#its gonna be a lot of singular scenes like this

[kaynothanks]

Romeo Died

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader

Summary:  You wouldn’t call Billy Hargrove a friend—but misery sure does love company

Warnings: NO, Billy doesn't die, it's just a title! (18+ mdni), swearing (like a lot), smut, thigh riding, billy being a lil bat shit (personality trait?) crying, angst, smoking, sad shit, domestic violence!, it's dark I ain't gonna lie

Word-Count: 25.9k (I don't know how this keeps happening)

To the vast majority, the very essence of childhood was encapsulated in a singular, formative memory—a bright, indelible mark upon the canvas of their existence. These recollections, oft recounted with a gleam in the eye and warmth in the voice, were predominantly woven from the fabric of joyous days. Days spent in the cherished embrace of dearly loved ones, under the golden sun of endless summers or amidst the cozy dimness of a family room lit only by the flickering images of a movie night. Tales of vacations painted in the vivid hues of adventure, of afternoons spent marveling at the wonders housed within the silent watchfulness of zoo enclosures—these were the stories shared, the common thread binding the tapestry of shared human experience.

Yet, amidst this chorus of reminiscences, not once did a voice falter, not once did the flow of memories stutter into silence—as if each story, each recollection, was a pearl, smoothly rolling off the tongue without a moment's hesitation.

You, however, found yourself adrift in this sea of shared nostalgia. When the spotlight of expectation turned to you, when it was your turn to pluck a gem from the treasury of your past, you found the vault seemingly empty. A heavy silence would envelop you, a thick, tangible thing, punctuated only by the expectant gazes of those around you. In those moments, a flurry of panic would dance behind your eyes, a frantic search through the archives of your memory for something—anything—that could pass as a semblance of the joyous tales so freely offered by others.

And so, you took refuge behind the facade of little white lies, crafting tales of your own. Tales that were never lived but painted with enough detail to pass as truth. You knew, instinctively, that these fabrications were necessary—not for your sake, but for theirs. To preserve the sanctity of their bubble-wrapped worlds, where the possibility of a childhood untainted by the same joys was unthinkable, a harsh discord in the symphony of their understanding.

Thus, you crafted a mask from the clay of necessity, molding an awkward smile upon your lips as you spun a tale from the threads of imagination—a story designed to dance gracefully upon the ears of your audience, a melody in the key of fiction they were all too eager to hear. Beneath this veneer of compliance, however, you waged a silent battle, pressing down the memory that surged forth with the clarity and insistence of an unwanted ghost. It was as if you were condemned to an eternal viewing of a particularly distasteful episode of a show, one that had been replayed in the theater of your mind more times than you cared to count.

In those moments, as the lie unfolded from your tongue like the petals of some strange flower, you were mercifully detached from the raw emotions that had once torn through the small, trembling body of your four-year-old self. You were no longer the child cocooned in the dubious sanctuary of a cabinet, its door cracked just enough to admit a sliver of the world outside—a gap so minimal it might have escaped notice altogether, were it not for the significance of the vantage point it offered.

From this slender aperture, you bore witness to a scene that would forever imprint itself upon the canvas of your memory: the harsh, unforgiving grip of your father's hand as it ensnared your mother's head, the violent arc as he brought it crashing down onto the unforgiving surface of the kitchen table. His voice, a thunderous roar that filled the room and set your very soul to trembling, was a soundtrack to the horror unfolding before your eyes, a cacophony that seemed to fuel your incessant shaking.

The final image that burned itself into your retinas, a haunting tableau, was of your mother's slow, agonizing crawl towards you. A rivulet of red, a stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, traced a path down her forehead, a silent testament to the brutality she had endured. And then, with an act of maternal instinct so profound it bordered on the prescient, she reached out to close the cabinet door, shrouding you in darkness. Somehow, she had known—known that even in this desperate moment, her first instinct was to protect you, to shield you from the ugliness of a reality no child should ever have to witness.

In the immediate aftermath, darkness enveloped you, a shroud of impenetrable black that seemed to swallow every shard of light, leaving you suspended in a void where time itself hesitated. It was a silence so profound, a darkness so complete, that for a fleeting series of seconds, you found space to draw breath—a brief respite in the eye of an ongoing storm.

Then, piercing the stillness, came a watery plea—a voice so drenched in despair it seemed to bleed through the air. This was swiftly followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a step, a harbinger of chaos yet to unfold. What ensued was a cacophony of crashes and screeches, each imbued with such terror that they seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of your bones. Abruptly, it ceased. The ominous drum of your father's steps receded, and the lament of your mother's cries fell silent.

Within the confines of that cabinet, your sanctuary of shadows, you remained hidden. There, amidst the dust and the dark, you had fostered a belief, a child's naive conviction, that no malevolence could ever breach your fortress of solitude.

Time, however, cared little for such beliefs. You had outgrown the cabinet, outgrown the illusion of invulnerability it had once provided. The specters of those bad things, those harbingers of hurt and harrow, had since learned to find you, to ensnare your mind with their inevitable grasp, to sink their cruel claws deep into your psyche, marking you with scars unseen but deeply felt.

This realization pressed upon you with a weight all its own as you stared into the fractured visage reflected in the broken wardrobe mirror. The spiderweb of cracks across the glass seemed to mock, to distort not just your reflection but the very essence of who you had become. With a heavy heart, you diverted your gaze, a tacit acknowledgment that the sight of your own battered being was a reality you were not ready to confront—not now, perhaps not ever. There was no need to etch this image any deeper into your memory, no need to prolong the inevitable reckoning with your reflection, with the visible manifestations of those all-too-invisible wounds.

In that moment of avoidance, of turning away from the broken mirror, you were confronted with a truth as shattering as the glass before you: the realization that some scars run too deep, their roots entwined with the very fibers of your being, a constant reminder of battles fought and yet to be faced.

With a precision born of necessity, you moved—a delicate ballet of careful contortions designed to avoid the sharp bite of pain that lurked, waiting to pounce with each ill-considered twitch. Bending with the grace of a willow swaying in a gentle breeze, you reached beneath the shadowed underbelly of your bed, fingers searching for the familiar, lightweight case of your first aid kit. The ease with which it came into your hands was a small comfort, quickly extinguished by the sinking realization that greeted you upon its opening.

Inside, the remnants of preparedness mocked you: an empty bottle of saline solution stared back, its purpose exhausted, alongside a few band-aids, torn and useless, victims of your past impatience. The other contents, like the tweezers, lay in wait for a need that did not currently exist. You allowed yourself a moment—a brief, piercing inventory of this inadequate arsenal—before pushing the disappointment aside and hoisting yourself back to a stand.

Clad in the remnants of a past encounter, a hooded jacket left behind by a fleeting connection, you approached the window. It was a silent affair, the window yielding to your touch with the stealth of a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within.

The act of escape was nothing short of a physical ordeal. Your limbs, heavy with ache, maneuvered through the small aperture of the trailer window—a testament to both desperation and determination. Once outside, crouched low to avoid unwanted attention, the cool embrace of the night air greeted you. It was a balm, this newfound freedom, a stark contrast to the stifling confines of your room, littered with the debris of broken dreams and shattered expectations. The open air offered a cleanse, a baptism of sorts, from the relentless cycle of cleanup and repair that had become your existence.

Gone were the days of painstakingly removing glass from picture frames before their inevitable destruction; a ritual born from the foresight of their transient nature. The weariness for such tasks clung to you, a cloak woven from threads of frustration and resignation. Yet, here, under the cover of night, with the world stretched wide and open before you, the weight of that cloak seemed, if only for a moment, a little lighter.

As you strode past the silent form of your car, a sigh of irritation escaped your lips, its sound a soft testament to the internal debate you'd just settled. The decision not to awaken the engine into roaring life was not only a tactic to maintain stealth but a silent concession to the fact that walking might just offer the solace and clarity your tangled thoughts so desperately needed. Moreover, it presented an opportunity to prolong your absence from the confines of what was supposed to be home—a place you were increasingly reluctant to return to, especially tonight. He had played his part, an unwelcome performance that assured you of a temporary reprieve from his intrusions, securing you a night free from disturbances, free from his discovery of the emptiness that now characterized your bedroom.

With a sense of resolve, you drew the black hood over your head, plunging your hands into the depths of your pockets as if to anchor yourself to this decision. You embarked on your nocturnal odyssey, leaving the trailer park's dimly lit confines behind. Your path unfolded on the deserted street, feet finding rhythm and balance on the white lines that dissected the asphalt—a tightrope walker in the quiet of the night. A melody, the residue of days spent with the same song on repeat in your car, hummed softly from your lips, a solitary soundtrack to your solitary march.

The gas station, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness, promised to be your oasis—a mere thirty-minute pilgrimage from the trailer park. It was a sanctuary that never closed its doors, a constant in the fluctuating chaos of your life. Behind the counter, the night shift was personified by a young man, his attention more on the beef-flavored Space Raiders he chewed with open abandon than on any potential customer.

With your head bowed, a gesture born of habit more than necessity, you navigated the familiar aisles towards the back. This little corner of the gas station, with its modest array of medical supplies, had become an unlikely ally in times of need. The sound of the entrance bell, a faint chime announcing the arrival or departure of a soul, barely registered as you focused on gathering the items that would serve as tonight's band-aids for both physical and metaphorical wounds.

Items gathered in the crook of your arm, you made your way to the counter, a silent procession of one. The goods—a testament to the night's necessities—were unceremoniously deposited onto the surface, a prelude to the exchange of currency for what passed as care in the small hours of a world that never quite slept.

As the cashier busied himself with the register, a mechanical dance of fingers on keys, you cleared your throat to pierce the silence that had settled between you. "Can I get a pack of Marlboros, too?" The words hung in the air, simple yet laden with an unspoken tension.

He paused, his movements halting as his gaze lifted to scrutinize you. There was a moment, brief yet charged, where his frown deepened, a silent commentary on the obscured view of your face. Nevertheless, his hand moved with practiced ease, reaching behind without hesitation and grasping the familiar green box.

Your response was almost instinctive, an eye roll born of the assumptions wrapped around that particular choice. "Red." The word was clipped, tinged with a mix of amusement and annoyance at the stereotype you were unwillingly cast into. As you handed over the money, pulled from the snug refuge of your jeans' back pocket, his suspicion seemed to spike, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

Money exchanged and items clumsily gathered, you were ready to retreat into the night from whence you came. Yet, a thought anchored you in place, a sudden reminder of a need unaddressed. "Could I have the key for the bathroom?" The question, simple in its asking, seemed to hang precariously in the space between you.

"It’s out," came his reply, short, almost reflexive, a barrier thrown up with the ease of someone who had uttered those words too many times.

Yet, you stood your ground, nodding towards the key that dangled tauntingly over his shoulder, within reach yet seemingly miles away. "It’s right behind you." Your words, firm, carried a weight of certainty, a challenge laid bare.

His response was a study in stillness, a monument to inertia, as if the very act of acknowledging the key's existence was beneath him.

"I need it." The finality in your voice, a blend of resolve and a barely contained plea, echoed in the cramped space of the gas station, a testament to the myriad small battles fought in the dead of night, under the fluorescent glow of a whole other world.

"Toilet's broken," he declared, an excuse worn thin by time and repetition.

Indeed, that very toilet had clung to its broken state for a spell nearing two years—a testament to neglect. "I don’t need to use the toilet. I just need to use the room—” you attempted to clarify, seeking a foothold in a rapidly closing door of opportunity.

"Boss said to not let anyone in," came his rebuttal, a line likely recited from a script of convenience rather than concern.

"Dude—" The word hung in the air, a precursor to the battle you felt brewing within. You inhaled deeply, a silent prayer for patience, your teeth clenching in an invisible grip. "Never mind. Have a terrific night," the words coated in a veneer of nicety that you mustered with all your might, your smile, though sarcastic, was an attempt to bridge the chasm of your frustration, hoping its curve was visible beneath the shadow of your hood. "Dickhead," the insult slipped from your lips in a whisper, a secret shared only with the night as you stepped through the door into the embrace of the outside world.

Tired and tinged with annoyance, your gaze swept the vicinity, seeking a haven for the simplest of human needs—to get cleaned up. Then, like a beacon in the night, your eyes settled on a car stationed at the farthest gas pump. It stood solitary, a silent sentinel in the fluorescent glow. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, a spy's caution, to ensure the car's owner wasn't lurking nearby. The coast appeared clear, save for the presence of the obstinate cashier, now dubbed the idiot in your evening's narrative.

By the dim glow of the gas station's overhead lights, you found a temporary sanctuary beside the car, a silent accomplice to your solitary ritual. With deliberate motions, you placed your newly acquired treasures upon the cold, unforgiving ground and crouched, your body tensing as you prepared to confront the reflection you had been avoiding. The side-view mirror, initially angled to capture the expanse of the road behind, was now coaxed into a new purpose. With a hesitant push, you angled it to reveal your own visage, a canvas marred by the recent past.

The act of lowering your hood felt akin to peeling away a layer of armor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. What greeted you in the reflective glass was a mosaic of bluing bruises and angry red slashes—a testament to a tale you wished remained untold. A grimace twisted your features at the sight, your heart sinking. The reflection bore evidence of a fierce struggle, a physical manifestation of pain that made the concept of beauty a distant, unattainable dream.

With a sigh, you sought solace in the ritualistic lighting of a cigarette, a small act of defiance against the night's events. The pack crinkled as you extracted one, placing it between your lips with a sense of purpose. Yet, as you patted down your pockets in search of a flame, a sinking realization dawned upon you—your lighter was missing, presumably lost amidst the chaos that now defined your living space. Disappointment seeped into your bones, mixing with the lingering adrenaline and fatigue that clung to your skin.

Undeterred, you turned your attention back to the task at hand. The cigarette, forgotten for the moment, dangled unlit as you began to tend to your wounds with the care of a seasoned medic. Each touch to your skin with a damp tissue was a whisper of comfort, a gentle caress amidst the harsh reality of your existence. The application of Neosporin was a balm not just for the physical scars, but a fleeting attempt to soothe the deeper, unseen injuries that lay beneath

As you were about to seal the wounds with plasters, a testament to your resilience and a badge of your suffering, the tranquility of the moment was shattered. A voice, unexpected and jarring, cut through the silence, startling you from your reverie. The sudden intrusion felt like an invasion, a breach of the fragile peace you had managed to carve out for yourself in the shadows of the night.

"Antiseptic works better."

Through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of the silhouette that dared intrude upon your moment of vulnerability. The cigarette perched precariously between your lips bobbed as you spoke, your voice tinged with the weariness of one too acquainted with pain. "You’re wrong," you countered through the cigarette hanging from your lips after grabbing a second plaster and ripping its package. "In fact," you continued, pressing the adhesive over another wound, "there’s a chance it may damage the skin." Your expertise on the subject was born from necessity, not choice—a testament to the scars you bore, both seen and unseen. As you finished tending to your injuries, gathering your things with a finality that marked the end of the unwanted interaction, you turned to face the source of the unsolicited commentary.

The dim light revealed his identity—the new guy, an unwelcome disturbance in your carefully maintained distance from the world. You shot him a look that spoke volumes, laden with the exhaustion of a soul yearning for nothing more than the sanctuary of a warm bed, before you attempted to leave his presence behind. His voice, however, laced with an unmistakable amusement, halted you once more. "Hey," he called out, a grin audible in his tone. "I know you."

The assertion sparked a flicker of irritation within you, a flare in the dimness of your resolve. "You don’t," you corrected sharply and turned halfway, vexed by your exhaustion and the want for a warm bed. "You might have seen me around, but you don’t know me."

"Christ," he swore, wearing a shit-eating grin that made you want to pull out his infuriatingly long eyelashes one by one. "What pissed in your—"

"Bye," you interjected, rolling your eyes as you turned your back on him, the roll of your eye a silent rebuke to his unfinished query.

"You need a lighter for that, sweetheart?"

Your feet anchored themselves on the spot, your shoulders slouching just the littlest bit; you really, really did need one. Aversion in your bones, you slowly turned back to him. Keeping your distance, you placed yourself across from where he was leaning against his car.

The smirk playing on his lips stretched into a full-blown grin, a silent prelude to the audacity that followed. In one fluid, almost theatrical motion, he reached out, plucking the cigarette from your lips and putting it between his with an ease that spoke of practiced finesse. The silver lighter appeared in his hands as if by magic, its flame dancing to life with a flick that carried the flair of showmanship. The lit cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke exhaling in a deliberate stream toward you, enveloping you in a cloud of provocation as he gauged your reaction, almost baiting an outburst.

Yet, instead of the explosion he anticipated, you simply reclaimed the cigarette from his grasp, a silent acceptance of his unsolicited gesture. "Thanks,” you uttered, the words hanging in the air as you resumed walking, leaving the moment behind.

His voice followed, a casual offer laced with an undefined undercurrent. "You want a ride?"

Your steps faltered, a frown creasing your forehead as his words registered. "That is one hell of a random question to ask a stranger. As a stranger,” you retorted, the skepticism in your voice as palpable as the cool night air that enveloped you both.

"You want one or not?" His reply was curt, edged with impatience, a stark contrast to the mysterious offer he had just extended.

"Why would you offer?" Curiosity laced your tone, mixed with a hint of caution. Billy Hargrove’s reputation had preceded him, painting a picture of a Californian rebel whose actions were as unpredictable as the ocean’s waves, and certainly, acts of chivalry seemed as foreign to him as a language unspoken.

"Forget it." His dismissive gesture, a psuh from the car before he swung the door open, spoke volumes of his irritation. Yet, as he made to seal himself within the metal cocoon of his vehicle, your voice pierced the night, a decision made.

"I do want one."

The car door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the car's engine coming to life, a growl in the quiet. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours through the glass. A roll of his eyes served as his acquiescence to your unspoken plea for a ride. The door cracked open, an invitation as gruff as his tone. "Are you getting your ass in the car or do you need a written invite?"

His words, brusque yet oddly inviting, spurred you into action. The interior of the car enveloped you, the scent of leather and the undercurrent of his cologne mingling in the confined space. No sooner had you fastened the seatbelt than the car lurched forward, tires screeching in protest as Billy Hargrove accelerated into the night, propelling both of you toward the unknown that lay in the direction you had originally been heading.

"I live at—" you began, the words barely taking form before they were cut short.

"I know." His interruption was swift, a statement so sure and unfazed.

Confusion momentarily clouded your thoughts, mingling with a spark of irritation. How the fuck could he possibly know? The question danced at the tip of your tongue, but before it could leap into the open air between you, realization dawned. The company he kept at school, the circles he moved in—those were all the answers you needed. Billy Hargrove, with his effortless charisma and an air of danger that clung to him like a second skin, naturally gravitated towards and was embraced by those you had learned to keep at arm's length. Those very individuals, Carol Perkins, Vicki Carmichael, and Tommy Hagan, had painted your world in stark, unflattering colors, branding you 'trailer trash' with their sneers and jeers for a decade.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, thinking of them, their cruelty a constant shadow over your school days. If only they knew the disdain you harbored, so potent and vivid. You wished, not for the first time, that their arrogance and aspirations could be forcibly fed back to them, a grotesque cycle that would see their malice choking them, expelled from their mouths like a vile confession of their true natures.

You adjusted the window, allowing just a sliver of the night air to slip through, and extended your arm, the cigarette perched between your fingers, embers dancing with each inhale.

"What happened to your face?" Billy's voice, laced with a curiosity that didn't match his usual demeanor, cut through the hum of the road beneath the car's tires.

"Fell from heaven, of course," you retorted, the words tinged with sarcasm as your eyes rolled, a silent protest against his prying. His persistence was like a thorn—unwanted and sharp. "Nosy much?"

"Catfight?" His guess was off mark, yet it pricked your patience.

You exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation coloring your tone. "Ran into a tree," the lie smooth on your tongue, as you took another drag, the cigarette's glow a brief flare in the darkness.

He scoffed, disbelief etched in the sound. "And the tree beat you up for that?"

Your agreement came out as a hum, a playful note in the solemn night. "Had a mean right hook, too. Damn birch trees," you quipped, allowing a brief smile to dance on your lips at the absurdity of it all, blowing the smoke out into the night, watching as it dissipated into the cool air.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to swell with each passing second. It was an odd sort of discomfort, more unsettling than the exchange of words had been, wrapping around you like a thick fog. You found yourself almost wishing for his voice again, to break through the quiet that now felt louder than any spoken word. Yet, as the car sped on, devouring the road with eager haste, the lights of the trailer park approached, promising an end to the journey and the silence that had settled between you.

Suddenly, he extended his hand towards you, an unspoken request hanging in the air. You found yourself momentarily puzzled, your gaze fixed on his fingers before realization dawned. After taking a final, lingering drag from the cigarette, you passed the diminishing ember to him. With an effortless flick, he sent it soaring out of the window, watching as it disappeared into the night after taking it down to its last breath.

"Since when are girls like you smokers of the good stuff?" His voice was casual, yet loaded with an unspoken judgment that hung heavily between you.

The implication behind his words, ‘girls like you’ didn't necessitate an explanation. You understood perfectly—the label wasn't about you personally. It was a placeholder, a stereotype applied broadly to any girl who found herself in his car, a commentary not so much on the individual but on the perceived collective. The notion that somehow, despite the vast differences among individuals, there was a uniformity assumed among all those deemed ‘other’ by those who never bothered to look beyond the surface. It was a tired, worn-out perspective, suggesting that understanding, respect, and equality were territories too foreign for those entrenched in their own narratives.

"I'm not a smoker," you retorted, your voice steady, pushing back against the label he tried to affix to you.

He turned to you, an eyebrow arching in skepticism. "Sweetheart, I think the tree might have hit you in the head." His words, meant to tease, danced in the space between you,

"Special occasions only," you finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between you, thick with unvoiced judgments and assumptions. Your voice carried a defiant edge, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability you felt. "Also, fuck you."

Billy's response was a chuckle, the sound low and somewhat amused, as if your resilience added an unexpected flavor to the night's events. "What's the occasion?" he inquired, his tone lighter, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You found yourself hesitating, caught on the precipice of disclosure and reticence. The likelihood of crossing paths with him again felt as remote as the stars dotting the night sky above, their light distant and indifferent. You weighed the ephemeral nature of this encounter against the catharsis of sharing, even if just a sliver, of your reality. "Having choices," you said at last, the words feeling like both a confession and a declaration.

"What choices?" His question followed, simple yet laden with the weight of stories untold.

You offered no reply, merely a shrug, a gesture cloaked in layers of meaning. Your silence was your fortress, safeguarding the complexities of a life marked by pain and defiance. Within you, a habit had taken root, a ritual born from the ashes of violence at the hands of your father. Smoking had become your rebellion, your assertion of control in a life that often felt governed by the whims of a man whose presence was as oppressive as it was destructive. To smoke was to choose the manner of your harm, to claim agency over your own demise, however slow and insidious it might be. It was a twisted form of empowerment, preferring the slow burn of tobacco to the acute brutality of paternal hands. Crushing the extinguished remnants of your defiance under your boots served as a tangible metaphor, a declaration that the man who should have been your protector held no more power over you than the spent cigarettes you ground into oblivion.

