ button, and luckily whoever this phone belongs to is not worried about their privacy because there's no password. Stupidly, you look for Molly’s name in your list of contacts.
BLOCKED - ‘Bruce Wayne’
BLOCKED - ‘Damian Wayne’
BLOCKED - ‘Dick Grayson’
BLOCKED - ‘Tim Drake’
‘Alfred :)’
BLOCKED - ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’
You drop the phone. Because the floors, even in the bedroom, are marble, it shatters like glass. You make a sound like a dying chicken as you watch the piece of technology make a bouncing break for the bathroom. It slides to a stop against the giant hot tub, and you pick it up and cradle it between your palms like a newborn.
The screen still works. Even if it’s cracked to high heaven and takes multiple attempts to turn it on, it still eventually does. Thanks God, won’t forget this. You hiss as you open the contacts again, pricking your fingers against the sharp edges.
As fate commands, you click on the ‘Bruce Wayne’ contact. The description is very simple.
‘Massive dickhead. Hope you jump off a building and fall like a rock.’
You go back. Click on ‘Dick Grayson’.
‘Massive dickhead’s beloved firstborn. Most annoying man on earth congrats.’
Again. ‘Damian Wayne’ this time.
‘Massive dickhead’s massive dickhead. Demon? Grinch? Somebody kill it with fire please.’
And finally, ‘Tim Drake’.
‘The only acceptable one.’
…Well, at least your kidnapper liked one of the Waynes. Maybe they kidnapped you because you were their opposite or something? You definitely wouldn’t call Bruce motherfucking Wayne a massive dickhead. Or maybe they wanted to kill you.
The Molly prank idea was becoming more sound. Maybe she won the lottery and didn’t tell you.
You click on ‘Alfred :)’. He’s the one that called you earlier and also called you ‘Miss’, for some reason.
It’s just a bunch of heart emojis. Coherent, sure.
You go back, and click on the final of the list, ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’.
‘Don’t listen to Alfred. She wants to eat you.’
She wants to what?
A knock at the door has you jumping a foot in the air and nearly banging your head on the bathtub’s lip. You hear someone call your name through the door, and you freeze. Who… how? They call your name again, this time their voice louder. They bang on the door.
You creep over to the door.
“Ma’am, if you don’t open this right now, I’m quitting! We both know Alfred contacted you this morning, and he’s going to be very upset if I do so. There’s only so many assistants in this city!” from this close, you can recognise the voice belongs to a woman. She rattles the doorknob.
You lean down, peering through the peephole. The woman has a harsh face, a perfect pencil suit and her blonde hair in a pretty updo. Her makeup is impeccable. You get the feeling this woman is also more expensive than you can afford, despite her calling your name.
Bewildered, you open the door. She slams through like a battering ram, strutting 6-inch stilettos into the space.
She huffs, and then turns around. You can see very clearly she’s trying to keep her calm, but you did leave her at the door for like five minutes. It wasn’t your fault, you thought you were hallucinating or something.
“Ma’am,” she stresses the word, “Please unblock me.”
You blink at her, “Uh, sure.”
She waits, her hands clasped together in front of her.
“Oh- oh, right now?” you stutter, pulling the phone out from your noticeably lavish pyjamas.
Wait had someone changed you in your sleep? What the hell was going on? Maybe you should be more concerned about that, honestly. Still, you do as she commands.
She watches you like a hawk as you stare at the cracked phone. Your eyes flick up at her, and then back down at the screen. Slowly, watching for her reaction, you unblock ‘The Wicked Witch of the West.’ She nods, not even commenting on what was apparently her name in ‘your’ phone.
You were still slightly concerned about the ‘She wants to eat you’ thing, but she seemed… alright. Kind of scary. But not cannibalistic.
Still, this was Gotham after all. A healthy dose of fear was what kept people like you alive.
“Ma’am, did you just wake up? It’s already 4 o’clock,” she gives you a subtly disapproving look, and your shoulders sink like you’re being scolded.
“Yeah- yeah, sorry about that,” you stammer, embarrassed for some unknowable reason. This really was just like a dream. You could tell something was very obviously wrong, but you were still going along with everything like it wasn’t. Everyday life.
You were going to focus on that, this had to be just a dream. Just go along with… this, and then you’d wake up. And if you could manage to get over the uncanny valley-ness of the very obvious wealth surrounding you, maybe you could enjoy it.
You had always wanted to be rich. This was just your brain spewing out random information. Better than the nightmares you usually get.
You’re abruptly pulled back into focus when the woman clears her throat loudly. Ah, shoot. Had she been talking? You definitely hadn’t been listening.
“We need to get you ready, Miss,” she says like she’s repeating herself. You nod, because yes, of course, getting ready.
Ready for what? You think if you ask her she’ll yell at you. So when she grabs your arm and tugs you along, you follow. She pulls you into the bathroom, sitting you down in front of the mirror on a stool. Because this bathroom has stools in it. You stare at your reflection warily, before glancing up at her behind you.
“The stylists will be here in about forty minutes, and the makeup artists in two hours,” she pauses, giving you a strange look, “I appreciate you being so cooperative today. I understand this is all a delicate matter, but I am under Mr. Wayne’s orders first and foremost.”
“Wayne… like Bruce? Bruce Wayne?” you ask, even though there’s really no one else it could be. Still, you have to check.
Because it’s impossible. Even if it’s a dream, it still feels completely impossible. There was just something inside you that said ‘that can’t be right’, even if you knew none of this was real.
You realise, quite late, that you don’t even know this lady's name. ‘Wicked witch’
“Yes, Ma’am. Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises,” she answers you, pulling out her phone and flicking through it. She doesn’t even respond to what you have to assume is an inane question. Maybe ‘dream you’ often asks stupid questions.
‘Normal you’ certainly does.
“Oh… okay…” the conversation drifts off, and she makes no attempt to fill it. Aren’t P.A.s supposed to… you don’t know, fix that? Or maybe she’s not your personal assistant, just an assistant. Silly you, making assumptions.
This bathroom deserves assumptions. You wonder if the gold frame of the mirror is, y’know, real.
The blonde woman walks out of the room without speaking another word to you. You think maybe you should follow her, but instead you just sit there with your hands on top of your knees. Your leg bounces up and down, and you glare it into submission, ignoring the way your muscles jump.
You look at yourself. You look… different. The bags under your eyes are worse than usual, and your gaze sunken into your face. Your hair is sad and oily, knotted in places. Your skin is almost waxy.
You look sick. You look like… you remember, you look like…
In the light of the day, you refuse to think about it. You’re not allowed to, you’ll break if you do.
You just don’t. Even if your reflection just confirms that you have to be dreaming.
Instead, you turn your gaze to the tub. You raise your hand to your hair again. Back in your apartment, you’d had a shower. It was a surprisingly good shower because you’d invested in a showerhead with better pressure. Still, it wasn’t a bath.
You missed bathes. You get up, close the door, lock it, and sink inside the tub. You take off your silky pyjamas inside the bath, and then you toss them on the floor beside you. Sitting there, you watch through the giant window at the world down below. At the ravens and pigeons that fly through the fog, at the few people you can see through the windows and balconies.
You press your cheek against the glass. It’s cold. You’re cold.
You’re sitting in an empty bathtub naked. What are you doing?
Rubbing at your eyes, you reach over to what you think are the controls. They all look very complicated, but there’s a switch that goes from blue to red, so you turn that. It takes another button press for the water to start flowing out. Steam fills the room, and you let out a sigh of contentment.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, the stylists will be here in ten minutes, and you need to get out. Ma’am? Ma’am!”
You shoot up in the bath, splashing water over the overflowing sides. Blinking, you turn your head back and forth and then sink back down. Oh. You’re still here. You went to sleep, but you’re still here. Maybe it’s one of those dreams where you think you wake up, but you haven’t. Or, ah, something similar.
You feel so tired. You really, really didn’t miss this feeling.
Quickly, you wash your hair and body, scrubbing furiously at the oily sweat on your skin. You stumble out of the bath on shaky legs, dry yourself off, and almost trip in your haste to get out the door. Showing off your negligible intelligence, you only realise you’re still wearing just a towel till she manhandles you towards the closet.
A walk-in closet, because of course it is. You think it’s bigger than your apartment. It has a flat bench in the centre because evidently all the walking around you’ll be doing will require a fainting couch.
The woman gives you, horrifyingly, a set of lacy, racy underwear. When all you do is just gape at her, she sighs, takes them from your hands and gives you a simple black set with no frills. You look down at them clasped in your wet hands. They’re clean, and they seem to be your size.