Entering Billy's car that night, accepting the ride from someone enveloped in rumors and mystery, was a choice emblematic of your current state of being. Bruised, both physically and spiritually, by the very person who should have been your haven, you found yourself gravitating towards choices that flirted with danger. In the shadow of your father's tyranny, even the potential threat of an unknown like Billy felt like a liberation, a dare to the universe that tonight, of all nights, you were the master of your fate, no matter how recklessly that fate was courted.

Merely blocks away from the shadowed outlines of the trailer park, you felt the tension knot tighter in your gut, prompting you to instruct Billy with an urgency that surprised even yourself. "Stop the car here." It was a calculated measure, a bid to remain unseen should your father's usual stupor be interrupted by a rare moment of vigilance. You couldn't risk him spotting you from the confines of an existence you both shared yet endured on vastly different terms.

"Why?" Billy's inquiry sliced through the hum of the engine, a roaring beast that seemed all too eager to encroach upon the sanctuary you so desperately sought to protect.

"'Cause I said so!" The words burst from you, a mix of fear and insistence, as panic clawed at your chest with icy fingers when he veered dangerously close to the trailer park's entrance. "Stop the damn car!" The command was punctuated by the violent squeal of tires as they ground against the asphalt, the sudden deceleration forcing the seat belt to bite cruelly into your already tender flesh. "Thanks for the ride," you managed to huff out, a terse farewell as you swung the door open and exited with a haste born of desperation, the door slamming shut with a resounding finality. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control over the rapidly fraying edges of your composure.

You had barely taken a few steps when a compulsion, inexplicable and unnerving, urged you to cast a glance over your shoulder. There he was, Billy, his gaze already locked onto your retreating form. Even through the cloak of night, his silhouette was unmistakable, and the distance did little to obscure the wink he sent your way—a gesture that felt both mocking and oddly comforting in its audacity.

With a swift turn of your head, you dismissed the fleeting connection, quickening your pace as if to outstrip the myriad emotions that encounter had stirred within you. The night air, cool and indifferent, seemed to whisper secrets as you disappeared into the labyrinth of shadows that promised both sanctuary and imprisonment.

In the sanctuary of shadow and silence, you made your way to the trailer that bore the dubious honor of being called home. The silver metal shell, tarnished by time and wear, loomed before you, a testament to a life far removed from the dreams you once harbored. With each cautious step, you moved with the stealth of a creature well-versed in the art of invisibility, ensuring that your presence remained undetected by Billy's lingering gaze.

Approaching the window to your room, the cool night air kissed your cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth that awaited inside. Your hands, acting on the instinct honed by countless nights of return, deftly managed the small but significant task before you. The purchases, a meager collection of necessities and small comforts, found their way through the open window with a soft thud against the carpeted interior, a silent testament to your return.

With the grace of a practiced climber, you hoisted yourself up and through the window, your body moving with an economy of motion born from necessity. The interior of the trailer welcomed you back into its cramped but familiar embrace, the air tinged with the scent of a life lived on the margins.

That night, as the world outside continued its indifferent spin, you took a moment to secure the only sanctuary you knew. The lock on your door clicked into place with a finality that spoke of a desire for solitude, or perhaps, a prayer for safety. In the dim light of your room, surrounded by the humble trappings of your existence, you prepared to surrender to sleep.

The act of locking your door was more than a mere precaution; it was a ritual, a whispered plea to the universe for just one night of peace. As the shadows deepened and the trailer park settled into the quiet hum of the night, you lay down, your thoughts a tangled web of hopes, fears, and the stubborn resilience that had carried you this far. In the stillness that followed, sleep arrived, a reluctant visitor, to claim you in its embrace, offering a temporary reprieve from the trials of a world that waited just beyond the thin walls of your silver metal haven.

…

Dawn's first light crept through the cracks of the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred from the uneasy dreams that had plagued your sleep, finding the morning's silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of last night. With a deep breath, you summoned the strength to face another day, one that began with the painstaking task of camouflage.

Seated before a mirror streaked with age, you embarked on the delicate art of concealing the evidence of yesterday's storm. Each brushstroke was a silent battle, each dab of powder a feeble attempt to erase the marks that pain had etched upon your skin. The bruises, a palette of purples and blues, refused to be hidden completely, protesting under the layers of makeup you applied with a desperation born of necessity.

As you dressed, a sharp twinge of pain caught your breath. The mirror revealed a ghastly bloom of purple spreading like a shadow across your side, just below the ribs—a grim reminder of the violence you wished to forget. A lie formed in your mind, a necessary deception for the physical education teacher, claiming the protection of a condition as natural as it was unrelated to the truth.

The ritual of preparing breakfast unfolded with a practiced ease, though your heart was elsewhere. You moved through the kitchen, your gaze carefully avoiding the man who sat at the table, expecting the service you provided as if it were his due. The sizzling bacon and the scramble of eggs filled the silence between you, a silence as heavy and uncomfortable as the bruises hidden beneath your clothes. His expectations hung over you, a constant reminder of the narrow path you were forced to tread to avoid further displeasure.

School offered no respite from the act you were forced to live. With your hood pulled high, you navigated the halls with a deliberate slowness, dreading the moment you would have to enter the classroom and face the day's challenges. The quiet comfort of anonymity was shattered when Mrs. O'Donnell's voice, sharpened by authority, cut through the air. Your heart sank as her words found you, a beacon spotlighting your defiance.

"I do not condone hats or hoods in my lessons," she declared, her tone leaving no room for dissent. In that moment, the weight of the day pressed down upon you, a reminder of the battles yet to be fought, both in the light of day and in the shadows of your own life.

The atmosphere in the classroom thickened, a palpable tension that clung to your skin as you stood at the precipice of decision. Around you, the collective breath of your peers hung suspended, their curiosity mingled with the anticipation of rebellion they'd come to associate with you. Yet, in that moment of scrutiny, you chose compliance over defiance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slid your hood back, exposing the canvas of your pain to the voracious eyes around you.

A collective inhale filled the room, a chorus of shock and disbelief that painted you in a light far removed from the anonymity you craved. Even your teacher, usually so composed and authoritative, faltered under the weight of the revelation, her voice lost to the ticking clock that suddenly seemed deafening in the heavy silence.

She recovered, albeit shakily, her command to continue an attempt to restore normalcy to the disrupted order of her classroom. But the damage was done, the facade cracked. You couldn't wait to escape, and the moment the class was dismissed, your hood resumed its place, a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments.

The day unfolded exactly as you had dreaded. Each class became a battleground, your hood the flag of your defiance and your bruises the wounds of wars fought in the shadows of your life. The whispers followed you like a relentless shadow, and when lunch arrived, you sought solace in the solitude of the cafeteria's farthest corner. Surrounded by the outcasts and the unnoticed, you found a semblance of peace, even if it was the peace of a pariah among peers dreaming of revolutions they did not understand.

You observed them, the future rebels with their leather bracelets and spiky hair, their existence a stark contrast to the battles you fought daily. They wore their rebellion like a badge of honor, unaware of the true cost of surviving a war against the very fabric of one's life. And as you sat there, hidden in plain sight, you couldn't help but wonder about the diverging paths of those destined for a picture-perfect existence and your own, forged in the crucible of pain and resilience.

Stepping out from the confines of the school building as the day bled into the mellow hues of late afternoon was like shedding an invisible shackle, a temporary respite that made your shoulders relax and your breath come easier. This fleeting sense of liberation accompanied you, a silent companion that whispered promises of tranquility, until the familiar sight of the trailer park loomed ahead, shattering the illusion with the harsh reality waiting within.

As you navigated the maze of silver metal homes, the sight of the lights blazing through the windows of your own trailer felt like a physical blow, a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. Your heart, a frantic drummer in the cage of your ribs, seemed to echo ominously with every step you took toward the creaking door that served as the barrier between you and what awaited inside.

He wasn't supposed to be there, not yet. The very thought was a cold hand squeezing around your heart, draining the color from the world. With trepidation lacing each step, you entered, your gaze flitting nervously from the desolate sofa to the ominously closed door of his bedroom. The strap of your school bag became a lifeline, something tangible to anchor you as you tiptoed toward the sanctuary of your room.

But fate, it seemed, was not on your side. The floor beneath you, a traitor clad in aged wood, groaned loudly under your weight, a sound so jarring in the silence that you couldn't help but wince, your entire being tensing in anticipation of the fallout. Time seemed to stand still, a suspended moment filled with the electric charge of impending doom.

Then, movement shattered the silence. The bedroom door was flung open with such force you half expected it to fly off its hinges, revealing the man who stood in the doorway. His presence filled the space, an imposing figure that you could barely reconcile as the one responsible for your existence. In that moment, as you faced the man who should have been your protector but felt more like a looming threat, you realized the fragility of the peace you so desperately sought in the confines of what you called home.

The utterance of your name, whispered with a darkness that cloaked the room, immediately heightened your senses, alerting you to the imminent storm. Instinctively, your feet shuffled backwards, attempting to put distance between you and the tempest that was your father. His voice cracked through the tension like a whip, "What did we talk about?" The words barely left his lips before your body responded with a quiver, the dread manifesting physically.

"You're just as useless as your bitch mother," he bellowed, his hand cutting through the air with predatory speed to clamp around your throat. Your legs struggled to bear the sudden weight of fear and despair as he dragged you, your resistance feeble against his force, through the claustrophobic hallway into the stark light of the kitchen. There, he released you not in mercy but to crash onto the unforgiving floor, his grip morphing into an iron band around your neck. "Now, I know you ain't the smartest but how can anyone be such a dumb cunt?" His eyes flicked toward the refrigerator with a menacing expectation.

Frozen, more by terror than choice, you remained motionless, inciting his fury further until he yanked you upward by the very lifeline he was squeezing. "Open it!" His command was a shout, propelled by anger, as he thrust you toward the cold metal of the fridge. With every fiber of your being screaming to comply just to make it stop, you mustered the strength to lower your shaking head and fumble with the fridge door.

"What did I tell you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear.

"To take care of things," you managed to whimper, your voice barely threading through the tightness of his grip.

"That's right," he confirmed with a dark, rumbling voice. But his next words were like daggers, each one punctuating your worthlessness in his eyes. And then, with a brutality that seemed to echo in the sparse kitchen, your head was forcibly introduced to the side of the fridge. The sudden release from his hands felt as much a punishment as the assault, a clear message that you had once again failed to meet his expectations. "Fucking take care of it," he spat, leaving you with the pain and the cold echo of his disdain.

For a fleeting moment after his departure, you remained motionless on the cold kitchen floor, the echo of his retreating footsteps a temporary relief. As you coughed, savoring the rush of oxygen filling your lungs once more, you rose with shaky resolve. Closing the refrigerator with a soft click, you retrieved some cash from the hidden savings can, each movement automatic, driven by necessity rather than thought. Your feet carried you swiftly to your car, a sanctuary of sorts in the midst of chaos.

With trembling hands, you inserted the keys into the ignition, pausing as you caught sight of their unsteady dance. Just as you were about to press the gas pedal, a different sensation caught your attention. Blood, warm and unsettling, trickled down from your nose to your lips. Instinctively, you reached up to wipe it away, only for a solitary tear to escape, tracing a path down your cheek. In a burst of anger, you struck the steering wheel, imagining for a split second it was his face absorbing the impact, receiving the punishment he so richly deserved.

The drive out of the trailer park felt like an escape, albeit a temporary one, as you headed deeper into town. Your destination was the only supermarket in Hawkins that turned a blind eye to selling alcohol to minors. The cashiers, two souls long since resigned to the monotony and despair of their roles, barely registered your presence, their gazes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the walls of their confinement.

You found yourself wiping your face again, this time checking the rearview mirror to assess the damage. The sight of your bloodshot eyes was a grim reminder. Physical blows you had learned to endure, but the insults, the verbal lashings that cut deeper than any fist, remained wounds that refused to heal. The most painful barbs were those aimed at your mother, a woman who had possessed nothing in terms of material wealth but had fought valiantly, albeit futilely, to escape the tyranny of your father. She was a woman of courage, standing between you and his wrath, even as cancer waged its own merciless battle within her. Your admiration for her was boundless; on her deathbed, she had worn a smile, radiant and victorious, for in her passing, she had finally escaped the man who had sought to break her spirit.

As you entered the supermarket, you smoothly plucked a basket from the stack beside the entrance, weaving your way through the aisles with a practiced ease. With each step, you carefully selected items, filling the basket with an assortment of goods that you knew would appease your father's palate. The basket grew heavier, a testament to your meticulous effort, until you reached the final checkpoint: the beverage section.

The coolers stood before you, a chilled barrier between thirst and satisfaction. You reached for the door, the cold air brushing against your skin as you grabbed a six-pack of your father's preferred beer. It was then you noticed him, a figure barely three weeks familiar with Hawkins, yet here he was, navigating the town's veins as if born to them. His friends had evidently provided a thorough briefing. Your attempt at a discreet observation failed miserably, as his attention snapped to you, an unspoken acknowledgment between strangers.

Your brows arched in involuntary surprise, not at his presence but at the sight of fresh cuts and bruises marring his face — wounds absent just the night before. A silent question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but before it could take flight, he dismissed the moment with a roll of his eyes and brushed past you, leaving a trail of unspoken stories and a fleeting connection dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

The line at the checkout moved slowly, a trivial inconvenience, yet it granted you a few more moments of anonymity. The store's quaint little bell announced Billy's departure, a sound that seemed to echo the finality of a moment passing. When it was finally your turn, you engaged in the mechanical transaction with the cashier, your mind elsewhere. Stepping out into the waning light, the sight of Billy Hargrove, casually nursing a can of beer against the cool metal of his car, intruded upon your thoughts. His car parked nonchalantly beside yours felt like a deliberate coincidence. The brown paper bag, a temporary vessel for your burdens, found its place in the backseat as you closed the door, acutely aware of his gaze tracing your movements, an invisible tether pulling at the edge of your consciousness.

You cleared your throat, a prelude to breaking the silence as you stood by your car, the keys dancing a nervous ballet in your hand. "Birch tree got you too, huh?" The words slipped out, a tentative bridge spanning the gap between you two.

Billy's scrutiny lingered, a silent appraisal, before his eyes dropped to the testament of violence painted on your skin, eventually locking with yours. "You want a smoke?" His voice broke the tension, an offer hanging in the balance.

Surprised, yet intrigued, you glanced around before nodding, a silent agreement forged in the twilight. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to the supermarket's side where the guardians of refuse, a row of large dumpsters, stood in solemn assembly. Climbing atop one with an ease born of necessity, you found a perch, waiting for him to join you in this makeshift sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Billy, with a nonchalance that seemed to cloak him like a second skin, produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, its silver surface catching the last rays of the sun. With a practiced flick, he ignited a flame, bringing it to the cigarette perched between his lips. The glow of the ember briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced with the smoke. Taking a drag, he then passed the cigarette to you. As you inhaled, the sharp, acrid taste of tobacco filled your lungs, a bitter reminder of choices made, of moments shared in silence and smoke.

As the minutes melted away under the haze of shared smoke and silent camaraderie, the cigarette passed between you became a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding in the twilight of shared solitude. Eventually, Billy broke the silence, his voice rasping slightly from the smoke. "You have blood on your nose."

"Yeah?" Your response was tinged with a nonchalance that belied the undercurrent of tension between you. You accepted the cigarette once more, its ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. "You have some on your lip." Another drag, a momentary escape, then silence enveloped you both once again. The final act of discarding the cigarette to the ground felt almost ceremonial, as you crushed the lingering spark beneath your boot, a definitive end to the fleeting respite. "See you 'round, Hargrove."

Your words hung in the air as you turned to leave, a tentative goodbye to a shared moment of vulnerability. His voice reached out, halting your retreat. "You hungry?"

The question paused you in your tracks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as you turned to face him. There was something in his gaze, a reflection of weariness and something unspoken, that mirrored your own. For a fleeting second, pity stirred within you, its target unclear, as empathy blurred the lines between self and other.

"I am," you conceded, the admission heavy with an unspoken understanding of the complications it invited. Yet, the reality of your own circumstances pulled you back from the precipice of further entanglement. "But I have to get home, actually." Your smile was a feeble attempt at normalcy, a polite curtain falling on the scene. "Bye, Billy."

His acknowledgment was a silent nod, a mutual recognition of the distance being placed between you once more. As you drove away, the rearview mirror captured the solitary figure of Billy Hargrove, a temporary companion in your shared narrative of survival and solitude, fading into the background of your departing world.

…

An unsettling sense of change lingered in the air, a silent shift that had settled over Hawkins High like a thick fog, imperceptible yet undeniably present. This peculiar feeling began to wrap around you, a subtle yet persistent presence, in the days following your second encounter with Billy Hargrove. As you stepped through the school's doors, braced for the usual barrage of sneers and the biting sting of ‘trailer trash’ hurled in your direction, you found instead a surprising void where hostility once thrived.

This newfound anonymity was strangely soothing, a reprieve wrapped in the unexpected guise of indifference. For once, the hallways that had felt like gauntlets now offered passage free from judgment, allowing you a semblance of peace amidst the storm of daily life. It was an odd sort of liberation, moving unseen and unmarked by the cruel jibes that had once shadowed your steps. For the first time in your tumultuous high school saga, the final bell did not signal a hasty retreat but a deliberate detour to the sanctuary of the art room.

The art class assignment, a canvas awaiting the touch of inspiration, became your excuse to linger in the quiet aftermath of the school day. While your peers carried their artwork home, eager to splash their visions across the canvas in the comfort of their own spaces, such a luxury was a distant dream for you. Home was no haven for creativity; your trailer, a place where art met its end not in completion, but in destruction—torn, smashed, a casualty of the chaos that waited beyond the school's gates.

There, amidst the smell of paint and the soft light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, you found solace. The art room, with its clutter of brushes and the palette of possibilities, offered not just an escape but a moment of creation untainted by the harsh realities that lay in wait outside its doors. It was in these stolen hours, surrounded by the silent witness of unfinished projects and the ghosts of inspiration, that you dared to believe, even if just for a fleeting moment, in the possibility of a world shaped by the stroke of a brush, rather than the sharpness of words.

As the day waned into evening, the corridors of Hawkins High slowly emptied, leaving behind a tranquility punctuated only by the distant hum of the cleaning crew making their final rounds. The fading light cast long shadows across the halls, painting everything in a soft, melancholic glow. You glanced at the hallway clock, a silent reminder of the hours you needed to kill to ensure you'd return to an empty, quiet home, free from the looming presence of your father.

Chewing thoughtfully on your lip, you diverted towards your locker, thoughts swirling with the prospect of solitude. It was then that a wave of laughter and lively banter washed over you, as a group of jocks, fresh from the showers and glowing with the invincibility of youth, breezed past, oblivious to your existence. Their jubilance, a stark contrast to your solitude, left a fleeting shadow across your spirit, one you shook off as you reached your sanctuary—a small, metal locker.

The ritual was familiar and comforting: exchange the day's burdens for the evening's necessities. But as your hand lingered on the locker door, preparing to seal away the day, another hand, unexpected and swift, slammed it shut. Startled, you spun around, only to find yourself inches away from a familiar face framed by a blond mullet, a figure who had become an unexpected constant in the landscape of your days.

"That was rude," slipped from your lips, a feeble attempt to assert some distance between you and the uninvited closeness. Yet, Billy Hargrove stood unyielding, a smirk playing on his lips, evidently amused by the discomfort flickering across your face. The proximity was overwhelming; his presence, a force that seemed to challenge the very air between you. You yearned to retreat, to press back into the cold, indifferent metal of your locker as you had so many times before. But something within, a spark of defiance or perhaps a curiosity yet unnamed, anchored you firmly in place. His gaze, intense and searching, held a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer, igniting a silent standoff in the dimming light of the nearly deserted hallway.

"Oh, I might just disagree with you on that one, sweetheart," Billy chuckled. "In fact, I found it was rather chivalrous of me to spare you from having to close the locker." Billy's grin unfurled like a flag of both charm and challenge, hovering in the nebulous space between disarmingly sweet and maddeningly smug. It was as if his every gesture, every flicker of expression, had been honed to perfection before an audience of his own reflection, each nuance calculated for effect. Whether your suspicion held water mattered little; the notion that behind his practiced ease lay a carefully maintained facade wasn't far-fetched. After all, mastering the art of the mask was a survival skill in its own right.

You responded to his teasing not with retreat, but with a stance of quiet defiance, arms crossed as if to ward off the sway of his charm. Your chin lifted slightly, an unspoken challenge, while a reluctant smile threatened to betray your composure. "I was actually talking about you trying to scare me into having a heart attack, but sure, let's go with your excuse," you retorted, your voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

His laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space between you, a sound that seemed too genuine for someone so practiced in artifice. The hand that had been a casual claim on the locker next to your head shifted slightly, drawing your gaze despite yourself. It was an involuntary flicker of attention, pulled momentarily to the subtle play of his tongue across his lips—a gesture that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, you felt a sudden, inexplicable connection, framed by lashes any starlet would envy. Yet, as quickly as it came, you shook off the allure, the momentary weakness. With a willful effort, you pulled away, stepping back from the invisible line that had drawn you dangerously close to his orbit. The air seemed to clear as you moved, dispelling the strange spell that had momentarily tethered you to him.

"Do you have any… plans for tonight?" His inquiry floated into the space between you, his hand retreating from the locker, leaving behind an echo of warmth where it once rested.

You found yourself momentarily caught in the headlights of his question. Friday evenings were the realm of raucous parties and cozy gatherings among friends, a social tapestry you found yourself conspicuously absent from. Your plans, if they could even be called that, consisted of nothing more than acquiring a solitary snack and retreating to the quiet of your car's hood in some forgotten corner of a parking lot.

"I'm more the spontaneous type," you offered, a deflection born of necessity as you idly scratched at your elbow. The admission of your solitude, especially in front of Hawkins' newest import, the effortlessly cool Californian, seemed a bridge too far.

"Good," he cut in, a word punctuated with decision as he turned on his heel towards the exit. You watched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling within you as you followed him, your steps a beat behind, to his car. He performed the gentlemanly act of unlocking and holding open the passenger door, an invitation hanging silently in the air.

With a gesture towards the parking lot, you demurred, "I got my car here." Your thumb jabbed backward, signaling the aged Volkswagen that wore its rust and verdigris like badges of endurance, a relic from a bygone era now under the scrutiny of his oceanic gaze.

The tapestry of scars your car bore was a map of your tumultuous journey thus far. The rear windows, obscured by patches of duct tape, were a testament to a violent shove that had sent you crashing into them. The dented trunk narrated another tale of youthful recklessness, a collision with a telephone pole just weeks after your sixteenth birthday had granted you the freedom of the road. But it was the scar on your hip, hidden beneath fabric yet forever etched in your flesh, that told the most painful story. A vase, hurled in anger by your father, had shattered upon impact, embedding its fragments into your skin. Alone, you had navigated the sterile lights of the emergency room, weaving a tale of clumsy mishap to explain the glass shards that had to be meticulously extracted from your body.

Billy's gaze on you felt like a searchlight, probing for a jest or a convincing argument as to why you wouldn't abandon your car to join him. "I can’t just leave my car here, Billy," you found yourself protesting, even as part of you yearned for the escape he offered.

His response was a casual shrug, his posture relaxed against the frame of his open car door, the denim fabric of his jacket accentuating the lean muscles beneath. "Sure, you can," he countered with an easy confidence. "I can drive you back here after."

The word lingered between you, a mystery yet to unfold. "After what?"

Another shrug, the gesture becoming a signature of his nonchalance. "After." His reply hung in the air, an invitation to an undefined adventure, sparking a blend of apprehension and exhilaration within you.

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with a dark humor that twisted your words into a sinister prediction. "You know, that kind of sounds like you are going to hack me up and then just dump my severed limbs here. After."

Billy's reaction was instantaneous, his voice laced with feigned hurt, "I would never do that." For a moment, you almost believed him, almost extended an apology, until the glint of mischief in his ice-blue gaze betrayed his jest. "You would get blood all over my car seats."

Your response was an eye roll, the tension easing into a grin at the absurdity of it all. "Fine," you declared, your resolve melting as you approached his car. "But don't you dare take me to someplace with all that healthy stuff," you added, a playful warning in your tone as he stepped aside, allowing you to claim the passenger seat as your own. Pausing, one leg already inside, you issued your culinary demands. "I want a burger, some greasy as fuck chili-cheese fries." You paused, a thought occurring. "And maybe a milkshake."

Billy's smirk was a beacon of complicity in the fading light, his teeth a flash of white as he gently closed the door behind you. Circumventing the vehicle with a swagger, he slid into the driver's seat, igniting the engine and bringing the car to life. The sudden eruption of Ted Nugent's distinct voice filled the cabin, the volume dialed to an almost reckless level. You recognized the voice, not out of personal preference, but thanks to a neighbor's musical obsession which had mercifully shifted from Nugent's raspy rock to the heady depths of heavy metal.

As the car pulled away, the world outside blended into a blur, the soundscape within dominated by Nugent's growling melodies. You found yourself enveloped in the paradox of Billy's world, where the threat of fictional dismemberment faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, vivid reality of a quest for the perfect greasy meal.

As Billy caught the wrinkled disapproval on your face, a chuckle escaped him, tinged with amusement. With a swift movement, he dialed the volume down, though the music still filled the car with a lively barrier against silence. It was loud enough to keep the void of conversation at bay, ensuring that the ride was enveloped in a continuous melody rather than awkward pauses.

You found a brief escape as you rolled down the window, extending your hand into the open air, mimicking the actions of your childhood adventures. The wind battled against your palm, inviting you to sway your hand rhythmically, an instinctive dance of freedom and nostalgia. Your eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the flood of memories that washed over you. Those adventures, as your mother had fondly termed them, were simple yet profoundly magical. They consisted of visits to art museums where she would craft whimsical stories behind each painting, imbuing them with life and laughter. There were hikes through dense woods, where she spun tales of bear hunts, making you believe in the thrill of the chase and the glory of imaginary conquests. On the rare occasion, she would navigate the aisles of thrift stores with you in tow. Financial constraints made these trips bittersweet, as the allure of unattainable treasures tugged at your young heart, a reminder of desires just beyond reach.

These excursions, modest in their execution but rich in imagination, formed a tapestry of cherished moments. They were escapes from the mundane, where every outing with your mother became a venture into the extraordinary, a testament to the power of love and storytelling to transform the ordinary into the unforgettable.

As Billy brought the car to a halt in front of the neon-lit facade of the arcade, you couldn't help but turn to him, an eyebrow arching in silent query. He responded with a heavy sigh, the weight of reluctance in his voice as he confessed the need to pick someone up. A brief glance at the digital watch strapped to his wrist revealed a clenched jaw, a silent testament to his impatience or perhaps something deeper, an annoyance or an obligation weighing heavily on him.

Before you could voice the questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, Billy's hand darted forward, retrieving a cigarette from the pack nestled within the confines of the glove compartment. The swift flick of his lighter brought the cigarette to life, its ember glowing fiercely with each inhalation, a beacon of his momentary escape. Exhaling a cloud of smoke through the window, he extended the cigarette towards you, a gesture of sharing in his solace, yet his eyes never met yours, as if the offer was made out of habit rather than genuine intent.

"I don’t smoke," you stated, a gentle reminder of your stance. His reaction was almost immediate, his gaze shifting to you, eyes searching for any sign of jest. Finding none, only the earnest clarity of your refusal, he muttered a blend of resignation and a half-hearted vow never to offer again, his attention quickly diverting to the arcade's entrance with a stare sharp enough to bore holes through the walls. "Are you trying to open the doors with your mind?" Your teasing broke the silence, a playful nudge against his intensity. As you sank deeper into the embrace of the leather seat, the corners of your lips tugged upwards. "I tried moving a pen once. I swear, I almost had it." Your words floated between you, a light-hearted attempt to pierce the seriousness that had enveloped him, inviting him back to a moment of shared levity amidst the unexpected pause in your night.

"She's late again," Billy grumbled under his breath, a tinge of irritation lacing his voice as his gaze flickered to his wristwatch once more, a silent sentinel of his impatience. "Little dipshit can skate home." His hand moved decisively towards the gear shift, ready to abandon the wait and drive off into the night, but you intervened, placing your hand gently over his, a silent plea for patience.

"We've been waiting here for barely five minutes." Your eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and curiosity as you met his gaze, attempting to understand the rush. "We can wait a little longer. I don't mind." Your words were soft, an offering of compassion in the face of his growing frustration.

At that exact moment, as if summoned by your willingness to wait, a figure emerged from the glowing entrance of the arcade. A ginger-haired girl, her face flushed and breathless from her rush, her relief palpable as her eyes locked onto the familiar blue Camaro. With her skateboard tucked securely under her arm, she hastened her steps, almost speed-walking towards the safety and promise of a ride home that the vehicle represented.

As the ginger-haired girl approached, you smoothly exited the Camaro, your movements fluid and deliberate. Pulling forward the seat to allow her access, she clambered into the back with a graceless smile, her eyes flicking briefly to Billy with a mix of gratitude and irritation. You caught the exchange, a silent laugh hidden behind your facade as you adjusted the seat back into place and reclaimed your spot beside Billy.

The tension in the car was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the small confines of the vehicle. Billy's gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the girl through the rearview mirror, anchoring her with a look that brooked no argument, yet he made no move to merge into the street's flow.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, a fragile attempt to quell the storm. Her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in any corner that wasn't filled with Billy's imposing presence.

"You remember what we talked about?" Billy's voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. His question, more an ultimatum than a query, hung heavy in the air.

"I said, I'm sorry," the girl retorted, her defensiveness surfacing with her words. A scowl began to form on your face, mirroring the growing frustration and discomfort that swirled inside you as Billy remained stationary, his focus unbroken.

His eyes never left her. "What did I tell you?" The gravity in his voice pulled at you, a painful wrench in your heart as you felt the weight of his words. "What did I tell you, Max?" At his question, your emotions teetered on the edge of a precipice, a quiver on your lip the only hint of the turmoil within.

Suddenly, the confined space of the car became too much, the air too thick to breathe. With a surge of resolve, you tore open the door, the sound of it closing behind you a silent scream for escape. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, a futile attempt to steady their shaking, as the silence from within the car enveloped you like a cold embrace, as his voice haunted your mind.

Billy emerged from the car, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he rounded the hood with measured steps. You stood there, amidst the quiet chaos, closing your eyes to gather the shards of calm scattered by the storm. A deep breath filled your lungs, an attempt to cleanse the tumult within. When his voice broke through the silence, a soft yet piercing inquiry, "You all right, sweetheart?" it felt different this time. Where once the pet names he draped you in felt like silk, now they scratched against your skin like burlap.

The glare you returned was loaded with an unspoken dialogue, a debate raging within you about the wisdom of diving into depths where perhaps you had no place. Yet, the image of the girl, her spirit dimmed in the rearview mirror, tipped the scales. "You didn't have to berate her like that," the words tumbled out, laced with conviction, while your arms folded defensively across your chest. "She said she was sorry twice."

Observing him, you saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a physical manifestation of his rising defensiveness, and his nostrils flared, a silent herald of the storm to come. "How about you stay out of my fucking business?" The words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision, meant to wound and warn.

As your scoff broke the tense air between you, it carried with it a bewildering sense of revelation. You found yourself staring, almost in disbelief, as the layers of Billy's persona peeled back to reveal the hot-tempered core you had only heard whispers of. Rumors of his impulsive shoves in crowded hallways and aggressive dominance on the basketball court had reached your ears, painting a picture of a boy who wielded his temper as carelessly as he did his charm. The teenage girls of Hawkins High had not been shy in sharing tales of his less savory deeds, and yet, in a strange twist of fate, they still crowned him with their affections, blinded perhaps by the handsome mask he wore. To you, until this moment, he had shown a different face—one that hinted at kindness beneath the rugged exterior.

"I don't think I can come with you. No, actually, I don't want to anymore." The words emerged from your lips, firm and irrevocable, sealing the fate of the evening that had taken an unexpected turn.

At your declaration, a storm seemed to gather on Billy's brow, his forehead creasing with anger as he teetered on the brink of letting loose a venomous retort. "Why are you being such a bi—" His words faltered, clogging the air between you as the realization of his near slip clamped down on his tongue. A sudden shift overtook his features, the anger washing out as if drained by an unseen force, leaving behind a pallid mask of instant regret.

"You know what, Billy?" you threw the words into the thickening twilight, not seeking an answer but rather casting them as a final verdict. Your feet started to retreat, each step a defiant dance away from the scene. "Fuck you. Oh, and while you're at it, why don't you shove those burgers up where the sun never shines, yeah?" With those parting shots, you spun on your heel, the world spinning momentarily before settling as you marched back toward the familiar silhouette of Hawkins High.

"You don't have your car!" His voice chased after you, a mixture of frustration and incredulity painting each syllable.

"And, still, I'd rather walk!" Your voice rang clear into the fading day, a declaration of independence. For good measure, and perhaps for the sake of your bruised pride, you flung one of your favorite gestures over your shoulder, hoping it would catch him in a moment of speechless observation.

Fucking men.

…

A month had woven itself into the fabric of your life since that tumultuous encounter with Billy Hargrove. His existence had become a silent shadow in your days, marked only by the occasional glimpse of his step-sister, a ghostly reminder of the confrontation that had severed whatever thread had begun to tie you to him. It was ironic, really, how the absence of someone could teach you so much about them. Your days flowed on, untouched by his presence, yet whispers of his life seemed to find you.

You learned of his origins, not through any desire of your own but through the idle chatter of classmates, their words painting a picture of a life you hadn't asked to understand. Billy Hargrove, the boy from California, now residing at 4819 Cherry Lane, wrapped in a scent that lingered in the halls—and apparently his pack—long after he had passed through. These snippets of his existence, caught in passing, seemed to stitch a portrait of a person you no longer knew, if indeed you ever really did.

Each revelation, each accidental eavesdrop, added layers to the image of Billy Hargrove, filling in gaps with colors you hadn't chosen. Yet, for all the unrequested knowledge that had found its way to you, the essence of the boy remained elusive, a puzzle pieced together from fragments overheard in passing. The tendrils of your past, entangled with dreams of a future beyond the confines of Hawkins, whispered to you in moments of solitude. Your aspirations reached far beyond the town's limits, aiming for the hallowed halls of college—a beacon of escape from a life mapped out by circumstances rather than choice. Each rejection letter that found its way to you felt like a door slamming shut, while the solitary acceptance, devoid of the golden ticket of a scholarship, seemed a cruel tease of what could be. College represented more than an education; it was your lifeline out of Hawkins, a chance to evade the shadows that lingered there, including him.

Financial realities cast long shadows over your dreams. The fruits of years spent toiling in odd jobs had been whittled away by the necessities of life and the unending demands of medical supplies, a silent testament to the sacrifices made. The money that didn't vanish into the bottomless pit of healthcare needs was swallowed by the mundane yet essential needs for gas and food, leaving nothing for the luxuries that others might take for granted. The memory of purchasing something solely for the joy it brought, something as simple as a new mascara or a piece of clothing in your favorite color, had faded into the realm of distant dreams.

Yet, as you maneuvered the car out of the school's parking lot, a resolve took root within you—a quiet declaration of self-kindness. The day's burdens lifted slightly at the thought of indulging in a small luxury, a token of appreciation for yourself after so long. The thrift store's familiar aisles offered sanctuary and the possibility of finding something uniquely yours. Amidst the labyrinth of second-hand garments, a splash of yellow caught your eye, halting your aimless search. Your fingers grazed the fabric of a flowy yellow dress, the color a vivid echo of happier times.

In that moment, a memory blossomed, vivid and sweet—a day at the lake with your mother, her laughter mingling with the breeze, her own yellow dress a mirror to the one now in your hands. Despite the harsh realities that awaited back home, her smile in that instant had been a beacon of pure joy, untainted by the shadows of daily struggles. The memory, so sharply beautiful, tugged at your heart with a mixture of longing and sorrow. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by the whispers of past lives encapsulated in the thrift store's treasures, you allowed yourself the luxury of reminiscence and the hope of brighter days, fueled by the simple act of choosing something that sparked joy in your heart.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping the dress, lifting it from its crowded perch among forgotten stories and second chances. As you queued for purchase, the monotony of waiting nudged your attention toward the world beyond the thrift store's window. Your eyes traced the ebb and flow of life on the sidewalk—a tableau of youthful laughter and the disgruntled expressions of passing adults, caught in a silent battle over public decorum.

Your gaze was about to retreat back to the cashier's call when the distinct rumble of a familiar engine sliced through the ambient noise, capturing your attention. A blue Camaro, unmistakable in its assertive presence, blazed past the window, a fleeting shadow in your line of sight. The timing hinted at a routine you'd inadvertently memorized, perhaps Billy Hargrove on his way to collect Max from the arcade. Despite the distance you'd placed between yourself and him, his existence still managed to weave its way into the fabric of your thoughts, an uninvited yet persistent presence.

Groceries, bought with the remnants of your carefully hoarded finances, soon occupied the passenger seat of your car, a tangible reminder of the practical concerns that governed your life. You returned to the trailer park, your vehicle coming to a rest beside the rusted silhouette of home. The neighborhood was alive with the small, personal escapes of those around you—barbecues, beers, and the semblance of community in the individualistic survival of trailer park living. You offered a half-hearted wave to the scattered acknowledgments from your neighbors, a gesture of civility in the shared anonymity of your lives.

One neighbor, a boy around your age with a habitual distance from the trailer park's confines, returned your wave with a shy, fleeting smile. His presence was a rarity, his time usually spent in the freedom of friendships beyond the park's boundaries. A pang of longing touched you at the thought, a wistful wish for connections you hadn't the luxury to foster.

Stepping out of your car, the dress in hand and groceries by your side, you couldn't help but reflect on the paths not taken, the friendships not formed. The trailer park, with its rusted dreams and patchwork communities, held both the weight of your realities and the whispers of what might have been, had circumstances been kinder.

The descent of twilight had always carried a particular solemnity in the trailer park, a silent herald of the end of another day's labors and the beginning of the park's nocturnal repose. As you ascended the weathered steps, the weight of the grocery bags in your hands was a tangible reminder of the day's responsibilities, a mundane yet necessary burden. Your father's gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, met you through the window, his eyes flickering with a mix of wariness and disapproval between you and the neighbor boy who had offered a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. His expression, a familiar tapestry of anger and suspicion, caused you to avert your gaze and hasten your steps, seeking refuge in the relative safety of the indoors.

The call to the living room came at an hour when the world outside had surrendered to the darkness, the only witnesses to its secrets being the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. The neighbors, those transient figures of your day-to-day existence, had retreated behind their doors, driven by the sudden onset of rain. It was in this secluded setting that your father awaited, ensconced in the worn embrace of his brown-leathered armchair, a throne from which he observed the small dominion of your shared living space.

You paused at a cautious distance, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension, a testament to the delicate balance of your relationship. In the dim light, your fingers absently traced the familiar imperfections in your nails, a diversion from the intensity of his scrutiny. Your father, a man whose actions were measured and deliberate, had managed to maintain a facade of normalcy to the outside world. Whatever speculations might have circulated among the neighbors about the dynamics within your trailer, they remained just that—speculations, with no concrete evidence to breach the veil of privacy that curtained your shared existence.

In that moment, standing in the living room's subdued light, the distance between you felt more than just physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and stifled emotions, a silent battleground where every gesture and glance held weight.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he spoke, orbs glued to your face which was turned to the carpeted floors. "I give you so much and don't expect a lot in return, now, do I?" You closed your eyes, teeth catching your lips as you shook your head no. "That's right." He lifted himself up from his seat, stepping closer. You stilled. "What I can't have, is my daughter whoring herself out to some boys."

You flinched as a hand gripped your jaw. "I don't—"

His hold tightened, warm alcohol-tinges breath hitting your cheek. "And to have so much disrespect to lie to my face."

"Please, Dad, I don't even know his nam—"

"Shut up!" You winced at his harsh tone, a trembling falling into your bones. "How long have you been going around spreading your fucking legs, huh? You think you can just do that while you're living under my roof?" He shoved you back into the kitchen counter, its edges digging into your skin painfully. "Fucking whore," he hissed. "If I ever see you looking at him again, I'm not going to be so nice."

Your voice was a mere whisper. "But I didn't—" A slap echoed and a jarring stinging spread across your cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare to talk back to me!" His fingers dug into your skin further as he yanked you forward and smashed you to the floor. "Who do you think you are, huh?" He ripped you upwards at the roots of your hair, wrenching you across the floor to the front door. Your head smashed into the wood as your father tore it open with no regard for you. His hand fell from your hair as he shoved you forward with his foot. As you didn't do as he pleased fast enough, he kicked you onwards and again until you tumbled down the stairs of your home.

"I don't want no disrespectful whore under my roof.” The night air was heavy with the scent of rain, a foreboding cloak that seemed to amplify your isolation as your father's anger found its final expression in the harsh, definitive sound of the door slamming shut behind you. Stranded in the aftermath, you lay there for a moment, sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground, every breath a testament to the throbbing pain in your ribs. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you managed to pull yourself into a seated position, the tears that you hadn't invited nor could contain stinging your eyes, mingling with the rain that began to drench you in its cold embrace.

The world around you felt alien, a labyrinth of uncertainties and fears about where the night might take you. Trust, a commodity you found in short supply, left you without a door to knock on, without a sanctuary in which to seek refuge. Even the shelter of your car was denied to you, the keys a distant, unreachable comfort. Your heart heavy, you stood, the direction of your feet a mystery even to yourself as you meandered through the dimly lit streets of Hawkins. It was as if some unseen force guided you, leading you on a path paved with desperation and silent pleas for solace.

Cherry Lane materialized before you almost as if by magic, the familiarity of the surroundings doing little to ease the tumult in your heart. The houses stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of those who dwelled within, until the sight of a blue Camaro, parked with an air of silent expectation, caught your eye. It was a beacon in the gloom, a signpost pointing towards a possibility you hadn't dared to consider until now.

With hesitant steps, you ascended the porch, each footfall a declaration of your vulnerability. The house before you was a tableau of quiet domesticity, its windows glowing softly in the night, yet betraying no hint of the lives unfolding behind them. For a moment, you allowed yourself the small comfort of shelter, the porch a temporary haven from the relentless rain. Gathering the remnants of your courage, you reached out, your hand pausing in mid-air as you braced yourself to bridge the distance between desperation and hope, between solitude and the possibility of finding an ally in the most unexpected of places.

Hesitation gripped you as the absurdity of your situation fully dawned upon you. What madness had driven you to seek refuge here, of all places? It had been over a month since any words had passed between you and Billy, and the possibility of him not being the one to answer the door loomed large in your mind, a specter of potential embarrassment you hadn't fully considered until now. Imagining the awkwardness of explaining your presence to his stepmother or father sent a shiver down your spine. Perhaps the familiar discomfort of your own leaky porch, where sleep would undoubtedly elude you amidst the elements, would have been preferable to the risk of utter humiliation here.

As you turned to make a hasty retreat, a clumsy misstep sent one of the plant pots clattering to the ground, the sound of shattering pottery piercing the steady drum of rain. Mortification washed over you as you knelt, frantically trying to salvage the situation by scooping the spilled soil back into its home, muttering curses under your breath for your own clumsiness.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Billy's voice, laced with confusion and rising over the roar of the rain, caused you to startle, nearly toppling the pot once more in your sudden panic.

You stood, hands smeared with dirt against the fabric of your wet pants, words tripping over themselves in a clumsy attempt to explain. "I'm sorry," was the simple, inadequate conclusion you reached. A nervous laugh escaped you, highlighting the absurdity of your predicament. "I... I don't even know what I'm doing here," you admitted, your voice tinged with the realization of your own folly. "I—I'm going to go. Sorry about the plant."

Billy's gaze drifted past you to the empty street, a silent question in his eyes before returning to you. "Where's your car?" The inquiry was straightforward, yet it left you grappling with the decision of whether to fabricate a lie about its whereabouts.

"I walked," you confessed, the truth slipping out with a hesitance that betrayed your vulnerability.

"In the rain?" His question hung unfinished in the air as his attention abruptly shifted, focusing intently on your face. Whatever he saw there caused a transformation in his demeanor, his previously questioning gaze hardening with resolve. He swung the door wider, an unspoken invitation hanging between you. "Get in," he commanded, a mixture of concern and command in his tone. Your uncertainty was palpable, a silent question mark in your stance until his impatience broke through your indecision. "Do you always need a second invitation? Get inside." His words, more a directive than a suggestion, propelled you forward, his intense stare ushering you into the warmth and shelter of his home. No sooner had the front door clicked shut behind you than Billy’s hand enveloped yours, his grip firm and unexpectedly warm. He led you through the hallway with a sense of urgency, the sound of your sodden shoes squelching against the floor marking your passage. The door to his room was next, closing with a definitive thud that seemed to isolate the world outside. Releasing your hand as though he suddenly remembered the protocol of personal space, Billy turned his attention to the task of decluttering his room with an efficiency that left his clothes arching through the air to land perfectly in a hamper across the space.