Still, this is a bit…
“Are these… new?” you ask, because there’s no tag or anything.
“Yes, Ma’am. But if you want, we do have some sets still unpacked at the back of the closet,” she says, going along with your weirdness. Even if she was a bit scary, you were grateful for that, at least. You guess celebrities were usually quite eccentric, so maybe this wasn’t out of the ordinary for her.
“Yes, please.”
She gives you a pair of Victoria’s Secret bra and underwear, plain beige and still in their plastic packaging.
“Cool, sweet, thanks,” you say, and she shakes her head just slightly.
She puts a white bathrobe down, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. You lock it, and then you put on the underwear that you did not buy. The whole experience is strange, but still, you just go along with it. You’re a go-along-with-it kind of person.
You were… you were starting to not like that all of a sudden. Still, out of your depth in an odd dream is no place to start doubting your entire personality. You put on the bathrobe too. And the fluffy slippers that are tucked under them, with great pleasure.
You hear the many voices before you open the door. When you step through it, you feel like you’ve stepped onto the set of a movie. Or well, the backstage at least. Women and men are flittering about the chic apartment in the sort of rush you’d only seen working at BatBurger.
The woman from before spots you and you feel like a rabbit under a hawk's gaze when her brown eyes narrow on you. She strides over to you and then, once again, clamps her grip around your wrist and drags you over. You wonder as you stumble after her if she’s got some meta-human in her because no slim, perfectly put-together lady should be this damn strong.
She pulls you towards a set of three people. You can immediately tell they’re the heads of the operation, with an aura that squashes you like a pancake. Two women, one man. They’re all dressed to the nines, in their own unique ways.
They all look at you with assessing glances. You fear you do not measure.
“I’m surprised, Jeanine. You actually got her this time,” a woman with a black bob and a rocker look comments, her red lips twisting into a grin. You realise, with a start, that the blonde woman who was not incorrectly nicknamed ‘The Wicked Witch of The West’ was actually called Jeanine.
Lovely, you were getting the hang of things.
“Yes, she was very agreeable this afternoon. I’d like to apologise once again for any past issues,” Jeanine says, all business. You still have no idea what’s going on, and definitely no idea what they’re talking about. But what you assumed was the jist of it… was that ‘dream you’ wasn’t a very harmonious person.
Lovely, lovely, lovely. This was a bit of a personal nightmare for a people pleaser like you. Actually, it was a literal personal nightmare. Lovely.
“The disrespect I’ve faced is immeasurable. But, Monsoir Wayne pays exceedingly well. Still, it’s nice to actually have our dear client before us,” the other woman says, appraising her french tip nails. Which, considering she said ‘monsoir’ and the whole accent, would make a lot of sense. She’s closer to a classic beauty than her punk rock friend, with brown hair coiled and beautiful pearls across her neck.
“I don’t know, I thought I’d be getting paid for doing no work tonight. Ruins my plans,” the man teases, and you’re relieved at the kindness in his gaze. He’s wearing a suit with a dazzling but trendy red tie. His tie has an odd metallic sheen to it, a fabric your peasant mind couldn’t place.
If Molly were here, she’d jab you in the stomach with an elbow and whisper “One of those homosexuals, me thinks” even if she was bi herself.
You wish Molly were here.
“Yes, well, I’d like it if we could all work together tonight. And get to it quickly, the drive to the Wayne Tower isn’t a quick one with the evening traffic, so, if you’d please.”
And that was that. No introductions, no extra pleasantries. You were swept away in a whirl of fabric and hair products.
They stuff you into a gorgeous evening gown, its colour reminding you of a sparkling midnight sky. Rhinestones dot down the sides, coalescing at the bottom. You hope they’re not real diamonds. Gloves, a bracelet, a necklace, and dripping pearl earrings. It was all impeccably put together, and you felt uncomfortable with such items on you. You didn’t dare ask how much it all cost, despite being desperately curious.
They slip towering 6-inch stilettos on you despite your protests, cake your face in enough powder to make you sneeze. Dramatic liner and eyelashes that felt heavy on your face, a lipstick that had to be coated twice because you chewed on your lip with nerves.
And then you’re done, dizzy and confused but thoroughly made up.
You get one quick look at your reflection before Jeanine is pulling you up and out of the seat.
They’d gotten rid of the signs.
You ignore the part of you that desperately wants them back and follow Jeanine out into the elevator.
Despite the fact that it is, in fact, a very long drive to the Wayne Tower, she does not seem inclined to say a single word to you. The ride is awkward and quiet, broken only by the sound of you pressing buttons in the back of limousine, and even that stops when you get an unimpressed look from her.
So you just sit there, vibrating at frequencies unseen by man.
When you finally arrive at Wayne Tower, the crowd shocks you. There are so many paparazzi, nearly overflowing the flimsy barricades and onto the carpeted marble entryway. The tower itself is a display of outrageous wealth, towering over the rest of Gotham City easily. You think for a while it’d been the tallest building in the world, but you couldn’t remember your elementary school education all that well.
It wasn’t like this information would’ve been useful at any point in your life. You still don’t think it will be, as this is all a very vivid dream.
The door opens, and immediately you’re overwhelmed by the camera flashing. You hunch away from the lights like a vampire, but Jeanine pushes you forward.
“We’re already very late, Ma’am. No time for faffing around,” she says from behind you, hand placed squarely against your back.
What? But all you’d done was rush around all afternoon! You know, if you’d just taken one of the trains or even the Skyrail you’d have been able to avoid this. Still, you’re out the door, up the steps, not given a moment to react to the questions thrown at you.
“Miss! Miss, are you here to celebrate your birthday? Don’t you think it’s a bit callous to ignore the tragedies of today?”
“Miss! Is it true you’ve been disowned?”
“Miss, miss, about your family…!”
Oh, well, even if what they’re saying is awful, it’s a relief. It’s your birthday again. You think the guy who had called you said happy birthday. That meant none of this could possibly be real. See? It had to be a dream. Had to, had to… You decide to ignore literally everything else they say, letting the words float through your very hollow brain.
Life’s a lot easier when you play it a little stupider.
The heels and the stairs are an awful combination, and if it wasn’t for Jeanine’s herculean strength you’re certain you’d be tumbling down them right now. Your assistant… secretary… lady is careful not to let that happen, however.
Maybe you judged her too quickly. You appreciated anyone who made sure you didn’t fall flat on your ass. It was a good quality for a person to have.
You don’t get to appreciate the Wayne Tower all done up. You don’t get to stare at the lights and flowers strung into the art deco rafters. You don’t get to stare and gape and look like an idiot, because Jeanine wants you to look like an idiot elsewhere.
In the middle of all these fucking random rich people you don’t know. Hurray!
You’re shoved into a group of people, with Jeanine at your back. She starts rattling off names and titles and relations, and you can’t make heads or tails of any of it. You turn to look at her with what must be a genuine deer-in-headlights fear, and she stops and then starts speaking slower.
Thank God for that. Well, since she’s making an effort, you do too.
“This is Lianne Jenkins, wife of Senator Jenkins,” Jeanine whispers into your ear, and you nod. You knew him, you’d voted for him, in fact. How the fuck were you here talking to his wife? She’s not looking at you, instead talking to someone beside her. She turns, and you put on the best smile you can.
The socialite physically startles when she sees your face. Great.
“Oh- oh my!” her voice stutters over your name like she can barely even remember it, “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight, it’s a pleasure to see you!”
It… it was your birthday party, right? Your name was on a giant banner at the back of the room, so you had to assume it was. Dream logic. Just- just blame it on dream logic.
“Oh, look it’s Gerald! I’m sorry my dear I really have to-”
And she just ditched you. At your birthday party. You blink at the space she just evacuated and then turn around to Jeanine. You probably give her some sort of weird Kubrick stare, and she winces. She then looks around for someone else for you to talk to. From the growing despair on her face, you can assume she doesn’t find anyone.
“I don’t want to be here,” you say.
“I said I’d quit, remember?” she replies. You think she’s lying to you. She looks about as desperate as you feel, which is a lot. You were seeing a lot of sides of ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’ today. She seemed less wicked and more generally insane. Hey, at least the two of you had something in common.
You turn away from her, eyes roving over the party. You recognise some people, because you know, they’re all rich and famous. That guy over there was in a movie you pirated recently. The one on your right seems to be someone important in online tech spaces. You think he did NFTs or something, which made you sad because you did not want that sort of person at your birthday party. Oh, the woman on the other side of the room eating canapes is an Instagram influencer, you think. The fantasy of a Wayne party gala is fading fast, falling out of the sky like a comet of fire to bring doom and death to mankind.
You are so out of your depth.
You turn back around to Jeanine.
“I really, really don’t want to be here,” you repeat, and Jeanine, shocking you, grabs your hands in hers.
“Please stay. Just for thirty minutes, please,” she begs you, her dark eyes pleading. And because you are the living personification of a doormat, you sigh.
“Alright. But only for thirty. And I’m getting very, very drunk.”
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be right beside you the entire time-”
You decide, oh so kindly, that you are totally ditching Jeanine, too. Spinning in your dress, you make a grand effort to get away from her, but she dogs you loyally. The goliath-like heels you’re wearing don’t make it any damn well easier. Still, you don’t stop trying to outrun the tiny, control freak of a woman. Because while she definitely seems to desperate to stay near you, you are also very desperate to not be near her.
Your hand itches. Randomly, it itches quite a lot. You don’t know why you only notice what must be a bug bite inside the gala, but you do. Awkwardly, you scratch your palm with your other hand, staring down at the skin. It doesn’t look red yet, but it honestly it’s getting kind of annoying.
You sigh again, and turn to ask Jeanine if she had any lotion or something, because you assume that’s what stalking personal assistants are for and… she’s not there. Somehow you lost her, without even noticing.
You throw your arms into the air. Yippee! Now, it’s time for alcoholism, as is the answer to all problems in life. It’s what the loving and maternal arms of Gotham had taught you, after all.
You stumble your way to a wall where there’s a set of food, and a server with a silver platter carrying a bunch of champagne glasses. You stop the guy before he moves again, your hands in the air like you’re trying to soothe a scared animal.
You point at the tray, “I want that.”
He looks at you with mild horror. You thought rich people were weird, like he’d be used to something like this. It wasn’t like you were asking for the shirt off his back or cocaine or something. If it wasn’t obvious, you really didn’t know anything about what rich people did.
“It’s my birthday. It’s totally cool. I asked Bruce myself,” You bald-faced lie, like you’d ever even met the man. Like a predator, you watch the man carefully put the tray down next to the rest of the food, and then he slowly backs away from you. Well, okay, you could admit that was kind of weird. This night is getting to you. God knows this loud-as-fuck party was more overstimulating than anything you could usually stand. And so bright. What a shitty fairytale ball.
You grab one of the flutes of champagne and swirl it, sniff it, and then once you’ve gone through the polite checklist of drinking you throw it back like it’s a shot of vodka. There were people watching after all. Wait, they’d probably seen you corner that poor server boy.
Hmm, this requires cake. You choose a random slice that looks like it might be strawberry something, and dig in eagerly. It tastes fucking fantastic. The cream is sweet and soft, and the jam has a pop of flavour you totally weren’t expecting. And the cake itself was a lovely, spongy texture.
Grand. Maybe if you just sat here like a wallflower and ate food and drank liquor you could handle this. It wasn’t any different from how you behaved at Molly’s college parties.
So, you decide to work your way up and down the buffet table. Most of it’s delicious, but when you try things you can’t quite recognise, there’s a twenty-percent chance it’ll be disgusting and you’ll have to spit it out to avoid poisoning. You’re careful not to try the caviar, despite your own curiosity. You’d heard that it just tasted like salty water, and that didn’t mix well with whatever you were currently putting in your stomach.
You look down at your hand. It’s another piece of the sponge cake, wedged between a napkin so your dirty fingers didn’t touch it and you didn’t have to bother with another plate. You giggle, because it really is that good.
Ah, this is great. You could do this forever, screw thirty minutes. You eye the entrance the servers keep coming in and out of, and wonder if Jeanine would get mad if you tried to follow them into the kitchens. Probably, probably…
The question was, was it worth it? You’re debating the merits when the sound of someone's shoes stops next to you. You think it’s a man, and you consider barking at him to get away from the buffet, but decide you’ve tried everything and can probably share again. It takes great strength, though. You decide you deserve some more champagne for the kindness.
It’s after a moment that you realise he’s not taking anything.
“Oh, so you actually showed up? Colour me surprised,” a familiar, calm, masculine voice speaks from behind you. Your mouth drops open, and you spin on your heel. If you hadn’t been clinging to the table cloth you’d have fallen over, but still, you drop the champagne flute, and it bursts in a spray of liquid and glass against your dress.
It also splatters on the dress shoes of one Tim Drake.
First the phone, now the delicious drink. You really wished you’d stop dropping things.
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MASTERLIST - NEXT
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butchsophiewalten · 2 months
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I've said this to a couple people already, but I'm actually really interested by Felix's crash alibi. The description of Lacrimosa tells us what he told to the police the morning after the crash:
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And I'm assuming his story here is that he was driving drunk, got into a wreck, and after he came back to consciousness he spent the whole night and morning looking for Edd & Molly in the woods, and when he couldn't find them he went to the police. Which is actually a really strong alibi to explain his behavior and the huge gap of time where he was unaccounted for. Like, it's suspicious, but short of uncovering buried remains that the police don't know exist, there's really nothing that can disprove it. It's very difficult to say that isn't what happened.
Which I really like, because I think it lays the groundwork to explain why Felix has gotten away with so much for so long. A really common complaint I hear about The Walten Files is that people don't find it believable that all this could happen, all these missing people and mysterious circumstances, and seemingly no one in Brighton cared, and Felix was never indicted. But as I suspected, the series is already starting to put forward explanations that are believable and that can facilitate the future circumstances we've already gotten a taste of.
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sanguineterrain · 1 year
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i'll put us back together at heart - s.h.
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Summary: It's 1987. You haven't spoken to Steve Harrington in nearly five years. Then Dustin Henderson tells you about a sweet deal he has at Family Video, where he can rent any movie he wants.
Pairing: ex-best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Word count: 8.8k
Warnings/tags: friends to strangers to lovers. the reader is twenty in 1987 and i technically made steve twenty-one/about to turn twenty-one. s4 happened but eddie's alive and vecna's dead. no earthquakes or anything like that; reader has no idea about what really happened. lots of angst, mentions of billy hargrove (yuck) and steve's s1 asshole friends.
A/N: oh my lord. i don't know where this eighteen-wheeler of a fic came from but here it is. there is a happy ending, not to worry. i'd never do that to y'all <3 feedback and reblogs are always always appreciated!
divider by firefly-graphics
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August 1981
"I wish we could stay eighth graders forever."
You lift your head from your orange pool floaty. Steve drifts on the surface of the water. His hair is longer, way longer than you've seen it in the three years you've been friends. He says it's better for styling that way; he's even bought a gel and cream for his hair. You don't understand why he wants to change something that doesn't need changing. 
"Why?" you ask. "I thought you were excited for high school."
He hums. The sound echoes in his backyard. 
"It's bigger than middle school. More kids, more teachers, more work. I like eighth grade."
"I'll help you with your work," you say. 
Steve turns his head and smiles at you. Part of his face is in the water, the image distorted. 
"You'll do great," he replies. "You're so smart."
Steve doesn't say those things to get you to help him like other kids do. Steve means it. 
"You'll do great too," you say. "You're funny and nice and my best friend. People will like you."
"You think?" 
You nod. Steve turns his head and closes his eyes again. 
"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks. 
The floaty squeaks as you move to sit up. You paddle to Steve so you can look at his face. 
"Why wouldn't we?"
"I dunno." His eyes are still closed. "You might make super smart friends. And I'll just be a dumbass holding you back."
You shove Steve's shoulder lightly. 
"You are not dumb, Steve."
One muggy June night had had Steve admit he wasn't thirteen, like you and all the kids in your class, but fourteen. He had been held back in third grade after his parents moved from Illinois. It's why my brain's mush, he'd said. I was born dumb.
He had made you swear not to tell anyone. 
"You're not dumb," you say again. "Say it, Steve. Say you're not dumb."
His frown deepens, but he still won't look at you. 
"Tommy says I am."
"Tommy Hagan is a shithead," you shoot back with so much venom, Steve's eyes fly open. "It's not true, whatever he tells you."
You hate that they've been hanging out more this summer. You can't tell Steve that, because it's not like you own him. He can be friends with whoever he wants. But you can't help that your skin crawls when Tommy and his stupid girlfriend, Carol, drops by and pulls Steve away from you. 