You found yourself standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, the chill of your drenched clothes causing you to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, you crossed your arms in an attempt to preserve warmth, your gaze drifting downwards before curiosity prompted a survey of your surroundings. The room was a capsule of Billy's world – his bed, a stark island in the chaos, lay opposite the door, while a white dresser burdened with an assortment of items claimed territory to your left. A stereo system and a mirror positioned at the foot of his bed stood guard in front of his closet, serving as silent sentinels of his privacy. The walls were an eclectic gallery featuring a mix of band posters—Metallica's ‘Kill 'Em All’ and Tank's ‘Filth Hounds of Hades’ among them—and a singular, provocatively posed woman adorning a minuscule bikini set.

A cough from Billy broke the silence, his posture shifting uncomfortably as he planted a hand on his hip, mirroring your own awkwardness. "Do you wanna take a hot shower?" His voice, hesitant yet earnest, sliced through the tension.

You matched his earlier gesture, clearing your throat before responding with a nod, your smile timid yet sincere, a silent thank you. "If you don't mind."

His response was quick, almost reflexive. "I wouldn't be asking if I did." The briefest flicker of something akin to regret crossed his features, a look that suggested he found the current situation less than ideal. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to dismiss his own thoughts, he guided you to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Handing you a towel with an awkwardness that seemed out of place on him, he promised to find you some dry clothes, leaving you with the comforting prospect of warmth and a momentary escape from the night's chaos. Peeling away the layers of your drenched attire felt like shedding a second, clammy skin, each piece a testament to the frugality that necessity had imposed upon your life. The fabric, cheap and worn, clung to you with a stubborn chill, and even as you stood bare in the relative warmth of the bathroom, shivers danced across your skin, relentless in their embrace.

You stepped over the edge of the tub with a cautious grace, turning the faucet with hands that trembled not just from the cold but from the uncertainty of the moment. As the water sputtered to life, you drew the shower curtain with a swift motion, sealing yourself away from the world for a brief interlude. The array of bottles lining the tub's edge caught your eye, prompting an involuntary snort of amusement.

Billy, it seemed, defied the stereotype of masculine simplicity in skincare, the stereotype that suggested a preference for efficiency over variety. Your father, with his staunch allegiance to three-in-one products, had been your benchmark for male grooming habits. Yet here, in Billy's shower, was a collection that spoke of a different creed. You couldn't help but smirk, a playful curiosity lifting your brows as you inspected the labels one by one. Shampoos, more than one might expect, each bottle worn from use, nestled beside conditioners—one clearly favored, its contents more depleted.

The body wash, singular in its presence, was an olfactory enigma. Unscrewing the cap, you were met with an assault of scents, as if the essence of every cologne and deodorant had been distilled into this one vessel. The smell was overpowering, undeniably masculine, a concentrated embodiment of Billy's presence. You searched for the words to describe it but landed on the singularly fitting—manly.

As the warm water cascaded over you, washing away the layers of the day—the sweat, the remnants of makeup that had survived the downpour—you moved with haste. There was a keen awareness of not overstaying your welcome in this unexpected sanctuary. Gratitude for Billy's kindness mingled with a sense of urgency; such generosity was a rare currency in your world, and you were acutely conscious of its value. In these moments, under the stream of cleansing water, you found a temporary reprieve, a fleeting sense of solace amid the turbulence of your life. The moment your skin felt the cool air of the bathroom, a soft knock echoed against the door, a gentle but unexpected intrusion into your solitude. Clutching the towel around yourself with a sudden modesty, you cracked the door open just enough to extend a hand into the gap. Billy's presence on the other side was palpable, his chuckle a low, soft sound that fluttered through the air as he passed a bundle of clothes to you. "Thanks," you murmured, a rush of words barely escaping before you retreated behind the door once more.

Dressed in the clothes Billy had chosen—socks, boxers, sweats, and a shirt—you paused at the threshold of his room, suddenly conscious of the absence of your bra and acutely aware that he was, too. With a final act of tidiness, you folded the towel meticulously and flicked off the lights, leaving behind the sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty that lay beyond.

You found yourself lingering in the doorway, arms wrapped defensively across your chest, the fabric of his shirt a poor shield against the vulnerability you felt. Billy's gaze upon you was indescribable, heavy with an unspoken expectation as if he wished to peel back the layers of your being and examine the hidden scars that lay beneath.

Mustering what little composure you had, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed, confusion and something else—was it concern?—etching lines into his forehead. "For what?" he queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and something softer.

You diverted your gaze, a sense of intrusion overwhelming you despite the sanctuary he'd provided. "Bothering you. It's late," you admitted, feeling the weight of your unwelcome presence.

The sound of his movement pulled your eyes upward, half-expecting, half-hoping he might bridge the distance between you. Instead, you were met with the sight of his back as he rifled through his nightstand, the tension in the room palpable. "Sit," he commanded, and though under any other circumstance you might have bristled at the order, the exhaustion and gratitude mingling within you coaxed compliance.

Without protest, you perched on the edge of the bed, a silent observer to his actions, the room around you filled with an unspoken dialogue made of glances and gestures, a fragile understanding hanging in the balance. As he pivoted towards you, a black box in his grasp, an electric tension filled the air. He chose not to sit beside you on the bed; instead, he knelt before you, an unexpected intimacy in the space between your parted knees. Your breath caught, a silent gasp lost in the moment, and irritation flared within you as you noticed the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a mix of curiosity and wariness lacing your words, your gaze sharply tracking his movements.

"If I remember correctly, Sweetheart, you gave me a lecture on using Neosporin or otherwise you get scars, right?" His voice held a playful rebuke, cutting off any response you might have mustered. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen, huh?"

His attention fixed on a spot on your forehead, drawing your own hand reflexively to the area he observed, only to flinch at the tender reminder of a wound you hadn't registered until now. The memory of the collision with your trailer door flickered through your mind, a painful blur in the chaos of the night. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he attended to the wound, a carefulness in his actions that surprised you, challenging what you thought you knew of him. Despite the months you'd spent in his orbit, this moment revealed layers you hadn't glimpsed before.

"You don't have to do that," you found yourself saying as he procured a tube of Neosporin—a recent addition to his kit, no doubt on your advice. "I can do it, too."

"Never said you couldn't," he hummed back, undeterred as he meticulously applied the ointment, his focus undivided. With deliberate care, he placed two butterfly plasters across the cleaned wound, a silent testament to his unspoken concern. Gathering the discarded wrappers and used items, he compressed them in his hand and rose, moving to dispose of the trash. In that small, enclosed space, with the sound of rain a distant murmur against the windows, a different side of Billy was illuminated under the soft glow of the room's lighting — a side tender, careful, and starkly at odds with the rough edges of his usual demeanor. You cleared your throat, a gesture so small yet so loaded with the weight of the evening's events.

"Thank you," you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. He paused in his motions, turning towards you with a smile so radiant it threatened to stop your heart in its tracks.

"No problem, Sweetheart," he replied, his voice a smooth salve over the jagged edges of the night. As he moved to dispose of the trash, a sudden, inexplicable tumult stirred within you. With a hand pressed against your chest, you sought to quell the storm brewing beneath your ribs, a futile attempt to calm the chaos his mere presence invoked.

Rising to your feet, you drifted towards the window, seeking solace in the steady downpour that mirrored your inner turmoil. The rain continued to fall, now more fiercely than before, a relentless deluge that held you captive in this moment. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the glass.

"Didn't get much of this in California, huh?" you ventured, an attempt to bridge the chasm of silence between you.

He let your question hang in the air, unanswered, yet the fleeting shadow that crossed his face spoke volumes, a bitterness that matched the storm outside. His gaze shifted, momentarily caught in the past before refocusing on the present — on the wound that marred your forehead. "What happened?" he asked, the question simple yet loaded with unspoken concern.

You shrugged, a movement laden with the weight of untold stories. "Nothing," you replied, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breath, a practiced deception you had mastered over time. "I tripped."

"And that had you walking through the rain in the middle of the night?" His skepticism was palpable, a challenge to the facade you'd constructed.

A battle raged within you, the urge to confess warring with the instinct to conceal. You bit back the tears threatening to spill, the pain of admission too great to bear. "I locked myself out and didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah?" he pressed, his disbelief a tangible force.

"Yeah." Your affirmation was a whisper in the storm, a feeble attempt to maintain the crumbling walls around your heart.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, trapping you between the solid reality of his form and the immovable barrier of his closet. "If you don't want to talk about it then say so," he declared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "Don't lie and pretend to be fine when clearly you aren't."

In that charged moment, with the rain as your sole witness, the space between you became a battleground of unspoken words and concealed wounds, a testament to the complexity of human connection. Your jaw clenched tightly, a tangible manifestation of your frustration and defiance. The notion of receiving unsolicited advice, particularly from him, was almost laughable. Gratitude for his shelter in the storm did not extend to welcoming painful truths. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Billy. It's not like you aren't just fine all the time," you retorted, your words sharp, laden with a bitterness born of too many hidden truths.

The shift in him was immediate, his anger dissipating as though your words had pierced a veil, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability he so meticulously guarded. When he raised his hand, the gentle brush of his forefinger against the stray tear on your cheek sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "I never said I wanted to talk about it," he murmured, his voice soft, revealing a hint of his own battles fought in silence. Your heart fluttered uncontrollably, his touch igniting a flurry of sensations, momentarily tethering you to a moment of raw connection.

The sudden crack of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, jolted you back to reality, breaking the spell that had momentarily bound you. The urge to flee, to return to the semblance of normalcy that awaited at home, surged within you. "I should probably go," you whispered, hoping against hope that your father's drunken stupor would erase the night's events by morning, that a simple act of domestic normality could smooth over the fractures in your life. "Do you have an umbrella or something?"

His response was instant, a resolute rejection of your plan. "Do you really think I'll let you get back there now? So, you can flash a cut lip and a blue eye tomorrow at school, too?" His words, though posed as a question, left no room for argument. In his refusal to allow you to venture back into the storm, both literal and metaphorical, lay an unspoken pledge of protection, a sanctuary against the tempest that raged beyond his door. "What does it matter?" you found yourself arguing, feeling the weight of your own arms as they fell limply by your sides. The sense of defeat was palpable in the air. "So, I stay tonight, then what, Billy? I'll have to go back eventually, and it's only until the school year's over. Then, I'm gone anyway."

His response came in the form of a growl, though you could tell his anger wasn't directed at you. It stemmed from a place of shared desperation, from having clung to the same sliver of hope himself. "So, you're just gonna let him beat you for the rest of the year?"

Your response was a snort, laced with sarcasm, as you tilted your head, challenging him. "Aren't you doing the same thing?" The silence that followed was telling, even if no words were spoken, until he dared to step closer.

"It does matter, you know," he said, his voice softer now, reducing the physical distance between you yet careful not to invade your personal space.

"Why?" The question came out more as a whisper of disbelief. For the past month, he had acted as if you were barely visible, and suddenly, he seemed to care deeply. "Why now?"

His hesitation was palpable, as if the words he was about to utter could scorch his tongue. "I like you." The simplicity of his confession hung between you, fraught with unspoken complexities.

You bit your lip, a sad, resigned smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lowered your head. "Don't do that to yourself." The words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime. Tears threatened to spill over, a testament to a sentiment you had never expected to receive. The idea that someone could not just tolerate but actually like you was foreign, almost too much to bear. All your life, you had erected walls to keep people at a distance, for their affection meant empathy, and with empathy came pain. The sight of your wounds would become their agony, and in a twisted way, their suffering would become yours, completing a circle of shared hurt you had always sought to avoid.

"Who do you think I am, Billy?" You backed away slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of distance between you and Billy, but the inevitable happened—your retreat was abruptly stopped by the wall. A wave of unfamiliar pressure washed over you. Was it fear? Or perhaps vulnerability? You couldn't quite place the emotion. "I'm not the kind of person to have around. I won't complete you, won't enrich your life,” you stammered out, your voice a mix of warning and fear. These words were your feeble attempt to shield him, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment that seemed to follow you like a shadow. "I—I'm just so fucked up and stuck trying to put everything... everything broken back into place. I... I can't look for your shards, too."

When your eyes finally dared to meet his, you expected to see annoyance, maybe even rejection. Instead, what you found was empathy, his expression softened, recognizing the turmoil within you as something he too understood. "I don't want you to try and fix me," he said, his tone gentle, soothing the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. His hand reached for yours, not as a claim but as a gesture of companionship, of solidarity. "But searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together." In the dimly lit room, where shadows danced across the walls with a life of their own, Billy Hargrove revealed himself in a way that words could scarcely capture. The man you thought you knew, encased in layers of protective anger and a cocksure swagger, allowed those defenses to melt away in your presence. It was as if he peeled back the veneer of bravado, exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his soul—a mosaic of past hurts and present struggles laid bare for only your eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against your cheek, a cascade of sensations unfurled within you. It was more than a touch; it was an electric current that surged through your veins, rendering you speechless, breathless. As you locked gazes with him, drowning in the ocean of his bright blue eyes, the world seemed to pause. Every attempt at drawing breath felt like an insurmountable task, and yet, paradoxically, you felt more grounded than ever, as if an invisible force tethered you to the very core of the earth. Simultaneously, there lingered an exhilarating sense of lightness, a curious wonder if you might suddenly break free from gravity's embrace and ascend into the ether. The effect Billy had on you was profound, leaving you to ponder if perhaps, in some small way, you affected him similarly.

Did you trouble his thoughts as he did yours? Did your presence steal his breath and unsettle him to his core? Within the quiet chambers of your heart, a small, worn, and lonely piece of you clung to the hope that he might feel the same.

As his index finger traced the contours of your face with reverence, from the softness of your cheek to the furrowed worry lines on your forehead, and finally to the tender vulnerability of your lips, you sensed a hesitancy in him. His other hand, which had been a mere whisper away from yours against the wall, dropped slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he had lent you. With a subtle tug, influenced by a brief flare of his nostrils, it was as if he was battling a storm of desire within, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from crossing a line from which there was no return. In that moment, Billy Hargrove was no longer just a name or a face; he was a force, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, threatening to unravel the very fabric of your being.

The words stumbled from your lips, frail and unsteady, shattering the facade of indifference you had desperately clung to. "So—" you began, only to have your voice fracture cruelly midway, exposing the turbulence beneath your calm exterior. "You want to be friends…like officially?"

A crooked smile unfurled across his face, his deep-set eyes twinkling with a blend of amusement and an unexpected trace of shyness. His grip on the fabric of the shirt intensified, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Trust me, Sweetheart, friends isn’t what I had in mind," he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent a wave of heat cascading down your spine, igniting a flurry of desire that pooled in the depths of your stomach.

You stood petrified, a statue of anticipation, as an inexplicable longing surged within you, compelling your fingers to twitch at your sides. You yearned to weave your fingers through the silky strands of his meticulously styled hair, to explore the contours of his being with a touch. Yet, as he retreated, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jeans, you found yourself anchored in place, watching him with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning disappointment. It wasn't the withdrawal you had anticipated that took you by surprise, but rather the keen sense of letdown that he didn't pursue the tension crackling between you further.

When he turned his back to you momentarily in search of an ashtray, a childish pout began to form on your lips, a silent testament to your discontent. Billy, however, remained oblivious to your turmoil, opting instead to lean casually against the wall by the open window, exhaling smoke into the tempestuous embrace of the rainy night. You pondered over his actions, the deviation from his usual indifference to smoking indoors. The scent of tobacco, which had once been a source of discomfort, had, over time, woven itself into the tapestry of comforts associated with Billy's presence. It was an aroma that, in the context of his room—a sanctuary of chaotic tranquility—had become oddly reassuring. Mixed with the other, more elusive scents that lingered in the corners of his space, it crafted an ambiance that was undeniably Billy, and in that moment, you realized how deeply entwined your senses had become with the essence of his existence. The array of colognes that enveloped him carried none of the hallmarks of the cheap fragrances that typically permeated the crowded hallways of Hawkins High. His presence, and indeed his room, was suffused with a complex aroma—slightly woody, perhaps a hint of leather, and beneath it all, a subtle undertone of sweetness that floated gently in the air. It was an olfactory melody that intrigued you, a scent that you found unexpectedly comforting.

Wrapped in your own arms, you approached him, a silent figure against the tumult of your thoughts, pressing your back to the wardrobe adjacent to his window. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to you, a gesture that halted you momentarily. As you reached out, the brief touch of his warm fingers against yours sent an inexplicable shiver down your spine, a sensation that seemed to echo on your skin long after the contact had ended. Drawing in the acrid taste of the smoke, you allowed yourself a moment to indulge in the bitterness, your eyes lifting to meet his.

There he was, a grin playing on his lips, watching you with an intensity that rendered you momentarily breathless. The world around you narrowed to the space between you two, your senses hyper-aware of his proximity. The cigarette, now a forgotten prop in your hand, no longer demanded your attention as you found yourself irresistibly drawn into the depths of his blue gaze. An unconscious bite to your lip betrayed your thoughts as your eyes darted to his lips and back again.

He closed the distance with a single, purposeful step, igniting a trail of warmth that flickered to life within you. Billy leaned in, his breath—a mix of smoke and something indefinably sweet—brushed against your cheek, sending ripples of anticipation through you. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his voice a blend of amusement and challenge. "You gonna smoke that, Sweetheart, or are you just gonna keep staring?"

In that moment, under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath, you realized the cigarette was merely a bystander in a dance of tension and unspoken desires, a dance that had you captivated and wanting more. A blush crept up your neck, a vivid testimony to the turmoil within, as you extended the cigarette towards him, a silent plea for normalcy. Yet, instead of simply taking it, he lingered, his chuckle a low rumble against the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. He leaned back, his movements languid yet deliberate, eyes locked on yours as he accepted the cigarette, drawing in a slow, purposeful drag. Under the weight of his gaze, your heart raced, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. His lips twitched into a smirk, and in that moment, the tether of your restraint snapped.

Driven by a surge of boldness, you seized the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a collision of lips. The world narrowed to the point of contact, where fear and desire mingled in a single breath. But as quickly as the impulse came, it retreated, leaving you to recoil in a mix of surprise and mortification. "I'm so sor—"

But your apology was cut short, his hand finding the nape of your neck, an anchor pulling you back into the storm. His lips sealed over yours with a fervor that spoke of raw need and simmering frustration. The sensation in your stomach exploded into a wildfire, racing through your veins, igniting every fiber of your being. His hands, emboldened and roaming, traced paths filled with longing and anticipation, his grip on your hip a silent command that spurred a sharp intake of breath. Yet, as Billy drew you closer, melding your body to his with a hunger that spoke of endless waiting, the kiss deepened, transcending the confines of time and space. The world outside this embrace dissolved into insignificance, leaving nothing but the intensity of your connection, a thirst quenched in the meeting of lips, finally stilled in the embrace of shared desire. Emerging first from the embrace, you found yourself ensnared in a heady daze, breathless from a mixture of oxygen deprivation and the intoxicating effect of Billy's touch. Your hands clung to his shirt collar, a desperate bid to maintain the closeness, the electricity that buzzed between you. Yet, Billy harbored no intention of releasing you into the cold reality just yet. As your eyelids fluttered shut again, his lips embarked on a fervent exploration along the tender expanse of your neck. Each kiss was a brand, igniting fires within your veins, stirring a wild rush of blood that screamed for more.

In his ministrations, Billy was anything but tentative, his actions painting the strokes of your silent wishes with bold, assertive colors. You reveled in the sensation, a glorious chaos made of his fervent kisses and the playful nip of teeth against your skin, eliciting a hitch in your breath that morphed into a soft whine. This sound drew a triumphant grin across his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he wielded over you.

The moment shifted as he gently maneuvered you backward, only to ease himself onto the edge of his bed, pulling you into his orbit with an unspoken command. You remained on your feet, a silent statue, until he chastised you with a playful tilt of his head and a tug on the waistband of the pants he had lent you. "You do always need a second invitation, huh?" he teased, his voice a blend of amusement and desire.

His hands, firm and insistent, found your thighs, drawing you irresistibly onto his lap. Positioned intimately close, your breath caught as the proximity sparked a fresh surge of desire. Your gaze flitted over his features, captivated by the intensity in his eyes before inevitably being drawn to the smug curve of his lips. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze and the promise of his smile, you teetered on the edge of surrender, every fiber of your being alight with anticipation.

In the charged silence of the room, your voice was a mere whisper, a soft breeze that dared not disturb the delicate sphere of intimacy that encased you both. "Is anyone else home?" The words barely left your lips, a testament to the fragile moment you were so afraid to shatter.

Billy's response was a grin, one that spoke volumes of the thoughts he'd kept at bay, now unchained in the privacy of his domain. "No," he breathed, a single syllable heavy with unspoken promises. His hands, emboldened by the assurance of solitude, resumed their exploratory journey with renewed vigor. They ascended your thighs, ventured over the curve of your behind, and continued upwards until the rough warmth of his calloused palms met the smooth expanse of your waist. "Concerned you won't be able to stay quiet, Sweetheart?" he teased, a playful challenge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head, a flush of warmth crawling up your neck, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just curious," you managed to say, your fingers finding solace in the soft strands of his blonde hair. Under your gaze, something flickered in his eyes—was it adoration?—a fleeting glimpse into the depths of Billy Hargrove that few were privy to. The realization that you were witnessing the unguarded essence of the man beneath the facade was both exhilarating and daunting, a secret you cherished deep within your heart.

In an unexpected move, he drew you against him, erasing any distance that remained. The gasp that escaped your lips mingled with the air as you became acutely aware of his desire pressing insistently against you. His lips found yours in a seal of fervent need, prompting an involuntary arch of your hips against his. A groan, laced with curses and unbridled yearning, vibrated against your mouth as Billy's restraint began to unravel. And then, with a fluidity that left you breathless, the world flipped—Billy loomed above you, a figure of strength and passionate intent, casting a shadow that promised an escape from the confines of reality. One arm kept him propped up above you, the other sliding beneath your butt, lifting you to meet his movements. A delicate moan fled your tongue, almost lost in the kiss as he sealed his lips onto yours, excitement thrumming in your core. As Billy's lips departed from yours, a reluctant retreat that sent a pang through your chest, you were left gasping beneath him, the room spinning slightly in the absence of his touch. For a brief moment, the world outside the cocoon of his room ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths hanging in the air. Your eyelids fluttered open only when the tender caress of his thumb traced your bottom lip, drawing your gaze upwards to meet his. In his eyes, a storm of emotions hinted at a struggle, a reluctance to break the connection that had so fiercely ignited between you.

Silently, he rolled away, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark. The soft click of the light switch plunged the room into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon's glow filtering through the curtains. "Night, Sweetheart," he murmured, a term of endearment that now seemed to carry a weight of unspoken words between you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion and a myriad of unanswered questions swirling in your mind. The impulse to voice your bewilderment, to ask why he had halted the crescendo of your shared passion, rose sharply within you. Yet, each time your lips parted, no words emerged, as if the gravity of the moment held your voice captive. With a heavy heart, you turned away, presenting your back to him, a silent testament to the tumult within.