“Promise?” he asks.
“Yes, Steve. I promise.”
“‘Kay.” Steve smiles a little. “Thanks.” 
You nod and lay back on the floaty. 
“Wanna get ice cream after this?” he asks. 
“Just us?” 
“Just us.”
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Now. (January, 1987)
You slam the phone back onto the receiver. A girl playing Pac-Man carefully glances at you. 
Whoops. Right. You're still at work. 
You smile and give a thumbs-up. She turns around. You return to your wallowing. 
You’ve called three different video rentals. Jewel Films, which is about to go out of business; More Movies, whose attendant hung up on you before you could say Molly Ringwald; and finally, Blockbuster, which is thirty minutes outside of Hawkins. None of them have a copy of Pretty in Pink. 
And okay. You could just watch another movie. You don't need that specific one. But this year has been shit. You'd thought after starting college, you'd finally break out of the Hawkins forcefield that had limited your social life. You'd thought you'd make friends and not be so terribly lonely. Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn’t it? 
Obviously, whoever said that is a big, fat liar. 
“Dude!” you hear a familiar voice exclaim. “Stop hogging the game!”
Tawny curls peek from under a green and yellow hat. The hat hovers over an older boy who’s glued to the Tempest booth. You go to them. Dustin Henderson lights up when he sees you. You can read his hat now; it says Camp Know Where ‘85.
“Hey, Y/N!” he greets brightly. “This guy has been here for a half hour. I left to get nachos and when I came back, he was still here.”
“I’m this close to beating my score!” the kid insists.
“Come on, guy," you say, one arm on the machine. "You gotta give other people a turn."
The kid, evidently demon incarnate, sneers at you.
“Who’s gonna make me? You?” 
You lean against the side of the game, considering.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” he says.
You snort. 
“Sixteen? And you’re still on Tempest?”
He glances at you. 
“So?”
“Everybody your age is playing Rampage, that’s all.” 
You wink at Dustin. He beams.
“And, uh, I saw a couple girls hanging around Rampage,” you add. 
The kid turns to you. You tilt your head innocently. 
“Seriously?” he asks.
“Seriously. People always flock to the new games.”
Which is true. The girls part is not, but he doesn’t need to know that. With that attitude, he won't be getting many phone numbers anyway. 
You drum your fingers on the game like you have all the time in the world. And sure enough, the kid takes his quarters and heads towards Rampage. Dustin jumps in delight. 
“You’re awesome, Y/N!" 
You grin. “I try. Where are the others?”
Dustin sours.
“They ditched me. To hang out with their girlfriends! Can you believe that shit?” 
“No way!"
He shakes his head.
“I know, right? My friend told me that that’s what happens in high school. People change, y’know? And he’d know, I guess. He’s old like you.”
You scoff. “You make me sound like some kind of ancient. I’m not that old, Henderson.”
“It’s okay, Y/N.” He pats your arm. “In many cultures, the elderly are wise. Now in my experience, this hasn’t been the case. But I think you’re wise.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Dustin smiles like the little shit he is and puts his change in the slot. 
“Well, contrary to what this other friend says, I’m sure it’ll pass,” you say. “You guys will hang out again." 
You swallow your acidic truth. Dustin's a good kid, and so are his friends. You don't want him to turn cynical like you have. He's too young. 
Dustin shrugs, starting the game.
“I guess so. I got a copy of The Lost Boys for us to watch on Friday. They said they’ll be there.”
“Whoa, seriously? That one just came out, how’d you get a copy?”
“My friend,” he says. “The one I mentioned. He works at Family Video and reserves stuff for me.”
“Huh. I thought Family Video was closed."
You'd applied to work there last year and never got a call back. You'd gone by once and it had looked abandoned. Hence why you now work at the arcade across town. 
"It almost did, but Keith took over so now it's barely scraping by."
"Ah. Sweet deal on the movies."
“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, eyes crinkling. “My friend's pretty cool. You'd like him."
"Would I now?"
"Absolutely," he gushes. "He's a total badass too. He won his first fight last year. He used to be a jock but he's recovered." 
"Wow. Impressive."
"Mmhm. I could ask him to hold stuff for you too, if you wanted.”
“You would?”
The game makes a sad game over noise. Dustin sighs and takes a gulp of his slushie.
“Yeah, totally,” he says through a mouthful of blue raspberry ice. “Which one do you want?”
“Pretty in Pink? I missed it in theaters."
“Sure. I’ll tell him to hold it tonight and tomorrow you can pick it up.”
“Cool. Thanks, Dustin.”
Dustin gives you an apple-cheeked grin.
“Gotta stay in good graces with the arcade attendant who lets me play Tempest as long as I want.”
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, walking away. "Don't get slushie on the game."
"'Kay!"
Dustin only gets a little bit of slushie on the game, but he cleans it up with about a million of the cheap snack bar napkins. When he leaves, he tells you to mention his name at Family. 
"Who do I ask for?" 
"You can talk to either of them," Dustin says. "Doesn't matter. Except Keith. You know Keith, right?"
"Unfortunately.” Keith used to terrorize the arcade before he blessedly moved on. “He works there?"
"Barely." Dustin scoffs. "He's almost never there, so don't worry. And feel free to ask for more movies. They owe me one."
Your sole interactions are with professors and a gaggle of high school freshmen. But now you get to watch any movie you want. Maybe this year won't totally suck. 
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The bell rings pleasantly as you step inside. There's a few people on line, so you take your time walking in. There's a movie display with about thirty copies of RoboCop. A cardboard cutout of RoboCop stares back behind his red helmet.
"Can I help who's next?"
You go to the counter. A girl about your age with a choppy haircut smiles at you but it's sort of strained. She has a pin on her green work vest that says Ask me!
"Please don't ask for Adventures in Babysitting," she says. 
"Oh. No, I'm, uh, Dustin's friend?" 
You can't believe you're name-dropping a high schooler. 
She nods in realization. 
"Oh, yeah. God, I keep telling that dweeb not to promise holds."
You wince. 
"Sorry. If it's going to get you in trouble…"
Her brows raise. She smiles a bit. 
"No, it's okay. Usually my coworker deals with it but, well. He's taking an extra long break today. So, what movie was it?"
"Pretty in Pink," you say. 
"Classic," she replies. "John Hughes fan?"
"Somewhat. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I like Molly Ringwald."
She grins.
"Me too. She's pretty."
"Super pretty," you agree. 
The girl considers you, then sticks out her hand. 
"I'm Robin," she says. "Nice to meet you."
You take her hand. "Y/N.”
"Did you go to Hawkins High?"
"I did. Graduated last year."
"Oh, cool. Are you in college?"
You nod. 
"Hawkins State. Twenty minutes from here."
"Sweet! I'm taking a gap year, but afterwards, I’m gonna apply there. It's cheap. College is college, right?"
"College is college," you agree. "But I wish I'd gone away for school."
You don't know why you're telling her this. You've known Robin for all of two minutes. But she seems friendly. And her sense of style is cool. She wears a blue blazer and tie underneath her vest. 
"How come?" she asks. 
"Everybody from Hawkins is there," you say. "And I… I just want a new start."
Robin smiles sympathetically. 
"They're jerks," she says. 
You huff. "Yeah."
You'd turned yourself into a social recluse a million years ago. It's your own damn fault you can't befriend anybody in this town. At least, not anymore. 
Robin types into the computer, then smacks the monitor. She groans. 
"Ugh. Gimme a second," she says. "Stupid technology."
"No problem," you say, smiling. You like her. Maybe you can integrate Family Video into your regular routine, become friends. You can see Robin becoming a good friend. One you wouldn't grow apart from. 
She disappears into the back room. You browse the old releases and stop at Die Hard. This one you saw in theaters. John McClane is a badass. 
You think of Dustin, and his supposedly badass new friend. It's too bad you didn't meet today. Dustin has a good sense about people. If he says so, it's possible you and this friend really would get on. 
The bell rings again. You're slow to look up. The entrance is empty when you do. You keep reading about John McClane's adventures. 
"Have you been waiting long?"
You turn at the new voice. The video slips out of your hand and clatters onto the counter. 
Steve’s hair has grown since you last saw it. He looks different too, though he has yet to break out of his signature church boy polos. There's a smattering of stubble on his jaw. His arms are lean with muscle. He wears a matching work vest like Robin's, name tag printed Steve in blocky font. 
He looks at where you've dropped Die Hard and smiles. 
"This is a good one," he says. "John McClane is a total badass."
You blink.
"Did you want to rent that one?" he continues, meeting your eye. 
"No," you manage. 
"Okay, no problem. Just browsing?" 
He doesn't remember you. 
You stare and stare. Steve leans in, concerned. He's changed, but he hasn't. He's still handsome with his swoopy hair and big, dark eyes, but the Steve you knew wouldn't have been caught dead working at a video store.
And he doesn't remember you. 
"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuine.
You take a step back from the counter. The blood roars in your ears. Robin comes back in, Pretty in Pink in hand. She looks at you, then at Steve. 
"Got it!" she tells you. "Computer should work now."
"I have to go," you say. 
You don't look at Steve again, instead focusing on Robin. 
Her brows rise. 
"Oh. Is everything—"
"I forgot my wallet," you blurt. "I can't pay for the movie. Sorry."
"That's okay, we can just—"
You run. The bell chimes over her words. You keep running until you get to the bus stop, three blocks away. 
Only there do you stop to catch your breath. 
And then you cry. 
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February 1982
"What do you think about Marie?" 
You look up from your textbook. Steve is doodling in the margins of his notes. You gently prod his arm. He returns to reading but his leg starts to bounce under the table. 
"Marie Iverson?" you ask.
"Yeah." 
Steve glances at you. He pushes his hair back. It had taken him freshman year to get his bearings with all the gels and creams, but now, his hair is a point of pride, always perfectly coiffed. Seniors call him "The Hair" and high-five him in the hallway. You hate it. 
"I don't know. I don't know her that well."
"She's cute." 
"I guess so," you say. 
It's harder to get Steve to focus on homework these days. Last year, he happily made flashcards with you and even bought fancy gel pens to share for your notes. Now, he prefers to talk about girls or—
"I was thinking of asking her out."
The tip of your pencil breaks. You really ought to start using pens, but you don't like being unable to erase. 
"Shit, here. Take mine." 
Steve offers his still perfectly sharpened pencil. You stare at it. 
"Y/N?" 
"Yeah." You take the pencil. "Thanks."
"Sure. So what do you think?" 
"I don't know, Steve. I thought you talked about this stuff with Tommy."
"I would, it's just…" Steve shifts uncomfortably. "He can be rude about it sometimes. He doesn't even get why we're friends, y'know? Doesn't understand why I don't just date you."
Tommy is a moron, but you've said that since last year, and Steve's never listened before. 
"Some people don't get it," you say mildly, because you have an upcoming French test and there's no use in getting upset over Tommy Hagan right now. 
"But you do. And you know about this stuff better than me. Girls and all."
"Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I know what girls are best for you to date, Steve. It's weird to talk about."
Steve deflates. 
"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."
You sigh and rub your temple. 
"I thought you knew all about that," you say, extending an olive branch. "Asking girls out and stuff."
"Well, I mean, I've kissed girls but I've never… you're, like, the only girl I really know."
Something like pride swells in your chest. Selfishly, you want to keep Steve. You don't want to help him if it means losing him. Oh, you're so greedy, aren't you? You watch Steve run off with Tommy and Carol and nameless seniors and seethe, because Steve was yours first. Steve is yours.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah." You give him back his pencil and fish for another one in your bag. "Did you ever think about writing how you feel?" 
"Writing?"
"Yeah, like a poem or a letter."
"I'm terrible at writing," Steve laments. "The letters get all jumbled and I never spell a damn thing right."
He'd told his mom once how letters melt into each other, how b's become d's. She'd taken him to get his eyes checked, and when the doctor said Steve was fine, Deborah Harrington had told her son to stop begging for attention. 
"Someone who really likes you won't care about spelling mistakes, Steve," you tell him. "As long as you write from the heart. Don't do that cheesy shit and quote Romeo and Juliet. They're young, impulsive, and they die at the end, and that's not romantic."
Steve laughs, nose scrunched. 
"What!" you demand. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing, 's just—of course you'd have something to say about quoting Shakespeare."
"It's overdone," you say, crinkling your nose. "And girls would much rather read your own words." 
"So you think I should write Marie a letter?"
"If you really like her," you say. "Only write letters for girls you really like. Otherwise they lose their meaning."
Steve frowns. "I don't know if I should write her a letter, then."
Don't, you want to say. Don't write any of them letters.
You shuffle your papers into a stack. 
"Can we study now?" you ask.
"Oh, sure, yes. Sorry."
"You don't have to keep apologizing, Steve."
He shifts closer to you. His leg has stopped bouncing.
"Lemme take you out," he says. 
You nearly swallow your tongue. 
"Wh–what?"
"For ice cream," Steve clarifies. "Like we used to. Dairy Queen."
"Oh. Okay, sure. But after we study."
Steve beams. "I'll drive you."
Steve's dad had bought him the BMW as a birthday present this year—not that Richard Harrington actually knows when his own son's birthday is, considering the gift was three months early. Still, it's another point of pride for Steve and about all anybody talks about whenever his name comes up. Steve is the only person in your grade with a car. Junior girls hit him up for rides. You make yourself scarce when they do. 
You don't care. You liked Steve before the car. And the clothes. And the hair. 
Your throat feels tight. You want your best friend back. 
"Just us?" you check. 
You can't tell these days. Steve seems to hang out with everybody but you. You're shocked he'd even asked to study together. 
"Oh, sure," Steve says. "I just have to drop off Tommy and Carol first, okay?" 
You check your watch and close your book. 
"I have class," you lie. "I'll see you later." 
Steve catches your wrist. He looks at you and you're struck by how sweet his face is. It's not like you didn't understand why girls want him but it's Steve. Your Steve, who still sleeps with a nightlight and who framed a picture of a sports car he cut out from a magazine because he'd thought it would make him cooler (it didn't. You still tease him about it.) 
"Please," he says. "For helping me."
Your eyes slit. "I didn't help you to get stuff, Steve. I helped you because you're my friend."
Steve blinks like he's forgotten what it's like to be friends with someone just for the sake of being friends. 
"You're right," he agrees. "You're not like that. I'll tell Tommy and Carol to find another ride. It'll be just us. I promise."
You perk up at that. "Really?"
"Really. You can sit in the front with me and we'll play Bruce Springsteen, like we used to. Please?" 
"Okay, Steve." You ache. You’ve never been very good at telling him no. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."
And maybe… maybe your best friend is still in there after all.
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Now
You ask your shift manager if you can work at the snack bar today. It's in the back and you won't have to deal with any game hogs. 
"You didn't put enough syrup in my slushie."
You might have overshot the perks, though. 
Slushie Girl's hair is bleach blonde and hairsprayed to God. You want to tell her that all that hairspray doesn't keep friends. Or brain synapses. 
"I don't make the slushie," you say for the third time. "That's how it comes out of the machine."
She shoots you a mean look. 
"I'm complaining to the manager."
You paste on a smile. 
"You do that. Have a nice day."
She finally walks away, probably on the hunt for your manager, who's definitely smoking a joint outside to avoid this exact situation. 
Dustin comes around the corner and this time, he's with the rest of his party. You smile. 
"Hey, Y/N!" Dustin greets.
Lucas waves at you. Max and Mike are arguing and therefore are in their own world. And there's their newest addition, El, whose story you're still not clear on, as well as Will, quiet as always. 
You lean your elbows on the countertop. 
"What'll it be, gang?"
"Six nachos and six slushies, please. One blue raspberry, three cherry, and two Coke."
You fill up the slushies first. Dustin dances on his toes. 
"So did you pick up the movie?" he asks.
"Oh." You try to smile. "I went there but I couldn't. I forgot my money. Pretty dumb of me."
Dustin accepts this with no argument. 
"Well, you can go back. They'll hold it for a few days."
You're never setting foot in there again, but you don't tell Dustin that. 
He takes his slushie and immediately starts drinking. 
"Slow down, dude. You'll get a brain freeze," you say. 
"You sound like Steve," Dustin informs you. "Doesn't Y/N sound like Steve?" 
Lucas nods. 
"Yup. They're both parents."
You feel queasy. You focus on making the nachos, the cheese pouring out thick and gooey. 
"Did you meet Steve?" Dustin asks. "You probably know him from high school, but he's different now."
"Yes," you say quietly. "I knew him."
"I promise he's different. Even Mike likes him, and Mike hated his guts. Right, Mike?"
Mike pauses in his animated discussion with Max and looks at you. 
"What?"
"I'm telling Y/N about how Steve is cool now," Dustin explains. 
"Oh." Mike shrugs. "He's fine. Much better now that he's not dating my sister."