As the minutes trickled by, Billy's breaths deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, a testament to his drift into tranquility. Left alone with your thoughts, the questions continued to dance at the edges of your consciousness, unanswered, echoing in the quiet of the night. Despite the turmoil, the pull of exhaustion proved stronger, and eventually, your eyes closed, surrendering to the elusive promise of rest, even as the mystery of his actions lingered, a shadow at the back of your mind. Upon awakening, you found yourself momentarily lost in the fog of disorientation, the remnants of sleep clouding your senses. As your consciousness gradually sharpened, the events of the night prior began to piece themselves together, painting a vivid picture of unexpected solace. For the first time in what felt like eons, you had been gifted with the luxury of a deep, undisturbed sleep, free from the clutches of anxiety that so often held you captive. The sensation of safety enveloped you, a cocoon of warmth that was both foreign and immensely comforting.

As awareness seeped further into your waking mind, you became acutely conscious of the presence beside you. An arm, strong and reassuring, draped across your middle, its weight a silent promise of protection. A leg, muscular and firm, intertwined with your own, anchoring you to this moment of peace. The thought of disrupting this tranquil intimacy, of stirring him from sleep and thus dissolving the delicate bubble of comfort you found yourself in, was unbearable. So, you settled back down, surrendering to the warmth, allowing yourself a moment more of this rare contentment.

However, reality was never far behind, its relentless march signaled by the crimson digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. A quiet groan escaped your lips as you registered the time—6:30 a.m. The demands of the day loomed large, a reminder that the sanctuary you found in Billy's arms was but a temporary reprieve. School awaited, a stark return to the routines and expectations that defined your everyday life.

The fragile silence of the morning was shattered abruptly by the growl of an engine cutting through the calm, a harbinger of the chaos to come. The sound of car doors slamming, followed by the rise and fall of angry voices, punctured the tranquility of dawn. A woman's pleading tones, desperate for discretion, clashed with the male fury, an unwelcome intrusion into the peacefulness of the early hours. Footsteps, heavy and ominous, approached the house, the finality of the front door slamming open a jarring wake-up call.

In an instant, Billy was alert, his body tensing as he sat up, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the gentle stillness that had enveloped you moments before. The reality you had momentarily escaped was crashing back down with undeniable force, the impending confrontation a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond the haven of his room. You cursed under your breath, a sharp departure from the warmth and safety that had enveloped you just moments ago. The bed suddenly felt too large and cold as you distanced yourself, your presence—a constant source of comfort—receding with each step you took. Alarmed, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching your silhouette navigate the dimly lit room. You paused at the door, an unmistakable tension in your posture as you strained to listen to the cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing through the house. It was a dance of shadows and sounds, one you knew all too well, having played the same game of anticipation and fear in your own life.

The voices crescendoed then waned, the storm outside your sanctuary dissipating momentarily. A male voice, harsh and demanding, cut through the relative calm, summoning you with a ferocity that made the air in the room heavier. You watched as the boy before you transformed, your body stiffening, every muscle coiling in dread. It was as if you could see the gears turning in your head, a frantic search for any misstep that could have incited this wrath.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a ripple in the tense atmosphere as you moved to join him. But his arm shot out, a barrier between you, a silent plea for you to keep your distance.

The impending confrontation burst into your room with the force of a storm. Your father, a tempest of anger, filled the doorway, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck bulging with every shouted word. His rage was palpable, a living entity that sought to crush everything in its path. And then his eyes found you. In that instant, the fury that had contorted his features melted away, replaced by a facade as thin and fragile as ice over a winter lake. It was a look you recognized, one your own father adopted in the presence of outsiders, a mask that barely concealed the storm raging beneath. His gaze flicked between you and Billy, a silent accusation in the shift of his eyes.

"I thought we agreed on no more... guests?" His voice, though softer, still carried the undercurrent of a threat. You remained silent, a statue in the eye of the storm, your resignation more telling than words could ever be. Your father straightened, adopting a veneer of civility that did nothing to ease the tension clawing at your insides.

"I'm sorry, but my son isn't allowed nightly visitors. Why don't you show your lady friend the door, hm?" The words were spoken with a superficial politeness that did nothing to mask the disdain and control that simmered beneath the surface. It was a moment suspended in time, a crossroads between the sanctuary of the night past and the harsh daylight reality of your present. Billy remained motionless, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on his father. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken threats and long-standing grievances. It was in this tense tableau that he uttered your name, a sound so rarely heard in such a context that it jolted you. “Why don’t you get dressed?” His voice, though soft, carried an uncharacteristic gravity.

With a nod that was more reflex than conscious agreement, you skirted past the palpable tension in the room, escaping to the sanctuary of the bathroom where your clothes awaited, still bearing the chill of being slightly damp. Once enveloped in the privacy it offered, the murmur of voices beckoned you closer, curiosity and concern pressing you to eavesdrop.

“You’re gonna say goodbye to your whore and then you and I are going to have a talk,” you heard, the venom in the elder Hargrove’s voice unmistakable.

Billy’s reply was a shadow of his usual defiance, “She isn’t—”

“What was that?” The threat in his father’s voice was sharp, a warning that brooked no argument.

Unable to bear the thought of the situation escalating in your absence, you stepped back into the fray, positioning yourself as a physical barrier between Billy and his father. The air was electric with tension, a tangible force that seemed to test the very limits of endurance. Yet, your voice, when it came, was steady. “Billy, you promised to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, but Billy can’t right now,” his father interjected smoothly, a sneer barely concealed beneath his veneer of civility.

“But I have no other way of getting home, sir,” you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance born of necessity.

“I’m sure it’s close enough to walk. It’s Hawkins, after all,” he dismissed, his tone laced with condescension.

“See, sir, I live just outside of Hawkins, actually.” Your reply was calm, measured, even as you laid bare the stakes of the situation.

“Is that so?” His skepticism was palpable, a challenge thrown down between you.

“Yes, and Billy assured me he would take me home, otherwise I’ll miss school, sir.” Your words, carefully chosen, were a gambit, one that played on his momentary hesitation.

The standoff that followed was a testament to the complex web of power and defiance that characterized the Hargrove household. Eventually, he took a step back, conceding ground with visible reluctance. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?” His once-over was dismissive, reducing you to nothing more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be dispatched.

“We will talk when you get back,” he finally said to Billy, his words heavy with unspoken threats.

“I’ll have to drive straight to school after dropping her off, otherwise I’ll miss first period.” Billy’s response was a careful negotiation, a bid for time and a brief reprieve from the confrontation that awaited him. His father’s glare could have scorched the earth, a silent vow of retribution that hung in the air long after he had left the room. Billy closed the door with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. He leaned against it, a solitary figure momentarily bowed by the weight of his father’s expectations. The sigh that escaped him was one of relief, a brief respite in the eye of an ever-present storm.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was laced with trepidation, the words barely a whisper in the charged atmosphere of the room. A part of you feared his anger, worried that your intervention might have only served to escalate the already volatile situation. Maybe, in his eyes, you were to blame for exacerbating the tension. He turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that halted your breath. The silence that followed was thick, a tangible entity that seemed to pulse with your racing heart. When he remained motionless, the void of his response sent a spike of panic through you. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make things worse. I should have stayed quiet—"

But before you could further berate yourself, his lips crashed against yours, an urgent, fierce motion that swept away the remnants of the confrontation like debris in a storm. His arms encircled you, pulling you into the eye of his tempest, while your hands found the solid wall of his chest, a grounding point amid the whirlwind. Billy's grin, felt rather than seen, infused the kiss with a defiance, a silent declaration that no force, no matter how daunting, could intrude upon this moment he claimed as solely yours. His hands shamelessly groped at your hips and behind, tongue dominating yours. You pulled away in desperate need for air, panting and dazed. Billy’s lips fell to your neck, sucking and licking at the saltiness of your skin. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” Squeezing your ass again, he let go of you and, with one last kiss, went to get dressed.

You found yourself adrift in the center of his room, each breath a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that had carried you from silence to this uncharted territory. How, you pondered, had the distance between you closed so swiftly, transforming into an intimacy that left you both breathless and bewildered?

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, revealing Billy. His readiness was astonishing, his preparation swift beyond anticipation. With a nonchalant ease, he emerged, the very image of casual confidence. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's the hell outta here," he beckoned, his voice a mix of warmth and urgency. Grasping your hand, he guided you towards the promise of freedom beyond these walls. Yet, as fate would have it, his father's voice shattered the brief illusion of escape, calling out to him once more. Instantly, you felt the change in Billy, a tension coiling within him, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, a silent plea for respite, an attempt to shield his spirit from the weight of reality. Casting a fleeting, half-hearted glance your way, his fingers slipped from yours, leaving a cold absence in their wake as he turned to face whatever storm awaited him.

Left in limbo near the front door, you strained your ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the exchange, but silence was your only companion. With a soft sigh of resignation, you turned your gaze outward, taking in the Hargrove residence bathed in the soft glow of morning light, nestled among the uniformity of Cherry Lane, Hawkins, Indiana.

The neighborhood was a palette of similarity, each house a variation on a theme, distinguished only by the creativity or neglect of its occupants. Some lawns bore the scars of a relentless summer, patches of grass striving towards life amidst the drought, while others lay untamed, a testament to indifference. The Hargrove's lawn, though touched by the season's harshness, was neatly trimmed, a small rebellion against the decay. The path leading to their home was worn, stones cracked and yielding to time, yet adorned with recent attempts at beauty—flowers and bushes planted with hope at their edges.

It was a scene markedly different from the chaos of the trailer park, where the dance of avoidance was a daily routine—sidestepping the debris of forgotten nights and broken dreams. Here, in the relative tranquility of Billy's world, such hazards were absent, a small mercy in the grand tapestry of his life. When Billy reappeared, his stormy demeanor spoke volumes before a word was uttered. The disheveled state of his collar hinted at a confrontation, a silent testament to his father's harsh grasp. He breezed past you, the air crackling with the tension that followed him, his gaze barely grazing yours. You trailed behind, a frown etching your features, though you kept your thoughts to yourself. Settling into the passenger seat of his Camaro, you fastened the seatbelt, a silent barrier between you and the world outside. The cozy sanctuary that had briefly cocooned you both seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving a palpable distance. Billy had begun to wall himself off once more, retreating from the fragile bridge of intimacy that had been tentatively constructed between you. His words echoed hollowly in the cramped space of the car.

‘Searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together.’

The Camaro's engine roared to life, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil unfolding within. Your lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The sharp pang of regret and what-ifs punctured your heart with relentless precision. Had Billy not halted his advances, you might have found solace in his arms, seduced by the illusion of safety he offered. Alone, you might have scoffed at your own gullibility, labeling it as sheer desperation or foolishness. Yet, it was Billy's words that had resonated so deeply with you, mirroring the silent pleas that had haunted your thoughts for far too long. The desire to escape the solitude that clung to you like a second skin was overpowering. You yearned for something more, something profound to anchor you to this world, beyond the fleeting dream of liberation that the future promised. You sought a connection that bore significance, a beacon to guide you through the shadowed corridors of your existence. With the final stretch of senior year unfurling before you, the promise of college lingered on the horizon, a beacon of hope that signaled a departure from the shadows of your past. It was a chance to shed the oppressive weight of your father's legacy, to carve out a space in the world where his influence couldn't reach. You clung to this future with a desperation that was silent yet palpable, the prospect of freedom a balm to the wounds of your upbringing.

Billy, however, wasn't afforded the luxury of such dreams. The grim reality of his situation was a constant companion, a reminder that not all paths led away from hardship. College, a beacon for some, remained a distant, unattainable star for him. Influenced by the harsh criticisms that had echoed from his father's lips, he had internalized a belief in his own inadequacy. Education, a potential key to unlocking doors to a brighter future, held little allure for someone who had been taught to expect nothing from life. Instead, Billy had embraced a different kind of dream—a painstaking accumulation of savings with the hope of one day returning to California, to start anew on terms of his own making.

Yet, a shadow lurked in the recesses of his mind, a specter of doubt that cast long, dark silhouettes across his aspirations. On some days, it was but a whisper, easily ignored. On others, it roared to life, a cruel reminder that perhaps his dreams were just that—figments of wishful thinking, doomed to remain unfulfilled.

The journey to your trailer park passed in silence, each lost in their own reverie. As Billy's car rolled to a halt, you murmured a terse ‘bye’ and exited, the finality of the gesture marking the end of an era. Retrieving your spare key from its hiding spot beneath an empty vase, you slipped inside, intent on changing clothes and gathering your belongings. You assumed Billy would have driven off by then, his presence a chapter closed as abruptly as it had opened.

However, upon emerging from your room, you found him rooted in place in the heart of your kitchen, his gaze transfixed by something beyond the window. The sight of him, so unexpectedly still and contemplative, caught you off guard. In that moment, the kitchen—a space so familiar and yet suddenly imbued with a new, unspoken significance—became a silent witness to the complexities of connection and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, some dreams refuse to be confined by the shadows that chase them. In the fading light of the afternoon, the question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, "Doesn't that one drug dealer live around here?" It was an innocuous inquiry, perhaps, but in the context of your shared silence, it felt charged with an undercurrent of concern.

Billy's presence, both imposing and unexpectedly comforting, loomed beside you, a steadfast figure in the shifting sands of your tumultuous life. Your voice, laced with a hint of surprise at its own firmness, broke the stillness. "Why are you still here?" The question was more than just words; it was an expression of the myriad emotions swirling within you, a mix of confusion, desperation, and a fragile glimmer of hope.

He seemed taken aback, as if your tone had shattered an invisible barrier between you. The moment stretched, filled with an unspoken tension that danced in the air, palpable yet elusive. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a warmth, a promise, "I thought I had made myself clear, Sweetheart. I'm not gonna put you up to that shit alone anymore." His words, sincere and unwavering, offered a beacon of solidarity in the chaos that had become your existence.

You found yourself at a crossroads, teetering between skepticism and the yearning to believe in the possibility of an ally. It was a delicate balance, the choice to trust, to lean into the uncertainty rather than retreat into the familiar embrace of solitude. With a quiet resolve, you chose hope over despair. "Let's get out of here," you agreed, stepping into a future uncertain yet suddenly less daunting with Billy by your side.

The journey to Hawkins High was a study in contrasts, the roar of Billy's Camaro slicing through the quiet streets, a herald of change. Anxiety gnawed at you, the prospect of walking into school with Billy Hargrove by your side—a notion so fraught with implications, real and imagined. His presence was a double-edged sword, offering protection yet drawing attention, the weight of countless eyes a tangible pressure against your skin.

Yet, as you emerged from the car, Billy's protective aura enveloped you, his glares warding off the curious and the judgmental alike. He became your shield, a guardian against the world's harsh judgments, his reluctance to leave your side a testament to a burgeoning bond, forged in adversity and softened in moments of shared vulnerability.

The day passed in a blur, the rhythm of school life punctuated by Billy's steadfast companionship, a promise kept. And when the final bell rang, it was his car that awaited, Max in the backseat, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics of your intertwined lives.

The drive home was a brief interlude, a moment of calm before the next chapter. Billy's insistence on ensuring your safety, his promise to meet at the Hawkins Community Pool, was a new thread in the tapestry of your unfolding story.

…

The pool, a place of childhood traumas and lost innocence, loomed large in your memories. Yet, as you drove towards it, the realization that Billy had carved out a space for himself there, as a lifeguard, offered a glimpse into his own attempts at navigating life's turbulent waters. The parking lot was deserted, save for the familiar silhouette of Billy's Camaro. The unlocked gate stood as an invitation, a threshold to cross into a space that was both familiar and fraught with the echoes of past fears.

Yet, in this moment, it was not the specter of childhood bullies that filled your thoughts but the prospect of standing beside Billy in this quiet, abandoned sanctuary. It was an opportunity to redefine the spaces that had once defined you, to reclaim a piece of yourself in the company of someone who was, against all odds, becoming an integral part of your journey. As you navigated through the dimly lit gates, the air hung heavy with the anticipation of the evening. Your voice, laced with a mix of irritation and playful defiance, cut through the quiet, "Billy?" The words fell into the silence, unanswered, as you moved deeper into the shadowy expanse of the pool area. The setting sun cast a soft, yellowish hue over everything, the lights around the pool flickering to life in a welcoming yet eerie glow.

Again, you called out, a whisper tinged with exasperation. "Billy?" It seemed ridiculous, this cat-and-mouse game, and yet, there was a part of you that couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete as you approached the locker rooms, the sound a solitary reminder of your presence in the vast, empty space. With a mix of annoyance and determination, you halted, the frustration evident in your voice as you threatened the unseen presence of Billy Hargrove with playful retribution. “Billy Hargrove, you had better get your butt out here now, or imma kick it when I see it.” No sooner had the words left your lips than you found yourself abruptly pulled backward, a gasp escaping you as you collided with a solid, reassuringly warm chest.

"Damn, Sweetheart," came Billy's hushed voice, a smile evident in its timbre, sending shivers down your spine. "Didn’t know you would be so violent."

The annoyance you felt dissolved into an electrifying tension as you turned within his grasp, your gaze lifting to meet his. The grin adorning his face was infectious, his fingers gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with an intimacy that set your heart racing. There he was, inches away, the warmth of his breath caressing your cheek in the cool air of the locker room. The proximity was intoxicating, a mere tilt of your head away from a kiss that seemed both inevitable and yet delicately suspended in the space between you.

You stood there, caught in his gaze, the world outside the locker room melting away. The anticipation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer without moving. It was a dance of moments and possibilities, each second stretching out as you waited for him to bridge the final distance.

In the soft, flickering light, the realization dawned on you how swiftly and completely Billy Hargrove had ensnared you, his presence alone enough to tilt your world off its axis. And there, in the silence that enveloped you both, you wondered if he too felt the gravity of this moment, this turning point that seemed poised to redefine everything. His hand, a warm presence against your skin, retreated, leaving a cool trail of longing in its wake. As he stepped back, the absence of his touch was immediate and stark, a silent protest forming in the back of your mind, yearning for the connection you were on the cusp of deepening. You watched him, a mix of emotions swirling within you. The situation had spiraled into a realm of the ridiculous—a term that barely scratched the surface of this intricate dance you both found yourselves entangled in.

"What are we doing here, Billy? It's still way too cold to go swimming." Your voice carried a hint of bewilderment, laced with a curiosity that refused to be quelled.

His response came with that signature grin, a look that promised mischief and excitement in equal measure. "Who said anything about hopping into the pool, Sweetheart?" The question hung between you, playful and inviting. As he pulled you along, a sense of adventure bubbled within you, despite the confusion that furrowed your brow.

The sauna loomed ahead, a promise of warmth and perhaps something more—an intimacy yet explored. Billy's excitement was palpable, his enthusiasm for the job and its perks infectious. "Since I'm going to be working here, I thought I'd show you what kind of privileges you could have over the summer."

"Privileges I could have?" The concept seemed foreign, amusing even. A sauna, of all things, wasn't exactly on your list of desired amenities. The skepticism must have been clear upon your face as you questioned the appeal, the idea of sweating in a small room hardly enticing.

"You'll see what I'm talking about," he assured you, his confidence unwavering.

As he opened the door to the sauna, a wave of heat greeted you, enveloping your senses in a cocoon of warmth that was surprisingly welcoming. The wood-paneled room, with its benches lining the walls and the gentle hum of heat radiating from the stones, offered a retreat from the world outside. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the chaos of daily life could not penetrate.

Billy's hand found yours once again, his touch grounding as he led you inside. The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in this haven of warmth and whispered promises. As you took a seat, the heat began to work its magic, loosening muscles and easing tensions you hadn't even realized you carried.

The air, thick with warmth, seemed to draw you both closer, an unspoken invitation to explore the connection that had been building between you. Here, in the seclusion of the sauna, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in a space where time seemed to slow, where every breath and heartbeat felt magnified.

Billy's gaze met yours, a question lingering in the depth of his eyes, a silent query if you were ready to dive into the unknown together. In that moment, the sauna became more than just a room—it became a crucible for whatever was simmering between you, a place where the heat wasn't just physical but emotional, a catalyst for desires and confessions yet unspoken.

The air vibrated with anticipation, each moment stretching, filled with the promise of revelations and a closeness that went beyond the physical. In the dim light and enveloping warmth of the sauna, you realized that this wasn't just about the privileges of summer or the novelty of a new experience. It was about discovering each other, about unraveling the layers of connection that had drawn you together.

Pent-up was merely one of many ways to describe what you were feeling, with his fingers dancing beneath your shirt and withdrawing as quickly as they had come—a teasing grin on his face, making you aware that Billy knew exactly of the effect he had on you. “You’re such an asshole, you know?” You hissed, frown deepening as he pulled his shirt over his head and put it down on the bench, using it to sit on.

He chuckled lowly, hands threading through his wild locks, tongue running over the sharp edges of his teeth. “’C’mere,” he simply stated, fingers moving in a lazy motion to accompany his words. You hesitated for a second, lips catching between your teeth as you moved forward and into his grasp. “You gotta be so hot, Sweetheart,” he started, fingers already working at removing your top. “Let’s take this off, hm?”

Words vanishing from your lips, just as quick as your common sense, you nodded, letting him pull the shirt over your head. You didn’t know where it ended up, didn’t—couldn’t—care when his hands started unbuttoning your pants with swift movements. The loose article of clothing fell from your form and Billy’s hands instantly went forward, grasping your thighs and pulling you closer. He groaned greedily, fingers digging deeper into your flesh as he nosed along your stomach and the line of your panties. There was an incessant fluttering in your stomach as his tongue slowly slid from your naval lower.

 “Billy,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shot, as his teeth pulled on the fabric of your panties, your hands falling to his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He mused, fingers sliding to the sides of your panties, before hooking his thumbs in the cotton. Flashing a grin up to your dizzy frame, he started pulling the fabric down your legs. “S’there something you wanna ask me, baby?” You shook your head in answer, swallowing heavily as you felt the cotton drop at your feet. “Had me so hard the whole day,” he groaned, pressing a sudden kiss to your core and you went rigid in anticipation. Heat gathered low in your stomach, down to your unsatisfied center.

“Kept thinking ‘bout pulling you into the locker room and fucking you stupid.” At the moan that tumbled from your throat, a dark chuckle fell from his lips. “Yeah, you’d have liked that, Sweetheart, ain’t that right?”

You whispered again, “Billy,” you tone edged with want.