"He's not?" you ask. "But they were in love. I–I mean, that's what I heard, at least."
"She dumped his ass," El says, and it sounds a little ridiculous in her soft monotone. 
Max scoffs, taking her Coke slushie. 
"Did you live under a rock? It was a huge thing."
"Now Steve is lame," Mike says with a snort. 
"Getting dumped doesn't make somebody lame," you say with an old ferocity you'd thought had disappeared. 
"Okay, jeez." Mike holds up his hands. "Steve's alright. He's different, that's for sure."
"He's our paladin," Lucas says. "A protector." 
Dustin nods eagerly.
You blink. "He protects you guys?"
Max elbows Lucas. You have no idea what that's about. El steps forward and smiles softly. 
"Yes," she says. "He's our babysitter."
"Aren't you guys freshmen? I thought you were too old for babysitters."
"Oh no, Steve doesn't get paid for it or anything," says Mike. "He just does it 'cause he has nothing else to do."
"That's not true!" Dustin argues. Then he shrugs. "Well, it's a little true. But he does like us. He's a good guy. He cares about his friends."
You bite your tongue, not wanting to reply to that. 
"That's great, guys. The girl, Robin? She seems pretty cool too."
"That's Steve's best friend," says Dustin. "She's great."
"Oh." You wince. "Best friend?" 
Dustin huffs. “Yeah. They don’t date. He won’t say why."
"Platonic with a capital P," Max confirms. “It’s obviously because he’s in love with somebody else.”
“Not Nancy!” Lucas protests.
“There are other girls besides Nancy, Sinclair.”
You busy yourself with serving the last set of nachos. The kids pull out crumpled bills and coins in return. You count the money and stack it directly into the register; you know there won't be any change. 
When you turn, they're still there. Dustin has his signature grin on, eyes squinty. 
"Yeees," you drag out. "Can I help you?"
"We need a favor," Lucas says. "Please."
"Hmm." You lean over the counter. "What's up?"
"They're showing Prince of Darkness on Friday," Dustin explains. "But it's rated R."
"So just sneak in. Isn't that what you guys did at Starcourt?" you ask.
"We had an inside man then. They're a lot stricter at the new one," Lucas frowns. "They ask for IDs 'cause some mom complained after her kid snuck in to watch Risky Business." 
"And why can't your babysitter take you?"
You sneer at the thought. Steve spending his Friday nights herding a bunch of adolescent teens into a movie theater. There's a reason you consider Dustin affectionately delusional. 
"He has a stupid date," Dustin groans. "He's a serial dater, Y/N. It's terrible. He gets lucky once and totally ditches us."
Now that sounds like the Steve you knew. 
"I see. I don't really like horror stuff."
"You don't have to stay!" Dustin insists. "You can watch whatever you want after we’re in. I'll pay you back for the ticket."
“This would be so much easier if Steve still worked at Scoops,” Mike grumbles.
You blank for a moment, the image of Steve in a sailor’s hat and those ridiculous shorts whiting your brain.
“Um,” you begin. “You know I don’t have a fancy BMW to cart you guys around in, right?”
“It’s cool. We’ll get there,” Max says.
“So?” Dustin bounces on his toes. “Sooo?”
You sigh. It’d been nice of Dustin to get you the movie, even though you’d chickened out and ran. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll get you guys in.”
Dustin pumps his fist. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re my favorite old person.”
You roll your eyes. “Funny. Any funnier, and I might rescind my help, Henderson.”
“Byeeee!”
They all disperse to the arcade. You wonder how on earth Steve got involved with them.
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March 1983
“Okay, but if you had to choose.”
“Pass. I would literally rather swallow pennies than kiss Principal Coleman’s bald-ass head, Steve.”
Steve takes a triumphant swig of beer. “So you’re saying you’ve got the hots for Benny the janitor.”
“No!” you insist through giggles. “I don’t. God, you’re gross. Can’t believe I’m being treated like this on your birthday.”
“Exactly! My birthday.”
He rolls onto his side in his deck chair and nearly faceplants on the cement. You reach out, reaction time delayed.
“Steve!” you yell. “Careful.”
“I am, I am,” he mumbles, and rights himself on the chair. “Jus’ wanna see you better.”
“I keep telling you you need glasses.”
“I do not,” he whines. “My vision’s ten outta ten. Could a guy who needs glasses do this?”
He crumples up a Twinkies wrapper and throws it towards the garbage. The wind picks up and sends the wrapped into the pool. 
“Shit,” he says.
You belly laugh in delight.
“Wait, wait, redo. Go fish it outta there.”
“Oh, as if. I’m not going in there. I told you you need glasses. Even Mother Nature agrees.”
"She does not. Mother Nature thinks I'm a doll."
You hum and close your eyes. Alcohol always makes you sleepy. 
The chair scrapes against the concrete. You hear a crinkle of a chip bag. Those are your only warning before you’re crushed by two hundred pounds of drunk boy. 
“Steve!” You wheeze, squirming as his hair tickles your face. “Get off!”
"’M sleepy,” he mumbles.
“Well, don't sleep on me, weirdo.”
“‘S cold.”
“You run, like, a hundred degrees, don’t lie.”
He lifts his head. “So you’re saying I’m hot?”
“I’m saying all that booze cooked your brain,” you reply sweetly.
“I’ve been wounded,” he moans and plops onto your shoulder.
“Ugh.” You resign to your fate and lean back. Steve’s not actually that heavy; even drunk, he has a lot of control over his weight and he’s situated himself so he isn’t crushing anything important. No, you squirm underneath him for a very different reason. 
“Steeeeve,” you whine. “You’re gonna squish me into a pancake.”
“Can’t believe no one else came.”
You still. Steve’s face remains buried in your shoulder. His body is beside yours, and he has an arm slung over your belly.
“I didn’t—didn’t want a party,” he continues. “I always throw parties. I thought I’d do somethin’ different. An’ none of them even wished me a happy birthday. ‘Cept you.”
You rest your hand on the back of his hair. It’s wind-blown and messy from the drinks, free of his heady hair gel. You’ve never loved it more.
“Did you tell them your birthday is today?” you ask gently, even though you know he did.
“Yeah,” he says. “Told all of ‘em. Guess they weren’t listening.”
“I listen.”
Steve looks up at you. His eyes are glassy.
“God, I miss you,” he says.
You feel the wall you’ve built this year crumble, just a little. 
“I’m right here, Steve.”
“I know but—been a jerk lately. I know I have. You’re my best friend, okay? Nothing’ll change that. I–I love you so much.”
Your breath hitches. Steve barrels on, not noticing.
“And I’ll be better. We’ll hang out more. Not–not here, drunk. But for real. We’ll go to the movies. Y’wanna see a movie?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanna see a movie.”
“‘Kay, what movie? Anything you want. We’ll get popcorn and Raisinets.”
“You hate Raisinets,” you choke through a watery laugh.
“I’d eat Raisinets anytime with you.”
You lay there, in the dark, the only sound being the pool filter.
“Let’s watch the new James Bond.”
“Hmm, okay. But you’ll have to say the name eventually.”
Your nose crinkles. “I am not calling it by its name.”
His laugh is warm in your neck. 
You don’t tell Steve to get up again. He snuggles into you, leg over yours. You fall asleep like that, curled underneath him.
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Now
“Wait.” Max stops. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?”
“Game plan?” El asks quietly.
“Yeah. Some of us aren’t so great at playing it cool.”
She stares at Lucas.
“I play it cool!” he squawks. “I am so cool!”
“Right.”
“Just let Y/N do the talking,” Will says. “She’s technically the adult so she should act like this is a conscious choice.”
You shrug. “Makes sense to me.”
Dustin beams. “This is gonna be great!”
“Or a total disaster,” Max says.
You go to the counter, the kids trailing behind like ducklings.
“Six tickets for Prince of Darkness, please,” you say. “And uh, one for Dirty Dancing.”
The attendant looks at you, then at the kids.
“Don’t you mean seven tickets for Prince of Darkness?” she asks. “It’s rated R.”
Shit. “Right, yes. Sorry. Seven tickets. And one for Dirty Dancing. We have another friend who’s late.”
“Uh-huh.” 
The attendant, whose bored expression you’ve recognized on your own face after long days in the arcade, hands you your tickets without any questioning. 
“I think we’re in the clear,” Lucas whispers when you enter the concession area. 
You wait for them to buy their snacks. Max persuades Lucas to let her mix M&Ms into their bucket of popcorn. He agrees and shuffles closer so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder while they share. 
“Okay, last stretch,” Mike says, shoveling a frighteningly large handful of sour worms into his mouth. “We just have to get past the ticket guy.”
Said ticket guy is a kid who can’t be much older than you. You think you might’ve gone to school together, but you’ve made it a point to eviscerate everything about high school from your mind.
“Hey,” you say, trying to act cool. Maybe you’re the one Max should’ve been worried about, instead of Lucas. “Uh, here are our tickets.”
He takes the tickets, then looks behind you.
“Prince of Darkness is only for people seventeen and older,” he says.
“I’m an adult, so I’m with them,” you explain. “I’m, like, their guardian?”
“Yeah, uh—” He hands you your tickets. “No can do. There needs to be an adult for each person under seventeen.”
“Come on,” you cajole. “They’re high schoolers. It’s not like they’re gonna be scarred for life watching some zombies, or whatever.”
He shrugs. “Rules are rules.”
“She’s an adult!” Dustin argues.
“Look, if you’re gonna hold up the line, I’m gonna have to—”
“Yo, Gillespie! That you?”
Dustin turns and lights up. The seven of you part for Steve Harrington and his date, a pretty strawberry blonde you think you had biology with.
“Harrington, man, what’s up!” 
Ticket Prick gets up to slam Steve into a bear hug. You barely resist an eye roll.
“Shit, I haven’t seen you in a year! Where’ve you been all this time? Hey, did you hear about that shit with Munson?”
Steve flinches. It’s a tiny movement, indiscernible to the trained eye. But it’s there all the same.
“Gillespie, c’mon. Don’t bring the party down with that,” Steve says, all sweet charm. 
“Sorry, sorry. Daisy,” he greets the girl attached to Steve’s arm.
“Gil,” she replies with a giggle. “You smell like popcorn butter.”
America’s future taxpayers. Terrifying. 
“Are you gonna let us in or not?” Max interrupts, arms folded. 
You feel a burst of pride.
Gil shoots her a dirty glare and puffs up, ready to fight a fourteen year old. Steve cuts in smoothly.
“Gillespie, listen. I know her.” He points to you. You bristle. “I can personally vouch that she’s just trying to do right by these kids. They wanted to see Prince of Darkness, y’know? Get away from the parents.”
“It’s a sick film,” Gil agrees. “You seen it?”
No, of course Steve hadn’t seen it. He hates horror. 
“Planning on it,” Steve says, the ultimate image of playing it cool. “Look, you remember sneaking into the movies. Fast Times? Ring any bells?”
Max rolls her eyes. You’re inclined to do the same.
Gil laughs dopily, and nudges Steve. “Hell yeah, I do. That was a crazy night, Harrington.”
Steve smiles thinly. “Sure was. So whaddya say? For old times’ sake?”
Gil considers your little troupe. Then he shrugs.
“Why not. Manager’s not here anyway.”
He takes the tickets and tears them to stubs, then gives them back.
“Theater six. On your left. Enjoy.”
The kids stampede into the left theater wing. You hang back with your own ticket. 
“Appreciate it, man,” Steve says, all smiles. “Take care, alright?”
“Hey, you too, Harrington! We gotta catch up!”
Steve and Daisy go in. You expect them to walk right past you, and Daisy does, predictably. But Steve stops.
“I’ll catch up, okay?” he tells her. “Find us some good seats?”
She paws at him a little, then goes, sodas in hand. You stiffen as Steve walks and stops three feet away from you. 
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about that. Gil’s an asshole.”
“I know. He yawned during my poetry reading sophomore year. And then you guys went to the movies together.”
Steve shrinks. “Your poems were great.”
You’re suddenly exhausted.
“What do you want, Steve?”
“I just… I wanted to see you. Say hi.”
“Okay.” You cross your arms. “Hi.”
“You forgot your movie,” he says. “The other day.”
“I didn’t want it that much.”
“Dustin said you looked everywhere for it.”
“Well, in the end, it didn’t really matter,” you say. “Not enough to stay.”
“Y/N—”
“I think your date’s waiting for you,” you interrupt. “Better get back to her. Wouldn’t want to taint your reputation.”
Steve makes a noise like he’s been wounded. You turn on your heel before you can think better of it. 
“Wait.” He catches your wrist. Steve’s grip is light, like you’re something precious to hold. You wrench your arm away. “Y/N, I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you ask. “For forgetting me? I didn’t expect you to remember, Steve.”
“I didn’t forget you,” he insists. “I could never forget you. I wasn’t—please, can I just explain?”
“I don’t need your explanations,” you snap. The hurt corrodes your tongue like acid. “I know what happened. We were both there. You left.”
Steve’s eyes are huge and dark. He looks like you just stabbed him in the heart, and that makes you feel worse. You’d thought telling him how much it hurts would put you back together, but all it did was break you more.
So you run. Again. 
You slam through a back exit and rip your ticket into a million pieces. The wind is cold and unforgiving. Your eyes sting. 
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You call out sick for two days in a row. You kind of expect to get fired, but then again, people have been leaving Hawkins and if you’re not here to serve the masses their slushies, who will be?
So, after lying in bed not thinking about movies and strawberry blonde girls and how sick you are of this town, you get up and put on your arcade vest.
Now it is two in the afternoon. You’d heard it was supposed to snow today.
Robin eyes the snack counter like it holds the next plague outbreak. You don't blame her; you make it a point to wash up to your elbows after work.
"Slushie?"
She looks at you like she’d forgotten you were there. "What?"
You point a thumb at the machine. "Are you here for a slushie?"
"Oh. No, sorry. Red dye makes me insane in the brain. Steve actually—"
Robin stops, grimaces. So he's told her. Probably everything, if the kids had been telling the truth. 
You're honestly surprised she's here. Unless it’s to, like, swirlie you in the vat of artificial cheese. 
"Are you here to drown me in nacho cheese?" you ask.
Robin's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "What? No!"
"Just checking." You lean against the counter. "What can I do for you, Robin?" 
Robin suddenly looks like she's never interacted with a human being before. You like her a lot. Steve probably does too. 
"I came to drop off your movie." She holds the tape over the counter like it's a pool of lava. 
"But I didn't pay for it." You shove your hand in your jean pocket; you only have a couple dollars on you. "I guess I can get you the money tom—"
"It's on the house. For a fellow Molly fan."
Robin wiggles the tape with two fingers. You take it and wait for a catch. There is none. 
"Thank you," you say. "You didn't have to do that."
"Actually, it wasn't me," she confesses. "I'm just the mailman."
You prepare to hand it back but Robin shakes her head. 
"He's not going to pop out of the slushie machine, okay? He's just trying to make it up to you."
"He doesn't need to make it up to me," you bite, except those aren’t the words you mean. "Why does he even care? We're not in high school anymore."
Robin smiles a sad smile. 
"I know," she says. "We’re not. I know he should've known to fix things earlier. He's received a lot of blows to the head, though, so he's still catching up."
The thought turns your stomach. More? More you weren’t there to protect him from?
"He doesn't owe me anything," you say and wave the tape again. "You can take it back and leave it for somebody else."
"Y/N, I know we don't know each other, like, at all. But it's important to me you know that Steve cares about you, because you’re important to him. And you knew him way before I did, and you probably know a lot of stuff I don't, and that's good because he has a friend like me, but he should also have a friend like you too, Y/N."
"I don't want to be his friend," you mumble. 
"Yeah," Robin says. "I figured. But I don't think that's a confession he should hear secondhand."
You look at her, stunned. She's such a clever girl. You hope she treats Steve well.
"If you two are—"
"We're not," she says, like this is a regular explanation she goes through. "Steve and I are friends. Steve has crashed and burned with every single date since his fall from regency. Steve is the best person I've ever met." 
"Yeah, I’ve heard. You and Dustin are his biggest fans."
Robin snorts. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it."
You shake your head. Your eyes feel hot. 
"This town is so shit," you say. 
"Yeah," Robin agrees. "It really fucking is. But I'm not asking you to give this town a second chance. Just him."
"Why are you trying so much?" you ask. "You don't even know me."
Robin shrugs. "No, but you're the one person Steve used to be friends with who's not an asshole, and I think us non-assholes need to band together."
"I can sometimes be an asshole."
"Me too. So are those little dweebs. How about calling ourselves the Semi-Assholes Club?" 
You laugh. "We'll get jackets."
"With partially drawn butts on the backs," Robin says with a giggle. 