“Hm?” He hummed, raising a casual brow at you as though his fingers weren’t trailing along the seams of your core. Even if he seemed utterly unaffected by the moment, you noticed the slight shift in his hips, as he adjusted himself. You forced yourself to swallow, eyes straying to the hardening bulge in his tight jeans. So terribly affected by only the thought of him, another rush of heat slithered to the pit of your stomach and lower. “C’mere here,” Billy said again, leading you onto his thigh with a quiet wickedness that set your chest aflame. He chuckled at your hesitance as you slowly settled on his thigh, the pressure against your core immediately pulling a whimper from you. His rough hand slid back to your hips, gripping tightly as the other one found your neck and brought your lips to his.

Sweat was leisurely building at the nape of your neck, a result of not only the sauna’s heat but Billy’s unhinged action, as he started to move you on his thigh. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck with a low moan, desire overshadowing your humiliation as you started to follow the pressure of his hand. Your head was starting to float with pleasure when Billy lifted his leg a little, the rough material of his jeans hitting your small bundle of nerves. A whimper slipped from your lips and onto Billy’s glistening skin. His thigh beneath your core felt so thick and sturdy, as he was whispering words so terribly vile they shook your being. One of his palms snapped harshly against the bared skin of your ass, the slap echoing in the small confinement of the sauna.

“Look at you,” Billy cooed, moving you back on his thigh before he jerked you back forward, your chest flush again his as he held you still. “Making such a mess for me, Sweetheart.” With a particularly hard grin of your hips, you felt his bulge pressing into the side of your thigh, straining beneath the blue fabric of his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, the graze pushing a low groan from Billy’s reddened lips. Trying to move again against his thigh, his arm gripped you closer against him, a broad grin flashing at the needy whine that came from you in response. “Tell me what you need, Sweetheart,” he hushed in such a sinister tone, the devil couldn’t have said it any sweeter.

“You,” you said with no second of hesitation. It wasn’t just an admission of the desire lingering in your core, but a promise of not wanting to fight the world alone anymore. You had done it long enough, both of you.

#billy hargove smut #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #billy hargove x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson

[cottoncandy-cult]

Sengoku Babysitting

I used a wheel to determine which guys I'd write for~

Intro:

"So…Why do you have a stranger's kid?…" (Y/n)'s lover stared blankly at her; a singular eyebrow quirked as he watched how she cradled a sleeping child to her chest. "One of my friends amongst the seamstresses is having to babysit her nephew because her sister is ill, since I've already finished all my commissions I offered to watch him for her." She giggled, gently brushing her fingers over the child's chubby cheeks. Her lover seemed skeptical about toting a kid around the castle, but because of how much fun she seemed to be having he had been willing to just let it happen.

Shingen

The large male chuckled from where he sat next to (Y/n), sipping his tea as he watched his lover settle the baby in her lap so that he was sitting up with his back against her torso. She was currently entertaining the baby with a puppet his aunt had brought from home for him, she was so focused on the giggling baby that she hadn't noticed Shingen's loving stare. At first, he wasn't sure about having an infant in the castle, but (Y/n) had handled every moment like a champ. Even the infant's cries hadn't been enough to frazzle her, instead she went about soothing him with a smile. The scene was enough to make him think, he had been with (Y/n) for some time now and since they were officially married the next logical step was a family. It wasn't something he had put much thought into previously, but seeing his wife playing with and taking care of this baby was enough to have him confronting himself over his own thoughts and feelings of the future. Shingen didn't come out of these thoughts until (Y/n) moved to sit beside him, the little baby giggling happily as its tiny hand grabbed hold of his sleeve. With a warm smile and large gentle hands, Shingen lifted the baby up to his level. "Not even 3 years old and you're a lady killer, what are you parents gonna do with you?" The baby giggled loudly as Shingen gently bounced him up and down, (Y/n) taking the moment of freedom to snag a skewer of mochi and begin digging into her own snack. "He really is adorable; his parents must have amazing genetics." (Y/n) giggled, watching her husband play with the baby boy was she ate her snack. She couldn't help but focus on her lover's grinning face, she took a good hard look at his features as she did her best to imagine him as a baby. She'd be lying if she claimed to have never thought about having a family with him, many early mornings were spent getting ready together and wondering how things would change when they had a child of their own. She couldn't help but gaze at the love of her life, wondering what he had looked like as a baby. Given how big Shingen was, she was confident he was the chubbiest of babies. A thought that made her cheeks flush as she smiled, the thought of having a chubby baby just made her happy.

Of course, Shingen had similar thoughts, especially when they walked through the Castel town and the children would recognize his goddess. The way they get so excited, wanting nothing more than to play and talk with the woman he loved. Sometimes he found himself daydreaming, wondering when the day would come that he'd be looking up from his desk to find his dear wife nurse the fruit of their labors. He's already worked out a few designs for some baby furniture, wanting to make it himself so he knew it was made right. He and his wife had discussed the baby furniture of the future before, the things she described gave him a lot of inspiration. "He's quite small, I was almost afraid to hold him at first." Shingen chuckled, resting the little boy on his leg and gently bouncing him. The large man couldn't help but chuckle as the little boy squealed happily, tiny hands gripping Shingen's sleeves as he bounced comfortably. "i know, it's been so long since I last babysat. When I first saw him, I was almost surprised he wasn't smaller, I forget sometimes they aren't as small as dolls." She giggled, reaching over to gently brush her hand against the thin layer of hair on the little boy's head affectionately. "Perhaps it's my height, but all babies seem absolutely tiny to me." Shingen chuckled, watching her give the boy some affection as she ate. "Probably, you are bigger than most other grown men so I can only imagine how little he must look to you." She giggled, putting down her skewer as she moved closer to Shingen and leaned into his side. She wrapped her arms around one of his, her head resting on his shoulder as she closed her eyes with a soft smile. Shingen could only chuckle, the little boy leaning back against his chest as he seemed to finally tucker himself out. "Now that's a good idea…" Shingen's low voice rumbled in his chest as he spoke softly, gently shifting the little boy to rest in his arm. "Since you finished your snack, why not come here and join me for a nap. The weather is wonderful." Shingen opened his arm, leaning back against the wall as his dear wife smiled at him and shook her head in mock-shame. "I suppose a nap won't hurt." She moved closer to him, slipping under his arm now and snuggled into him as she rested her head on his chest. Shingen had the boy cradled on his lap, leaning against his torso comfortably. It didn't take long for (Y/n) to sleep, Shingen had stayed awake a bit longer though. He wanted to enjoy the sight of holding his lover like this, looking down on the boy and that was how he KNEW it was about damn time he spoke to his wife about starting their family.

Kanetsugu

Kanetsugu stood speaking before a crowd of other vassals, it was a pretty standard meeting so why were these men staring at the man of the house? Because sat on his hip as he spoke was a 3-year-old girl, she was awake but quite content with the gentle bouncing and the sound of Kanetsugu's voice. His wife had to run into town to buy some stuff, so he had offered to watch the little girl since he had nothing to do after this meeting was over with. The little girl had been absolutely smitten with Kanetsugu, lighting up every time she saw him in a way similar to how his wife seemed to brighten whenever he'd come home at the end of the day. It made Kanetsugu chuckle whenever he saw it, this little girl reminded him of both his wife and his younger siblings. He took great part in raising his siblings, he remembered when they were all little like this and those memories were quite dear to him. At the end of the meeting Kanetsugu made his way to the kitchen, paying no mind to the odd stares he got and the whispers that followed him down the hall. He wanted to get the little girl a snack, so he planned to fix her some peaches since they were soft and easy to eat. On his way there he noticed his lover on her way down the hall. She was coming from the direction of their room, meaning she had dropped off her shopping. The young woman's face lit up; he couldn't help but give a slight smile at how she rushed up to him with her own wide grin. "I take it the meeting is over? Thanks for watching her while I ran into town." (y/n) smiled, reaching out to playfully poke the little girl's side and listen to her giggle. They exchanged the little girl, who had smuggled into (Y/n)'s chest. No doubt the woman was a bit more comfortable to lay on, for obvious reasons. "I was on my way to the kitchen to get her a snack, so it's perfect timing on your part. It'll be easier than cutting a peach one handed." He gently took her hand, since getting married, he had begun doing this any time they were together. She was his wife, something he was proud of and more than willing to display. "Food sounds good, lunch should be coming round soon. So hopefully she'll be done eating before then and we can eat without too much trouble." (Y/n) smiled up at Kanetsugu, the little girl resting on her arm and curled against her chest. She was sucking on her thumb, content with the steady sway of the woman's walk cycle.

"Maybe if we're lucky we can put her down for a nap after her snack, she hasn't had one today yet so it's about that time anyways." Kanetsugu lead his lover to the kitchen, his free hand running through his own hair as he found his gaze wandering away from the sky as he took in the sight of his lover with her friend's baby. It was such a domestic sight, something that made an odd feeling stir in him. He had never actually thought about it in depth, he knew he wanted a family, but he had never put a whole lot of thought into it. But confronted with the glimpse before him, it was like something was stirring awake. He no longer just wanted a family with her, he needed one. The thought of having evidence of their love made his heart speed up, a sort of primal shift growing inside of him at the thought of her having his child. It wasn't just animalistic desire though; his protective instinct was starting to twitch awake. To have a family with his wife, that would truly be his peace. It was like a new goal came into focus; one he couldn't wait to discuss with her later once the little girl had gone home with her mother for the night. So, for now he had to settle for gently squeezing her hand, giving her a fond gaze as he watched her talk about her experience at the market. When her gaze suddenly caught his, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. Leaving her flustered as he released her hand and stepped through the threshold and into the kitchen. She stood at the doorway, watching him with curiosity as she failed to fight the love-struck smile that crossed her face when watching the man, she loved prepare food for the little girl in their care.

Motonari

Motonari watched his wife with a grumpy pout, on her lap was a 4-year-old that had proven to be the bane of this man's existence. This little boy would not accept anyone but her, and God forbid Motonari be allowed to hug or touch his wife. The boy didn't throw a hissy fit, oh no, worse yet the little boy would hold his palm out to Motonari with a firm but docile "No." With the most expressionless stare Motonari has seen in his life, he hadn't been able to so much as hug his wife with this little boy around. The kid refused to be held by anyone else, he was always giving Motonari such a blank faced stare and it never failed to make the man laugh out of mild frustration. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous he felt. He was competing with a kid for his wife, and it wasn't even his kid. At the end of the day, this kid goes home with someone else, so there is NO competition. Each time Motonari reminded himself of this, rolling his eyes at the jealous side that was near desperate to hold her hand. Though there was some odd part of him that was satisfied with watching his wife interact with this little boy, even when he was fussy, she was calm as can be when handling him. Plus, there was the pride he took in having a wife so loved by so many people, she was the prize jewel out of all his treasures. Currently the two were waiting for the little boy's aunt, (Y/n)'s friend, to come and pick up the little boy for the night. The sun was an hour or two from setting, and he was doing his best to be patient as he had a staring contest with the little boy. At least until the child reached out to him, making a grabby motion that had (Y/n) lighting up. "Aw, he wants you to hold him!" She was excited, moving closer to Motonari, who for just a moment was panicking, he did not have a plan for this particular option. So he had let his wife lead him into holding the little boy on his lap, the boy sat with his back to Motonari's chest. His little head was leaned back on Motonari's collarbone, he still had one hand holding onto (Y/n)'s finger so she had to sit against Motonari's side. Seizing his chance, he slid his free arm around her waist as his other was draped over the boy's stomach to keep him steady.

"I guess you respecting his boundaries earned his trust, that's so sweet." She smiled brightly, nuzzling Motonari's shoulder in a way that never ceased to make him melt inside. This was a situation he had never imagined in his life, the male having never actually thought about having kids of his own. Sure, he knew kids existed, but he never thought about HIS kids existing. This whole situation felt so surreal, looking down at his lover and this child no longer felt real. All of a sudden it felt dreamlike, as if he was discovering something for the first time. A wide array of emotions overwhelmed him, from a strange anxiety to what could only be described as an intense contentment. He had come a long way from the person he was when he and his wife first met, but even still to have such a large discovery out of nowhere was almost startling. He hadn't felt like this since he first realized he truly loved his wife; it was a feeling that could be described with the word emotion. It was so much at once, and yet he felt calm in an odd way. His face was flaming, silently staring at his lover as he processed everything. Of course she had noticed his stare, she had trying speaking to him, but he never responded and now she was simply flustered by the look he was giving her. It was almost innocent, the flustered look mixed with confusion and surprise. Leaning forward she placed a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose, suddenly bursting the bubble he had previously been absorbed in. It took every ounce of self-control in him not to jump, he had already embarrassed himself enough today. The hand that had been around her waist came up, pulling her close and tucking her head into the crook of his neck as he tried to hide his flustered state. These new realizations had him feeling energized in an odd way, he simply had to have her close right now. He knew the look on his face was probably quite out of character for him, and he was embarrassed to admit how little control he actually had over his current behavior. He wanted to hide his emotional state, and what better way to do that then basking in the affection and the touch of his wife that he had wanted all day. Once the boy was returned, he planned to spend the rest of the day and night with his wife in their room. He wanted only her presence, only her voice and scent. Only her.

Masamune

(Y/n) currently sat at a banquet between her boss Nobunaga and her lover Masamune, across from her was Mitsuhide and Hideyoshi. Meanwhile in her lap was a 1-one-year old little girl, the niece of a friend that was taking care of her sister until the woman's husband got home from work. Because of that (Y/n) had brought the baby to the banquet, it was fairly late, and the baby was full from where (Y/n) had taken the baby home long enough to eat and give the mom a chance to see her. The little girl had been quite content after eating, and so now she was happily babbling away at Keiji while Masamune fed his wife a bit of rice. "I shouldn't be surprised you volunteered for such a task; you always do manage to find the most amusing situations." Mitsuhide chuckled from across the woman, drinking some sake and letting a servant refill it. "She was a little fussy at first, but once she got comfortable with us it got a bit easier. Her aunt should be back to get her soon. She's just waiting for the woman's husband to come home to take care of his wife." Masamune chuckled, sitting close to his lover's side as he'd raise bites for her to take and fed her her meal before he had even touched his. He had spent most the day doing paperwork, which left (Y/n) to bear the brunt of the child's care. He wanted to give her a small break and help out now that he wasn't busy, plus he had been wanting to give her some love all day. She was just too cute, playing with and fawning over the baby girl currently in her arms. Looking at the little girl he could admit she was cute, but he just knew their baby would be even cuter. If he had a little girl that looked just like his wife, he'd be over the moon. In truth he wanted a larger family, something he and his lover had discussed many times. They want quite a few children; they hadn't really been trying for kids as of late but also hadn't been avoiding it either. But today made him feel it was time, seeing the way she cared for the little girl, even when she screamed and cried, had reaffirmed in him that they could do this, and it was about time to take the first steps officially.

Once his wife had finished her food he had set the chopsticks down, using one hand to hold one of her own as the other brought his cup of tea up to his lips so he could take a sip. "It seems so natural; I was worried you'd struggle with her when I first saw you in the halls this morning. But you seem to have everything under control." Hideyoshi smiled, taking a bite of some roasted vegetables while observing the baby girl in his friend's lap. Despite all the noise she almost seemed ready to fall asleep, the group laughing at how her tiny head bobbed before she finally gave up and completely rested across the woman's lap as her haori functioned as a makeshift cover. "I won't lie it was hard to be calm sometimes, but I eventually found a good rhythm for cycling through what she wanted or needed until I could find what I needed. Then it just kinda got easier to tell what she was wanting, plus after visiting her mom to drink her fill she's been quite content and a lot less fussy." (Y/n) giggled, gently rubbing the baby's stomach with her free hand. She watched the baby sleep with a fond gaze, her mind wandering to places that her observant friends could easily predict. For Nobunaga, Mitsuhide, and Hideyoshi; it was the same look Masamune got any time they noticed him watching her interact with the little girl. Oh yes, they knew it was only a matter of time before they had children running about the castle whenever the pair would come to visit from Aoba. "Well, at least you'll have practice for when you and Lord Masamune have a child. It'll be quite the sight to see." Mitsunari spoke openly with a fond smile on his face, and as flustered as it made her, (Y/n) couldn't fight the smile she felt forming on her face. She'd be lying if she said taking care of the little girl made her wonder how things would be when they DID have their own child, she'd love to have a little boy that looked just like her husband. Though she had known for a while she wants more than one child, as aware as she is of what childbirth is like in this era she wouldn't miss the chance to have the family she desires with the man she loves. "You guys will be the first we tell when I fall pregnant, I promise Mitsunari." She giggled some, at least until she felt Masamune's arm wrap around her waist. "It'll be more than that, we'll be staying here during your pregnancy that way I can be sure of your safety. Plus, Ieyasu will be a boon to have on standby." The blonde let out an indignant snort but said nothing back. The fussy blonde being surprisingly quiet about Masamune's desire to have him care for Hime in such a state, and none of the other warlords seemed bothered at the idea of a pregnant woman waddling around the castle. Something that both embarrassed (Y/n) and made her feel overjoyed, as she knew she had everyone's support when it came time for this new step in her life.

Kenshin

Everyone stared intently at the trio during a war council, sitting in his usual place was Kenshin. And as per usual, he was the one making a scene. In his lap sat his wife, odd but not entirely unexpected. And then on her lap was a little boy, a 4-year-old she had volunteered to watch during the day for her friend who was caring for an ill family member. The group had been stuck at the hip since the little boy's arrival, though at first Kenshin had been a little jealous and that had been why he was being more openly affectionate than usual. But it was less than 2 hours before his reasoning shifted, some part of him deeply enjoyed watching his wife happily interact with the child. He had thought about having a family with her for many years, even before they had married. Though he had yet to put his desires into words, he didn't want to pressure her and had originally decided he'd just wait for her to approach him when she was ready. But now, while Kanetsugu went over his report for his recent observation mission, Kenshin wanted nothing more than a way to bring up his desires without pressuring his love. Starting a family was a big deal after all, he didn't want her to force herself into something she isn't ready for just to try and please him. Kenshin was staring off into the distance, his chin resting on the top of his lover's head while the little boy in her lap played with a stuffed animal. His vassals watched, absolutely astonished. Even Shingen was quite intrigued with his friend's behavior, meanwhile Kanetsugu could feel his eye twitching as he figured out long ago his Lord was barely listening, and they'd probably have to talk about this again later. Of course (Y/n) wasn't dumb, she could tell what everyone was thinking, and she did kind of feel bad for Kanetsugu. Before Kanetsugu left for his mission Kenshin had the Fearsome God of war, when he returned however he was Kenshin Lord of the bunnies. Sure, he still went to war, but he had changed in many ways. Kanetsugu could recognize the good, but he often found himself surprised at how (Y/n) brought out a childlike behavior in Kenshin.

Sometimes it made Kanetsugu want to laugh, but when his Lord is just blank face no thought staring at him in the middle of a war council, he wanted to throw something. Not that he actually would. He tried to soothe himself by observing his Lord's situation while he spoke, knowing that at least Shingen, Yukimura and Sasuke were listening. From the outside, you'd almost think they were a family. A thought that did calm the white-haired male's irritation, his Lord seemed so content. Kenshin was always quite happy when he had (Y/n) in his lap, but the addition of the child seemed to bring something out of the male. Kanetsugu didn't miss how his lord had gently pulled his wife closer, the blonde man's hand occasionally coming up to pet the little boy on the head absent mindedly. It only further reassured Kanetsugu's expectation that this is likely going to be the future, he wasn't quite sure how he was gonna handle this, but he was sure it was going to involve late night drinks with a recap of the war council. By the time Kanetsugu had come to this conclusion he had finished his explanation of the survey he had been sent on, and as he stepped back to return to his previous seat Kenshin seemed to realize that everything was over. On the outside Kenshin seemed somewhat normal, but Kanetsugu could see the slight surprise in his lord's features upon realizing he had missed the entire council. "I see, I do have a few questions, but we can discuss those later. Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?" Kenshin gazed around the room, wanting to make sure there wasn't anything left to discuss before he dismissed the meeting. When it was concluded that there was nothing else to talk about, Kenshin released everyone to go back to their daily duties. "It's almost time for lunch Kenshin, did you want to go out to eat? The weather has been nice the past few days." (Y/n) smiled, leaning back so that she rested against his chest. Her head leaned back against his shoulder, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek with a warm smile. After the door had been closed and everyone left, she let the little boy up so that he could explore the room a bit. Where the two adults sat, they could see every corner of the room and could easily monitor him. "Sure, we can make a date of it. The little one won't notice, and we can stop by a tea house for dessert after if you want." Though Kenshin didn't really like sweets, he still enjoyed the tea house atmosphere while he watched her enjoy her desserts. "You know me too well." She giggled, pressing another kiss to his cheek as they spent a few quiet moments in each other's arms. Watching over the little boy in front of them, both having only the thought of discussing family with each other at the end of the night.

#candy cult vault #fluff #x reader #fem reader #ikemen sengoku #kenshin uesugi #shingen takeda #kanetsugu naoe #Masamune date #motonari mouri #ikesen #ikemen series #ikemen sengoku scenarios #ikesen kenshin #ikemen sengoku kenshin #ikesen shingen #ikemen sengoku shingen #ikesen kanetsugu #ikemen sengoku kanetsugu #ikesen masamune #ikemen sengoku masamune #ikesen motonari #ikemen sengoku motonari

[year2000electronics]

OHENSBNDMDNG okokokok let me tell you a story. While thinking back on brozone's flashback at the start of band together, my mind fell on grandma Rosie Puff, and how I've come to be really intrigued in her. How did she end up having to raise all of brozone on her own? Where the hell are their parents? But most importantly, how can we make one of the only other character traits of hers that have not much to do with brozone have some sort of hidden lore to it? I'm talking about the scene where she shows to be very very enthusiastic and serious about rummy, and supposedly other gambling games.

And for a while I've been SUCKIJG AND CHEWING on that crumb of bread. LITERALLY.

What could this mean for the world of trolls? Does gambling exist within singular troll genre clans? Orrrrr is there some sort of clandestine gambling world going on outside of the old troll tree where trolls of all different backgrounds and obscured pasts come together to gamble together? What the hell am I on?

But anyway! That thought never really went anywhere. It just stood in my mind. But I had no idea what to do with it.

And then.... Your trolls Royal Flush au came out of NOWHERE.

I've only just started reading the Google doc and I've gotten past the adaptation of brozone's fallout and, I just gotta say that I really appreciate you giving Rosiepuff a whole lot more autonomy and control over a bad situation. Instead of just staying in one place, where she barely made any huge life decisions that affected Branch (other than sacrificing herself) and having a very vague picture of what kind of person she was, this single paragraph in your Google doc about what she and branch did after brozone disbanded has done A WHOLE TON OF HEAVY LIFTING TO CHARACTERIZE HER THAT I REALLY, REALLY HOLD DEAR.

How she probably became a beam of hope to little baby branch after realizing his brothers are never coming back.

How her bold decision to completely change her and branch's life for a better future, makes her a strong, determined, and confident person.