You look at the tape in your hand. 
"Does Steve like John Hughes?" 
"He does. He's a total sap for those. He thinks he's in his own coming-of-age movie because he's delusional."
He sounds perfect. He sounds like the friend you loved. 
"I did want to watch this one," you say. 
"It won't hurt you to," Robin promises. 
You suppose not.
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December 1984
You don't believe the whispers. All week, the rumor mill spins tales of Billy Hargrove finally pushing the King off his throne. There's no way he'll show his face, a girl at the adjacent lunch table astutes. I sure as fuck wouldn't.
Steve Harrington is a loser. Steve Harrington got dumped for Jonathan Byers. Steve Harrington may as well be dead, and on and on. 
Every line gets you angrier. A boy who sits behind you in chemistry taps his pencil like he always does. Tap, tap, tap. 
Halfway through class, you snap at him to quit it. He does, but not without a tinge of embarrassment. You’re so angry this year. Angry at your loneliness, angry at the unfairness of said loneliness. You might’ve done this to yourself, and that fact only gets you angrier.
You see Nancy Wheeler in the hallways with Jonathan Byers, and the confirmation of that rumor should make you happy. It doesn't. 
A week later, most of the excitement has died down. Everybody’s moved onto the next big thing, which is to deduce who fucked in Vice Principal White's office. One look at V.P. White, and it had been decided that it can't have been White himself. 
You can't care less. Once upon a time you might’ve laughed about it with a friend, but you don't have any more of those, and high school is bullshit with or without them. So.
Steve walks in twenty five minutes into the period. Mrs. Kaplan gives him a downright beastly glare and demands to know where he had been. 
"I'm sorry," is all he says. "If you give me detention, I understand."
There are a few snickers that rub at an old hurt, one that had flared up whenever somebody dared to make fun of your best friend. It doesn't bother me, he'd said, and you'd known it was a lie. 
It bothers me, you’d replied, and Steve had hugged you tight.
Mrs. Kaplan seems more stunned Steve hadn't swaggered past her like a peacock escaped from the zoo and lets him go sit down without a fight. He takes the only empty desk, two rows across from you. You stare. You can't not. 
Half of his face looks like it was mashed in a garbage disposal. It's purple and a sickly yellow. His eye and lip are still swollen. You stare and stare. You feel queasy. 
Billy had done that. You're so angry. You think you might never get past this grief, this loss of a once permanent fixture in your life. 
No one wished Steve a happy birthday this year, you realize out of nowhere.
You stare and stare and stare until Steve looks right back. You're blindsided by thick guilt, like blinking through a milkshake. And then the familiar curl of anger returns because why the fuck should you feel guilty? You aren't the one who fucked everything up, who mascerated this good thing. Steve did this to himself. Steve deserves to walk the halls alone. It's Steve's fault. 
But when you look at him, at his raw wounds, at his bruised knuckles, you know that he already believes he deserves every punch Billy Hargrove gave him. 
You hate Steve Harrington. But you really wish you'd been there to drive him to the hospital. 
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Now (And Forever)
The tape sits buried in your drawer for three days. You don’t know what Family Video’s return policy is, but you hope you’re not racking up late fees. You doubt name dropping Dustin will work again.
It’s Saturday when you decide to watch Pretty in Pink. You remove the video from its sleeve. An envelope falls out.
The front has your name printed in squished, loopy script. You remember January at Steve’s house, a stack of thank-you cards courtesy of his mother awaiting the Harringtons’ sign-off. Steve’s hand would cramp and you’d take over while he made grilled cheese for the both of you. Love, The Harringtons, and there was no love in that house, but you think maybe Steve loved enough to make up for it. 
Hi, the letter begins. I hope you’re good. Robin told me you’re going to Hawkins State.
That’s fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you. Are you still writing poetry? I liked that one you wrote about the birds who shared a branch and kept each other warm. I still have it in my notebook in my room.
I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry for every night since freshman year, honestly. I’m kind of a dumbass, but you know that, so it doesn’t really excuse anything. I think I’ve actually lost brain cells since we drifted apart.
You crumple the corner, suddenly hot with anger. Who keeps telling him he’s dumb? You want names.
I didn’t forget you, you know. I got scared and I thought maybe I could ease into it, but then you recognized me and… well. I don’t blame you for running.
Anyway. I’m talking too much about myself, when there’s nothing to say. I’m really sorry about what I did, or, actually, what I didn’t do. Somebody told me I was living on autopilot, and that it wasn’t really living at all. I think it was you. 
I’m not living on autopilot anymore. I woke up. And I realized that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I love Robin and the kids and this little family that has apparently invayd invaded your life too. Sorry about that. They never leave and they eat all your food. Good luck. 
But I miss you. I always have.
Shit happened these last few years that I’ll tell you about one day, if you want. I’d rather not, though, because you’ve always been the paranoiac (like that one? Robin said it’s an SAT word) of the two of us and I feel like this would just make you even more of one. But I will tell you, if you want to hear it. I want to tell you everything. I want you to tell me everything too. Like we used to.
I want you to tell me how college is going. Who the annoying jerks in your classes are so I can go beat them up (kidding). I want you to stop by to rent movies so I can lend them for free and you’ll yell at me about taking advantage of fre friendships. 
Fuck, I miss you. It’s always been there, bubbling below the surface. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I know you said writing is how we express things we can’t say. You were right. You always are. Can’t believe I forgot that. 
It’s okay if you don’t want to be friends. I mean, it hurts, but I respect it. I understand. Most days, I can’t believe people can bear to be around me. But then I hear your voice in my head, telling me that most people are shitheads and that I’m golden and. Well, I don’t know if I believe that, but you were right that most of the people I surrounded myself with were shitheads. Except you, of course. And then I went ahead and fucked that up.
I’ve been working on finding the non-shitheads of the world. I think I’m doing pretty well. And I wrote this because I realized that while I will probably end up buried in this fucking town, you’re going to do something incredible. And nothing incredible ever happens in Hawkins, so I figure you’ll be far away when you do it. 
I didn’t want to miss this chance to write things I never said. So here they are. And you can do whatever you want with them. You’ve always been the best of the two of us. I trust you.
You should watch Dirty Dancing. You’ll like it. I did. I’ll see it again if you want. I’ll watch anything with you.
Did you know there’s another Bond movie coming out in the summer? We could watch that one together too. If you wanted more time to decide.
Sincer
Lo
Your friend,
Steve
You don’t bother ejecting the tape. You run all the way to the bus stop, Steve’s letter in hand. 
You have to see him. No other thoughts register except that one. You have to know if Steve wrote these words because he can’t say them or because you won’t listen.
It isn’t too late when you get to Loch Nora. The neighborhood is dead, which is weird. Steve’s house looks frozen in time: his parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. You wonder if they’ve ever come back since you’ve been gone. You wouldn't be surprised if the answer is no.
There’s a tarp over the pool. The gate is locked with a chain. You can’t sneak in through the fence like you used to. Not that you would. You don’t think strangers can sneak through pool gates.
You knock on the door three times. And wait.
Steve’s car is in the driveway, a duller burgundy than when he first got it. There are a few scratches in the paint. No longer a prized possession. Maybe well-loved instead.
The door swings open. 
Steve says your name like a prayer. You swallow and steel your spine. 
“I got your letter,” you say.
“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. It curls around his ears. Waves of want hit you. 
“I don’t want to be friends,” you continue before he can speak. “I don’t—I can’t do that again.”
Steve’s mouth draws into the saddest frown you’ve ever seen.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”
“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that.”
His brows knit. “What?”
“I…” You pull out the letter and wave it. “Did you mean it? Do you love me?”
“Yes,” Steve whispers. It’s like a shout in the quiet street. “I meant it.”
“Like a friend?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Will you love me like a friend forever?” you ask. 
“Always.” 
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“I love you as something more,” you blurt, watery. “I have for a long time.”
You hear the door shut. This is it: your heart on the line, all for nothing—
“Then I’ll love you as something more back,” Steve says. “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”
And he holds you the way you’d held him so many times. You inhale and wrap your arms around his neck. You’ve got an iron grip around the letter. Tears slip down your cheeks.
“I missed you,” you confess.
Steve nods against your shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds a little wet. “I missed you too.”
“You were wrong,” you say into his neck.
“Hmm?”
You pull back to look at Steve.
“Incredible things do happen in Hawkins.”
“Oh, yeah?” Steve smiles, cheeks blotchy. “Like what?”
“We found each other again.”
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