How... She must've been the ONLY PERSON in Branch's life he could still rely on at that point.

Its just... I've known this lady for a single paragraph but her death just means so much more, and HURTS so much more. Dying in the place she used to thrive in.

SUDDENLY THIS BEAM OF HOPE, THAT WAS THE MAIN SOURCE OF BRANCH'S STRENGTH was taken away from him. So suddenly. So unexpectedly.

I'M GONNA KILL MYSELF

Sorry I went on and on about a character who had one paragraph dedicated to her.

But she also got one paragraph

So therefore she's worth talking about.

In trolls one, we're supposed to care about Grandma Rosiepuff's death because of her assumed importance to Branch without really knowing ANYTHING about her.

But in this AU, you just painted such a clear image of her, we knew her for one paragraph but we also realized she's all that Branch had for a good portion of his lonely childhood. So much more than just one scene of her being taken by a berger, than just one paragraph.

Just!!!!!!!!!! I'm happy I'm really happy with what you did with Rosiepuff. Slay in peace, sweetheart.

BUT NOT JUST THAT-

THIS ENTIRE AU'S WORLD BUILDING.... Is really really thorough!!!!! Like!!!!! It's so well done!!!!! I loved the introduction to the world at the start of the Google doc, AND I LOVED HOW YOU INCORPORATED THIS WORLD BUILDING FOR ROSIEPUFF'S BACKSTORY.

AGHJHHHH I NEED TO CONTINUE READING

Thank you if you went this far!!!!! You deserve roses for all the amazing work you have ever put out into this world big or small, I'm excited to see where this goes.

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

THANK YOU SO MUCH AAA!! yeah i knew that if i was doing a big casino au i couldnt NOT give grandma rosiepuff some connection to it i mean come ON!! i think thats generally a big overarching theme of how the city of luxgoode takes advantage of vulnerable people and like, taunting them as if risk can make their dreams come true. people will ruin their own lives if they can save the ones they love, even for some of the casino owners (gristle and creek obvi but i think even chaz is a lower rung in this system, it goes up to the 1% mount rageons, especially and mostly v&v's parents)

i also just. love the idea of brozone sharing traits w their grandma. jd may have pulled a lot of the weight but she did raise them too!

#mothra answers #trolls #royal flush au #my art #TY FOR ALL THE KIND WORDS THEY MADE ME SMILE

[call-of-ishmael]

Canto V and Ishmael's suicidal ideation

When the trailer for Canto V came out the narration over it and the tone gave me a lot of vibes of themes of suicidal ideation.

It wasnt present in the way id expect, but it was there and id like to talk about it

1. Her days prior to the Pequod

Ishmaels life before being a sailor isnt talked about much in her Canto, what we see though is pretty interesting

She expresses how she has come to hate the expectations, you work your ass off studying, getting degrees, applying to offices, to net you the job and life everyone says you should have.

A very interesting point to make is how she talks about it. The dread she feels as she expresses that thinking ahead thinking how this is gonna be her whole life, makes her feel empty.

"I didnt know if i wanted to die or if i just wanted my life to be different" [paraphrasing here] is a line we hear in this scene, however its followed up by her saying if she had to die somewhere itd be at the sea. She is unsure if what she wanted was to die, but her actions and thoughts point us that way, she frames it as where she wants her final resting place to be

2. The Pequod

Ishmael is from Ucorps Nest, The Great Lake should not be uncommon knowledge to the residents, a place full of monsters, where its known sailors who cant take it anymore jump into the waves to be free. And this is the place she wished to go to. She makes a desicion to join a ship that would take just about anyone to hunt whales.

In that gesture we see more of the previously mentioned thinking, she says shes not sure she wants to die but jumped into one of the most dangerous jobs around pretty quickly

In the Pequod she also experiences more trauma that leads her downwards even more, a controlling figure, molding everyone there into who they want them to be, a constant fear of death, endless fights against monsters, and eventually the loss of who she loved.

But its also a moment where we are shown, once she found some support, once she and Queequeg started working together towards a life goal she became determined to survive, she had a clear idea of where to go, a compass to follow. Before it was taken away.

3. Limbus Company, and Canto V

During the events of Limbus Company prior to Canto V we see Ishmael as a pretty driven person, she doesnt wanna die, at first, shes kept alive by a singular goal to find Ahab

By 4.5 and V we see this is, again, a self destructive endeavor

Her unique status effect "Compulsion" during the chapter is a way to communicate shes hurting herself constantly during this Canto, her usual ability to keep calm to not be consumed by her fears, worries, obsessions and compulsions falls apart

Ishmael at many points doesnt seem like she wants to come back alive, she willingly enters into the body of the whale only knowing she has something that can delay pallidification, not having a good plan to escape. She constantly tosses herself into danger, not caring how she gets hurt.

One of the more interesting tidbits is entering the dungeon. The first EGO gift she gains, exclusively applying effects to her, is a noose.

Its a culmination of the message, shes been hurting herself this whole time, she charges ahead, to kill that bastard, to kill Ahab. If she dies, its fine by her

And then the turning point is on the CG used for this section, another blatant gesture of letting her own life go, letting the membrane form around her, letting herself be consumed.

When shes broken out out the membrane it mirrors queequeg saving her in the past, the person who made her think of the future for once, to WANT to have a future.

Its the moment she realizes the sinners have been there for her, she has blinded herself to not think of any of the good moments, not even the ones she had with Queequeg.

She realizes shes not alone anymore

And she wants to live, somehow, she might not know how, but that hasnt stopped her before

Her compass is curiosity after all, she will find her path.

#cw sui mention #cw sui ideation #cw suicide #limbus company #ishmael lcb #ishmael limbus company #canto v spoilers

[wilcze-kudly]

I watched Korra again for the Weilin but I still Don’t Get It even though I want to!!! Can you give me the rundown/pitch/Weilin 101??

Oh boy I am so sorry I made such a fuss to over weilin you felt like you needed to rewatch the show for it.

So basically, Wei and Bolin don't have many interactions in canon. In fact I would say that there are only two scenes that properly count as one on one interactions. Its also important to note that the only Beifong twin Bolin ever interacts with as a singular person rarher than a pair is Wei. He never interacts with Wing unless he is addressing both twins.

The first interaction between Bolin and Wei is during B3 when Bolin is trying and failing miserably to learn metalbending. Wei seems annoyed to be stuck with someone who doesn't know metalbending and decides to sandwich Bo between two metal plates. As you do.

He then claims that 'trial by fire' is the best way to learn metalbending. Since Wei is such a minor character, we don't know enough about him to be able to fully pinpoint where this action came from. Does Wei genuinely think that bodily harm is the best way to learn a martial art? Was he trying to distract Bolin from his constant failure to bend metal? Was this the equivalent of a puppy biting someone as an attempt to initiate playtime? Is he just a douche?

We will probably never know. Thanks nickelodeon.

Bolin does eventually return the gesture in kind, getting his own petty revenge. And hitting Wei in the head with a pebble.

I like this scene, because it showcases Bolin's pettier side. One that rarely, if ever comes out with his canon romantic interests. Bolin is a character that has a habit of reigning in his less palatable traits, in order to appeal more to the people around him. His petty and more sarcastic nature is reserved mainly for Mako, probably the person he feels most comfortable with.

I think it's a very fun thing to see this side of him flare up with this random guy and it gave me thought about how their relationship could incorporate this. Wei enjoying pressing Bolin's buttons, causing Bolin to showcase more of his more authentic self.

They so seem to both have a passion for sports and earthbending which is cute. They're both competitive which adds some nice flavour and potential spicy sparring scenes.

The next scene is the famed catch n' pat.

Youre gonna tell me this wasn't at least a bit fruity?

The prolonged eye contact? The damsel in distress imagery? Bolin's lil smirk that is soon replaced with bisexual confusiom?

Imo they have a lot of chemisrty in both these scenes and make me want more of their relationship.

I also think it would be very interesting to see Bolin develop feelings for a guy. We see that he puts his female love interests on a certain pedestal. Id assume this is due to a rather naive and innocent view of love, most likely due to the fact that he didn't get to emotionally mature enough to acknowledge that romance isn't like what the fairytales say it is.

It would be interesting to see Bolin not get to 'court' said male romantic interest like he usually does. Bolin wouldn't be as 'showmany' with a guy friend than with a girl he'd like to seduce. This causes an interesting dynamic to the relationship if Bolin were to want to seduce said guy, who has seen him with his guard down.

Also seeing comphet boy Bolin going through a crisis of sexuality because his (ex?) girlfriend's brother patted his face is very appealing to me

I think what entices me in weilin is being able to have a dynamic no other ship could fully offer Bolin. And the potential of character growth it could afford Bolin, a character whose complexity is often overlooked, much to my upset. Personally, I dislike all of Bolin's canon relationships, so when Weilin came chemistry guns a blazing I was very intrigued. And then I fell down the rabbit hole and now im here.

If you have any more questions on Weilin please feel free to ask! I'm over the moon to ramble about them to whoever will listen. Hope this was enough to start you off with.

Also, if you're interested, I have a concerningly long essay on the subject because I am very sane and normal about them:

Rest assured my feelings have since evolved and i now have more reasons to ship them.

I guess there's so much fun to have with this ship and the dynamics and stories they could have.

#more weilin propaganda #weilin #wei x bolin #bolin x wei #wei beifong #wei #bolin #legend of korra #tlok #the legend of korra #avatar #avatar the legend of korra #atlok

[granulesofsand]

Integration

🗝️🏷️ healing goals, you singular or indefinite, you& plural or semi-plural

This is a reminder that we are pursuing a Secret Third Option for our system, and we are doing this because we don’t agree with the generalizations made regarding what Functional Multiplicity entails.

We have already decided that our current goal is not Final Fusion. Not many of us want that total integration (as it stands), and the details of that route have been harmful to our systems in the past.

It’s the insistence on integration that irks us. You certainly do not need any one thing to heal, and integration is a very broad topic to decide is all around necessary.

Any system can make any level of integration part of their healing, and many do. Integration is still a lot of small changes that can, but don’t have to, go together.

Memories:

Integration of memories can look like collective memory, where systemmates lower their amnesia barriers until they can agree that a particular memory belongs to everyone involved. This is one of the most common definitions of integration, getting the whole system to identify with every bodily memory. It doesn’t have to be the whole system, and the number of members involved is up to you&.

Integration of memories can also look like memory sharing, where a system member or group retains ownership of a memory while others have access to its contents. This can be done so that all or most of the system is aware of bodily memories, or it can be between a few members for their own purposes.

Memory integration is a good goal for systems working towards fusion and co-consciousness, and there are lots of reasons why this could be both good and bad for a system.

My system does memory sharing in the form of books, movies, and trees, depending on the subgroup. Books are the most common, and usually other forms are written into books as well. Everyone involved puts together the pieces of the event they hold, and then they get to decide who else, if anyone, gets to see.

Doing this helps keeps flashbacks down and reduces confusion and distress of those who otherwise wouldn’t have known what happened to them. Some of the ones who add in clipits don’t want to see the full scene play out, and for them we work on other options to reduce distress.

Abilities:

Integration of skills/traits is a lot like memories. You& can work on flowing together so that everyone has access to all the abilities, or you& can find a means of lending them out temporarily.

Integrating abilities can make working easier on the system, and you& can do it as a natural part of relaxing all amnesia barriers or for a particular task. The collective ownership works differently from the lending, and I think you could use lending to build up to total sharing, so I’m gonna start there.

I’ve heard from systems who do trait transfusion, similar to blood transfusion but without the pain or needles if that’s scary. We view our traits as sets of memories in the shape of an orb, and we can manifest those orbs and literally hand them to someone else. We add conditions to how they can use them and what makes it okay for them to do so, and if they break those rules the orb either flickers out or zooms away to get back to its owner.

No one should feel forced to hand over their abilities or memories. Some folks have a hard time separating out memories from abilities or trauma from memories, and you& can work on that by imagining sifting through and setting down the pieces you don’t want to share.

Both of these, memories and abilities, can be difficult to share without working on trauma first. It can be a bad experience to try to give someone else what you have and accidentally give them pain and big emotions they weren’t ready for.

Blending:

These kinds of integration rely on blending skills. That’s why you have to be careful with the trauma, because you’re giving someone else a chunk of you (or a copy of a chunk), and we don’t always realize how the smaller bits interact until something goes wrong.

Blending is the mix of lowering amnesia barriers and practicing co-consciousness. Two or more things become one, and that can feel different for whoever is doing it.

Some systems have to work long and hard on each member’s self-awareness and how their pieces interact with other members’. Others can bulldoze right on through and are fine to deal with the consequences after. I don’t know if you can bulldoze without consequences, but I find the process of making sure they’re tolerable to be helpful in themselves.

Communication:

Communication might be considered another kind of integration. I don’t see it like that, because it didn’t feel that way when I learned to communicate with others, but lots of systems do. Allowing system members to be aware of each other and reach out to one another can also be a change of barriers, even if it isn’t to the point of blending.

Integration can be broken down indefinitely, and the ways your& system uses integration are up to you&. I do genuinely believe that a system can be healthy with no integration, but that would be a rarity if you’re counting communication; it’s not common for a group of traumatized people to get along fine as is.

Still, no one should be telling you& how to heal, particularly if you’re& already finding your way there. You& can do whatever integration works for you&, or you& can do none of it.

Our system is largely unintegrated. We work on redesigning our barriers to suit us rather than bringing them down and leaving them there. Our primary goal is still making our system ours, and sometimes we make decisions that are externally dysfunctional because they are internally adaptive.

I don’t care about our multiplicity being functional, and I am not alone in that sentiment. I want us to be safe enough and comfortable in our existence, so I am okay with that falling out alignment with what makes us externally useful.

A common process of survivors is learning how to make decisions; what it means to be allowed to choose, whether you can choose well, where the borders lie between boundaries and growing your learning. It’s complicated and difficult, but it can be done.

You& are allowed to decide, and I believe you& can do well for yourselves when you& do, even if it is not today.

#did osdd #osddid #dissociative identity disorder #cdd system #adaptive system #traumagenic system #functional multiplicity #final fusion #secret third option

[inksandpensblog]

I'm gonna make it it's own post so I don't keep scrambling Tulip's notifications. This analysis is inspired by Tulip's speculation here.

How might the series portray Chosen, if they put him in an antagonistic role the next time he appears in-series? Here are my thoughts:

I've always been firm in my deduction that Chosen doesn't want to hurt other stickfigures, or to see other stickfigures be hurt by Dark.

He has no qualms about frikin murdering AIM and doing who-knows-what to all the other icons.

But then he spares Dark for seemingly no reason.

While the two of them are rampaging, Chosen has no qualms about causing destruction on user-dominated sites, or about enacting violence against the possibly-sentient NPCs and PCs in videogames.

It's only when their rampage takes them to Stickpage, and other stickfigures come under their fire, that he begins to falter.

(And then he keeps faltering on Newgrounds, which isn't full of stickfigures, so I took that to mean he just sees web-animations differently from, like, animated videodame sprites for some reason.)

And my biggest piece of evidence for this has always been: judging by ...

the map hanging on his wall

the fact that he launched the first virabot at the IP-sky

the fact that he sent his virabot swarm directly into web-portals open to user-dominated sites

the fact that never, not once, did we see Dark directing any of the virabots towards stick-cities

Dark had never planned on targeting stickfigures with the virabots.

And yet, when Chosen freaks out about it, he only imagines Dark targeting stickfigures with the virabots.

Now, the implications of this communication failure between Chosen and Dark are a whole 'nother essay in and of themselves, but all it means for now is that Chosen doesn't like it when stickfigures are hurt, and he doesn't want to be the one hurting them.

Chosen's one exception to this code-of-conduct, so far, seems to be Dark himself, from the present-day scene in The Flashback and onwards into The Showdown (and, if Dark survived The Second Coming's attack, presumably onwards into the next AvA main series episode). Because, in Chosen's eyes, Dark became a danger to stickfigures.

Chosen caused a lot of collateral damage on alanspc, in his attempts to exterminate the virus. It's possible that this was because the computer belonged to his former abuser, so he felt no need to make any efforts to preserve anything. But it's also possible that Chosen was simply of the mind that what gets destroyed doesn't matter, as long as the source of danger to other stickfigures is eliminated. (The episode's animation barely gives any attention to the color gang, during Chosen's battle, but you'll notice that until the virabot cobbles together an Adobe Animate mec for itself, Chosen did a pretty good job of keeping the virabot on the left side of the desktop, away from where the color gang were stuck. And then once the mec collapses, he keeps it up above them, within the top half of the desktop, once again far away from the color gang, who are unstuck by that point and could theoretically run across the taskbar.)

Dark's status as (in Chosen's mind) a danger to other stickfigures might've just overtaken his status as a stickfigure himself, as well as his status as Chosen's companion.

I'm not saying that Chosen was wrong for this. But I am saying that this proves his morals aren't as cut-and-dry as "don't hurt stickfigures" and "don't let stickfigures get hurt." Because, as AvA5 proves, it's possible for those two rules to conflict with each other.

And now, we come to the rocket org. We don't have an actual name for the enigmatic entities (or possibly singular entity) behind that mysterious rocket logo on the television set and the wanted poster, yet. So I'll be calling them "rocket org." for now.

Due to both of its appearances so far having been within a stick-city, I think it's fair to guess that rocket org. was started by, and is run by, stickfigures.

My theory about web-space exploration notwithstanding, as of now we don't know why rocket org. has connections to the user-dominated site YouTube, or why they are offering rewards for reported sightings of Chosen.

The simplest theory is that rocket org. wants to hunt Chosen down, either to kill him or detain him.

Again, there could be any number of reasons why rocket org. wants to do this. It could be because Chosen hails from beyond the IP-sky barrier. It could be because they saw The Showdown on YouTube; and with Dark seemingly dead, and Orange having returned to the computer, Chosen is a loose end for them to do something about. It could be because rocket org. has stickfigures from Stickpage among its ranks, and they either want revenge or want to contain someone they see as a threat.

But why rocket org. wants Chosen isn't the point of this essay. The point is...how might Chosen respond, to being hunted down by stickfigures, potentially under threat of capture or death?

Chosen doesn't want to hurt stickfigures. But I highly doubt he would concede to being imprisoned once more, no matter who is doing the imprisoning. And something tells me that Chosen wouldn't see himself as a danger to other stickfigures.

And he's already proven that he will make exceptions to his rules.

And it's already been hinted that collateral damage is irrelevant to him, as long as the danger opposing him is handled.

Fear of captivity is not an evil motive. Freedom is not an evil goal.

But what might Chosen be willing to do, to stay out of enemy hands?

I think that, as a character, Chosen has the potential to be a very compelling take on a sympathetic antagonist. And not because of his backstory, but because of how his own choices have shaped him.

#animator vs animation #ava shorts #animator vs animation shorts #ava the chosen one #analysis #theory #speculation #my thoughts

[pprojectluns]

Ok this is about my Muder Drones Singularity AU, the story is not fully done and I’m definitely gonna keep workshopping it.

Now I honestly don't have much of a story for the au but I do have Uzi and Ns characters kinda figures out.

For what I have for the story as of now is that Nori and Khan are alive and are living in the camp without any worries aka no doors :0 aside from a couple of nightmares that Nori has been having about a "singularity event".

Uzi is much more calm and relaxed than in the show though she still has a bit of sass and whitty comebacks. She's just as a little bit smarter than the rest of the worker drones but a lot more curious. Even though, she's not as "emo" as in the show she doesn't have very many friends aside from Thad (might make him her crush or smth idk). She is given a task to go to the basement where she later finds Singularity N

Ok

So the Murder drones are more like dark entities in this universe. Dark, giant, almost demonic creatures who are merciless killers,

Now N is still the golden retriever boi we all love just a bit bigger and a much shorter temper. Once he meets Uzi he tries to kill her (of course) but she's a lot more feisty than she looks. Chasing her took them out of the basement and into the facility where Khan was building his first door. Same as the pilot door betral scene but Nori is there now ig. Uzi is now trapped on the other side with a murderous monster and since the door was a prototype it don't open no more. S.N still pities her cause he's a good boi and relates with her cause he was also left behind by his "pack" (V+J) but is in denial about it.

Both of them get closer as they figure out how to escape the facility and accidentally stumble more into its secrets and the true meaning of the Singularity.

That’s all I really have for now, I would honestly love some feedback or ideas for the story. I would also love to answer any questions you guys may have.

#art #muder drones #story #murder drones uzi #murder drones n #murder drones au #au lore #artists on tumblr

[scarebats]

this is just gonna be me explaining what i like and don’t like about each bttf and going into depth x

be warned my opinions are very strong and i wrote a lot😭

i did not check for spelling or grammar so expect mistakes!!

okay so for the first movie, i personally think that it’s an amazing introduction to a trilogy. in the beginning you’re wonderinf why marty is in a room with a bunch of clocks and such, overall you’re just curious about who he is. then it moves onto when he realizes he’s late for school n stuff. from how people react to him (like mr strickland who is also stinger) you can tell that he doesn’t have the best track record of being polite or tactical. also how it’s obvious how much he cares about jennifer and his music this is actually just me explaining the movie plot shit

BTTF 1

so again i really like how each character is introduced, and i also like how marty and george have more similar traits when they’re both 17, because then they’re basically the same person. they’re in love with a girl, and are passionate about one this but can’t handle rejections. i like how they made marty so similar to 1955 george, but then different in the original 1985 because they didn’t fall in love how they’d wanted (not the best explanation) anyways i also find it funny how doc’s appearance doesn’t change for 30 years. idk i find that funny. and how doc has pictures of famous scientists instead of like family photos in the house that he inherited from his family😭 also!! in the original 1985, doc only had his shed (where the delorian was kept) and next to it was a burger king, and that’s because he blew all of his family fortune on failed projects. very sorry that i keep gettinf off track, i am very passionate about back to the future. anyways! i like how biff is generally the same in 1955 and original 1985, just his behaviour is less justified while he’s 47 years old😭 and in the new 1985 how he’s showed that he learned his place (which kinda confuses me because it was literally a singular punch that did that) but still has that same personality revealed in the second movie

honestly i think that how marty was literally the reason his parents got together, and then 30 years later (to his parents) his dad literally says to him “30 years ago, a young man once told me, you can accomplish anything if you put your mind to it” LIKE HOW COULD HE NOT LOOK AT HIS SON AND THINK “OH SHIT IT WAS YOU” ??? i’m sorry that party makes me very angry. like the REASON that you are married to the love of your life is your son, who just so happens to look exactly like the man that gave you the piece of advice that you now live by. what a coincidence! you even fucking named your son after that man. like ITS SO FRUSTRATING.

BTTF 2

i like how doc and marty’s relationship seems more closely bind together as father-son kind of, also bttf part 2 is my favourite!!! personally, i also enjoy how hill valley generally stays the same, just modified along with the times. like how the clock tower still stands and the café is still in service. it’s also a bit cliche how each movie has basically the same plot, just different scenes. also !! i think it’s cool how they include scenes from the first movie (the enchantment under the sea dance) into the second movie and created a whole new point of view to think about while you watch the first movie again. when griff (biff’s grandson) tries to get martin (marty’s son) along with his friends, the amount of groaning is insane… i’m just enjoying this part of the movie and then marty just takes his son’s hat and pretends to be him and then griff is groaning while spikes come out of nowhere and he fr tries to kill him like what. not to mention that he son is knocked out behind the bar of the café and marty couldn’t give any shits😭 and also how rude those two little kids were when marty was showing them how to play that video game (the one the foreshadows the end of the movie and the bttf part 3) “you have to use your hands!?” YES. YES YOU DO YOU SPOILED BRAT. that’s how they envisioned 2015 in 1988 thats so crazy to me. also jaws 19 😭 that’s just the portion of the movie that’s in 2015 tho. bro how jennifer is literally passed out in an alley for most of that too is so crazy

then like she wakes up and stuff and finds her future self and all that too but that’s not that interesting for me

THE LIKE 9 SCREENS ON ONE TV THAT MARTIN WAS WATCHING ALL AT ONCE.

i like the alternate 1985 where biff turned hill valley into like the strip in las vegas. he literally could’ve actually went to las vegas but he decided to stay in hill valley😭 made a museum of himself too like what. oh yeah i also like how much marty struggles to get the sports book back from biff in 1955 and he literally hides in mr stricklands office and it ends up being some explicit magazine😭 now onto the end of the movie… marty from bttf 1 finally goes back in the delorian and then doc is celebrating that one of his inventions work and stuff. then immediately after marty is already there and he’s like “you fucked shit up”

BTTF 3

i absolutely hate how marty and doc’s character traits were basically flipped in the third movie. like suddenly marty is being reasonable and wants to get home, and doc fr starts saying “this is heavy” LIKE WHAT MARTY WAS DOING FOR THE PAST TWO MOVIES. and then he proceeds to throw any logic that he made clear himself put the window when he met clara😭 the same clara that was supposed to die off of that cliff and then be known as “clayton canyon” or something like that. one scene “me? falling in love? pfft” the very next scene “i will throw away the future of this guy who is like a son to me and myself for you” SHE WAS SUPPOSE TO DIE. i get the love at first sight and all but you’re gonna mess up literally everything man. also i know that they’re living in the old west, but their tans look so unnatural😭 and how 1955 doc specifically tells marty to change his shoes into boots when he gets there and the first thing that happens is he gets chased by a bear and uses the boots as a distraction to get away. those shoes are iconic fr (i own the same shoes) bttf part 3 is my least favourite movie in the franchise, mainly because it completely goes against how the characters act in the other two movies. also how jennifer was sleeping on her front porch since like the middle of bttf part 2 is insane😭 i get that it’s technically been october 25th since the first movie, but please she’s been asleep for like at least a week technically. omg i forgot maddog aka buford tannen😧 he like. challenges marty to a duel and then gets covered in manure again. it’s pretty funny

—

thank you to whoever actually read this💕

#this was originally all typed out on discord #it took me like #40 minutes #very productive use of my time #it’s 3am #i have nothing better to do #so why not make my opinions about my favourite movie trilogy public?! #back to the future #marty mcfly #doc brown #kazanksy

[s0urfangs]

⬇️ TODAYS VICTIM ⬇️

A while ago I wrote [this post] about Dralsin. It is a brief introduction to his backstory. It is also completely wrong! I accidentally made the sylvari version of the astral ward before I met the astral ward.

Readmore for SOtO spoilers btw!!(Not including into the veil! (ﾟωﾟ)

SO, ATTEMPT 2:

Dralsin isn't from the pale tree, and doesn't remember anything from his earlier life. He lives in Lions Arch at the start of the personal story, which is where he meets, and eventually begins dating Fedarys. (Their relationship is an entire issue for another post)

I drank all the juice that SotO gave me and decided that he's from one of the fractals. How did he end up in this specific tyria? NO CLUE. Also tempted to make him limited to one singular timeline somehow.

SO

Fedsy kills him in HoT. We can ignore that issue for a moment, it's relevant only as it tells us: That Boy Is In The Mists, and he has a Difficult Time.

We now know the astral ward was watching a lot of what was going on. I like to think they're watching him like THATS OUR GUY!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS HE UP TO NOW!! He's breached containment...AGAIN? IS HE DEAD OR NOT? (゜_゜)

He learns how to function in the mists surprisingly quickly, I've not pinpointed specifics but I do have him as a revenant.

He ends up back in contact with the ward after a while. Of course, he thinks they're supreme arseholes. But ultimately, he's never felt like he belongs anywhere and really craves that family- so he does try so, so hard to fit in once he realises they're not gonna just try throw him back in a fractal (not even thought about the implications of THAT yet).

He reasons with himself that he's helping from behind the scenes, especially with Fedarys - him being more useful with the ward is a bit of a lie, but ultimately, spending time there does settle him down.

He eventually ends up back in Tyria during PoF. Unsure quite when, but- the ward is watching the commander, and although Dralsin has been trying to help- there has GOT to come a point where you're about to see ur ex who isn't really ur ex(???) Get WRECKED by a god and can't not do something.

Drals is sickeningly loyal and would without a doubt willingly sacrifice all he's learnt to go back to Tyria and punch Balthazar in the face, and I think this is exactly what he does.

I can't decide if I'd want him back just before Feds dies, or after- both are compelling.

This is why he's angry as shit during PoF even if he doesn't realise why. He starts to assume its the dragon champion stuff with Feds, almost goes down a bad path there. Not that Feds is being particularly normal either. They do not have a healthy relationship during this time!!! But Dralsin does not remember what he did!! That he went BACK for him!! They are fools!!!

... it also means that when the two of then reach SotO, Dralsin turning up clueless and the ward bitching about him would be very very funny. 2 me. I like to bully him, u might be able to tell 😔

Also if you read all of this holy shit hi, have the best screenshot I've ever taken of the boy

#today in posts i forgot abt in drafts ..TWO #holy shit i should not have written this on mobile. #ngl its reading kinda janky but its the only way i know how to write it without it being essay length #i was constantly resisting the urge to start ranting abt him and feds whilst going through it auhfufhv #theyre in LOVE okay. he just FORGOT for a moment. TH #ok . thats all bye #oc:dralsin #ocposting #gw2 #silvpost #i have not checked this all the way thru . we ball.

[fairygeek777]

"Reasons 90s Mamousa ain't it for me:

I'm sorry this is the LAST episode and that's your answer to the girl you're gonna spend the rest of your life with??? I mean yea its sweet but you couldn't think of something more? And why does she have to ask if you love her come on 😭

Meanwhile my prince from the manga/crystal cannon:

Again I must make the point.

These two only say "I love you" once each. Know why? CUZ THEY KNOW THEY LOVE EACH OTHER. They have expressed their feelings in 20,000 different ways in all 60 chapters.

And in 200 episodes, you're lucky if Mamoru and Usagi even get moments just the two of them. There's so much Gosh dang filler that actually makes you question these two more than it does show their loyalty to each other. I dunno if they were going for a realistic young adult couple vibe but please. The amount of episodes where Usagi was like "MaMo's cHeAtInG oN mE" in a single season let alone the whole damn series made me want to tear my hair out.

And I just want to point out SuperS episode 27. These two are so fricken immature in this episode. And yes I'm saying that about Mamoru too. these two handle jealousy terribly 🤦‍♀️ Admittedly its a little funny and any guy or girl would be like this at this age but still they were really immature 😂 especially when Mamo was outside the office and "rehearsing" greeting Usagi after the appointment and he says he doesn't see why he would have to apologize when she was acting that way around the doctor.

Contrary to their manga counterparts who are both younger than them. They talk out their feelings.

I just don't feel like these two were convincing enough in this anime. Something didn't connect. I will say that ironically the arc where Mamoru breaks up with Usagi after being a couple for a singular episode shows their love for eachother a lot. It spans like over more than 10 episodes and its hard to get through, but specifically episodes 69 and if I remember right 77-ish show Mamoru's feelings and give insight into just how important Usagi is to him. Which I really love. R and Super were really great for Mamousa. I would include season 1 but there Mamoru was uh a bit of a jerk and plus the series is like reset after that so it doesn't really matter 😅

Idk I can keep comparing these two series till I'm blue in the face. Its not gonna change anything lol. Just sometimes I need to rant 😂"

Backing up: Rewinding. Blog under Construction.

I wrote this on like idk Saturday night or whatever and now I'm kinda cringing.

I went through my past blogs. The ones where I recounted my initial thoughts on the series. Almost all of the blogs are me gushing over the Mamousa. The only parts I strongly disliked were Evil Endymion, and the 10 episode gap between Mamo breaking up with Usa followed by the 10 episode gap between us learning why he broke up with her and them getting back together. So why did I react like this to the last fricken scene of the anime? 🤨

Here's my honest opinion on 90s Anime Mamoru and Usagi

1. The beginning of their dynamic from episode 1 to episode 35 which was later restarted in episodes 47-59 was actually really fun. Its soooo different from the manga cannon but you know what it works.

2. Mamo was never actually trying to insult Usagi in the beginning. Maybe she got on his nerves a little bit but early on you can see that he really has fun talking to her and that includes teasing her.

3. I really really like the way episode 34 is written. I've rewatched it a lot. The two don't have any clue that they're Sailor Moon and Tuxedo Mask and yet they already show that they want to protect each other. Usagi didn't have to follow the jerk who calls her bun head to where ever he was going but she did because she was worried about him. And I'm actually pretty sure Mamoru was already falling in love with Usagi by that point. He was very protective of her. The separate reveal of their identities is, So. Damn. Perfect. And then of course the sacrifice Mamoru makes to protect Usagi.

4. Already mentioned this in a previous blog but episode 44 where we see Serenity and Endymion is well done. No more needs to be said.

5. I'm so very close to calling episode 69 my favorite episode. Reasons being, Mamoru in every version is my favorite character and that episode specifically shows us his point of view. We see just how much he wants Usagi in his life. He's literally crying at the end of the episode because he was so relieved that he saved her life but he also had no choice but to break her heart in the same breath. Its killing him and the nightmares where he's seeing Usagi die every dang night are terrifying him and he can't help but be reminded of those nightmares every time he sees her in the streets. Its also like peak modern meets fairy tale stuff and if it wasn't obvious that's my sh*t.

6. Mamoru gets boyfriend points for saving Usagi from Demande before he kisses her. I don't even think Usagi ever told Mamoru that happened to her in the manga.

7. Unfortunately the concluding episodes with Black Lady are a blur in my brain but I vaguely remember Usagi becoming Neo Queen Serenity and Mamoru assisting her as they try to make Chibiusa see the light. Which i think i liked. So yea R season is a win.

8. Sailor Moon R the movie: Promise of the Rose was really fricken good Mamousa content. We got a manga scene adapted and we got an extra scene where the two actually met as children.

9. Super was peak 90s Mamousa. Like from beginning to end of that season they were just goals. Episode 101 or 102 whichever one that's focused on Mamoru protecting Usagi while she's unable to transform on her birthday. Again boyfriend points.

10. Mamoru referring to her as Usako from Black Moon arc through the rest of the series is cute. Also the departure scene in Sailor Stars is one of my favorites.

Tldr: 90s Mamousa is valid and cute. Ignore past me.

#sailor moon #pretty guardian sailor moon #manga #anime #mamoru chiba #usagi tsukino #mamoru and usagi #mamousa #90s sailor moon

[coquettedragoon]

do you have any favourite design work, just in general? your mecha work has always struck me (as someone obsessed with that kind of thing), but the dreamlike feeling of the semi-abstracted backgrounds is incredible

im gonna make this a bit long and also gonna introduce the 'good asks' tag for asks i spend a long time writing an answer for so its not lost to time

a huge inspo for my sense of design, wildly enough, was space patrol lulucos backgrounds. i cant find a better shot in google images of the way it renders space, but the screentone clouds really stuck with me and influenced how i use it heavily. i was really obsessed w the collage like bgs in particular and v singular color grading

gunbuster and diebuster are hugely influential, in different ways. im obsessed with the palettes in diebuster.. everything about the lilac stems from the exelion in gunbuster, the zephyrantes took its root entirely from the idea of a warship so large it has a train network and painted skies inside of it etc... the oppressive mech cockpits are heavily drawn from gunbusters. the nerv stuff in eva is also a big source of inspo.

a huge impact on how i approached backgrounds for coquette was tsukihimes, the singular blue color is why i only use a v limited palette for coquettes backgrounds... where i got started with planning coquettes bgs was the thought of using the same filtered approach but to simple 3d instead of photos. i ended up good at 3d so it never was simple though

hidamari sketch is maybe my fav work on the planet, and its a huge part of why im obsessed with screentone... my attention to detail with the living spaces of characters comes from it and the detail it gives to every characters room in the apartments, and how they each use the same floorplan differently. its visually stunning top to bottom in a way that only comes through when you watch it imo.. the use of photos etc has stuck with me forever, it rly is a show using 20000 art styles at once and rly gave me a lot of thought on treating direction as collage of styles you like

heartcatch precure is one of my favs ever, especially visually... i love how far it leans into like being very digital looking and uses color so strongly to convey a mood.. i remember being immediately struck by how it uses this sickly green color for the world/sky during the fights etc to build unease. i love how high contrast it is, i definitely drew a lot from its stark orange and black backgrounds for doing the duchy stuff

a lot of movies definitely stick with me visually, but its easier for me to think in terms of 2d/3d... the mishima movie (lmao) has directly influenced my bg art heavily, especially when i use these kind of overhead diorama esque shots

in terms of how i do 3d and shade it etc... a lot of is heavily inspired by the use of 3d in the code geass ovas (lmao), noone watched this ever so none of its documented but this AMV has quite a lot of it. the harsh shading in the scene around 00:20 is what influenced me using that style in the ch3 opening animation... the snappy fast violent animation is kind of my ideal for how i wanna animate mechs

i think a lot of how i design things is through trial and error, but theres a lot consciously floating thru my head around what kind of look id like to achieve... i dont actually plan much, ever. i animate with no storyboards, write without an outline, only do one sketch before settling on any designs, and mess around w colors for a scene until its done

#good asks

[callmearcturus]

I saw your comment on bloodsbane’s post and figured it would be best to follow up with you directly. What appeals to you about kink if you’re ace? Is it the emotional aspect?

(Same guy as before, ace and curious, yadda yadda)

/looks at my long long long long collection of fic with kink elements

lmao this post is gonna be a mess, sorry ahead of time.

It's hard to explain, but the most brusque and surface level version is that "eh, vanilla boning is just boring," because while I do genuinely understand for the participants that it IS fulfilling and enjoyable

obviously most of my interactions with sex are as a creator and as someone reading/watching content. and fictional vanilla sex itself does not interest me unless its exceptionally well-written or very emotionally charged (but even then, its not the Sex, its the Emotions)?

so what kink adds can be understood as The Spice.

like, many kinks explore more complex flavors of intimacy and control and trust. there are many many many scenes I've written that if I take out the Kink aspect, they lose the emotional point of the scene. the one that comes to mind right off is in a story I wrote, SWDKTOWL, there's a chapter with restraints and consensual non-consent. and while I fully hope it was titillating to read, there was also a point being made with that sex in that specific configuration, and it's a point that I couldn't have made without the kink.

it's not unlike music. if Plain Ol' Fuckin' is the metronome setting the time/beat, all the kink adds the instrumentation in. it gives it more character to me.

for me, being an ace writer who is mildly notorious for my kink smithing and how it is folded into broader stories with complex emotional themes, it's a much used part of my toolbox, as much as tropes and motifs and any other part of The Skillset.

and I'm personally a sex-disinterested ace person. even when I have written what I think is the Hottest Hot Shit To Ever Come Out Of The Skillet, I have no personal interest. and I think that's a huge reason why myself and a lot of other ace people are kinksters. (and why a lot of ace people are also into xeno!)

(this part is admittedly hard to put into words, but I'll do my best:)

because when sex is not personally important to your daily life in the way it can be for allo people, I think the barrier to entry for exploration is much lower. there is functionally very little difference to me between a piece of amateur missionary sex and professionally shot BDSM dungeons. there is, due to being ace, no real reason to assign value to one over the other. so I feel like I am able to examine the Catalog Of Kinks more open-mindedly, because my own body is not part of the equation.

so, its easier to ask "how does impact play make me feel? how does non-con make me feel? how does breathplay make me feel?" because I lack a lot of the baggage I think other people start out with.

that is my personal theory, as someone who enjoys kink and talks about kink a lot. there's exceptions to every single aspect of this because every person is singular, but this is a broad strokes explanation.

kink is great! love it.

ETA: ALSO WORTH NOTING queerness broadly also provides a lot of this removal of value-weight, so this isn't unique to ace people, just this is the ace POV on it, ANYWAAAAAY

#Anonymous #talking about writing #the wondersmith and all of her kinks #like jfc i have had LONG conversations about the overlaps in kink appeal MULTIPLE times #its interesting!!!!

[punch-love]

conflict anon here again and im SO GLAD you agree man. i think what really gets me about it is that i was specifically searching for conflict-packed fic and that's why i was so let down. i also feel like authors are entitled to write whatever they want forever but it just FEELS to me when im reading their fics like they would be happier writing something more domestic, and i want to find something where they're more feral.

i want the ID reveal and the relationship-confirming to cause MORE problems, hell i want them to get together and blow out into a massive argument and breakup then have breakup sex and get back together and then realize the sex didn't actually fix anything and then break up again but they can't stop being obnoxiously in each others space either way

but it feels like fic im trying to find like this fights the very concept of conflict so hard and wants one singular plot point to fix everything as quickly as possible without even walking me through the characters' insight as to HOW that fixed anything other than "problem over, let's be together forever now!" let alone the level of conflict that'd be so engaging like that with a million curveballs

im so aware its a personal taste thing its just been frustrating reading fic after fic after fic and finding so little of it. its no ones fault i can't find fic perfectly tailored to my tastes specifically, i just tend to ramble about my frustration. you and oprime and sci and a couple other authors are my favorite for writing it the way you do, she's not gonna die today will always be one of my favorite fics of all time because it gave me that ever persisting conflict driven by their obsessive need to stick together even when they're fighting every step of the way. i just always get into a longwinded ramble when this comes up and i was hoping youd like to share your thoughts so thank you for answering 🙏

I think this pairing kind of presents a unique challenge to writers (at least it did for me) that action and conflict is such a huge, borderline essential part of their canonical dynamic. If you're not used to writing/utilizing both physical and emotional conflict, your stories can often fall so, so flat for these two, specifically because that's the fuel that makes the engine run. The first true action scene I ever wrote was chapter two of love-punch, and I like, now I'm an action writer for life now (editing an action sequence as we speak) but I had to get out of my comfort zone because I realized that type of stories I wanted to write about them required them to beat the shit out of each other to work.

These two are definitely not problem solvers so much as shit starters. I feel like for them, the problems they actually have to solve are the ways they perceive each other (because both of them heavily project onto the other) and what that means long-term for their relationship - every other form of conflict, to me, is up for grabs forever when it comes to their relationship. The shit talking, ass kicking, and fire starting is what makes them, them.

I've said this before, but a lot of people write fanfiction as an exploration of their own ideal relationships. (which is absolutely fine) I think spideypool is a difficult sell though, for that specific fantasy, because their relationship operates on instability and violence primarily. I think most people aren't looking for a relationship where your communication consists of name-calling, beat downs, and moral differences so severe it makes you almost kill each other a lot. That, does not make a good, a good or healthy real world relationship but SUCH a fun fictional one. People are going to write their fantasies out, though, and that fantasy is that one kiss/one fuck/one confession creates relationship fueled bliss forever because many people, hate conflict - both experiencing and reading it. It sucks, if you're a reader who likes problems. I also always say this, but I encourage you to channel that energy into writing your own work. It's what I did, and it paid off so great for me because now I have 12 works specifically catered to my own personal needs exclusively. Fandom is always going to suck, but you can be the change! (and if you don't want to write, that's cool too, sometimes it's good just to get your qualms out into the world and find people who agree)

tagging @primewritessmut again so she can read your praise straight from the source.

It's a tough fandom if you really like their canonical dynamic more than their fanon one, I feel you man. I am always holding a prayer circle that more writers who like problems more than they like easy resolutions joins in and starts writing some real fucked up shit.

#mailbox #peter parker confession booth #there's for sure an audience but you have to like. really enjoy writing about conflict and difficult solutions to said conflict #and that's a tragically small pool of people (lol) in this fandom #it means a lot of filtering. a lot of scrolling the top page #and for me. a lot of writing my own shit when I am unhappy #I again #feel you so hard on this one #conflict rules

[koholintnightmare]

finished a (partial) rewatch of the 1.1a anime

yes, they made some things different but i didnt really pay much attention at the time. mostly because i wasnt as in Deep as i am now

i am going crazy with new context/info from playing the other games since the anime aired. will be jotting down whatever the fuck i think of as i think of it

rest under a cut because im a bit Uhhhh

futaba and yotsuba in a2s flashback making it seem like theyre gonna go with the route where a2 meets the red girls and show their meeting in part 2?

i said this^ as a joke recently because i forgot a lot of what happens in the anime, but. in the last episode of the anime, i thought she said "entertain us, 9s" but no. she fucking says "entertain us, no.9" meaning that they KNOW about what the original no.9 did and his relation to 9s and how theyre going to activate the virus backdoor to further their plans

the fast glitchy scenes at the end that show 9s being killed by 2b, implying we'll see one of his 48 executions

he also had a previous glitchy moment where a weird memory overlaid itself on top of 2b as he looked at her in the present, making it seem like he remembered her killing him before

that memory was near the shopping center, and the final scenes of the anime were also at the shopping center. wondering how far theyll take this and show every time shes killed him

the church mod of course but adam having access to WCS victims and just??? keeping them there???

one of them looked like brother nier???????

the fucking hexcodes

im going insane with the hexcodes

the church mod, while i havent played it, apparently put the statues of the intoner sisters from drakengard 3 in the background. haha, neat detail right.

BUT with yoko taros decision to include church mod into the anime and also be aware of it, he could have some Fun with the anime. he did already specify that itd differ from the game

The Fucking Hexcodes are actual messages with reports about the androids (collective) and their fight against the machines

but as it goes on, the way theyre written sounds more and more like another individual who Records things

"Record", "Report", "Old World", "Magical Weapons", "Timeline "Branch", "Divergence", "Singularity"

Gee I Wonder What Other Observatory Android Talks Like Tha iiiiits fucking accord. Its Accord. Accord is watching the automata timelines and their branches now.

a drakengard character is in automata and seems to be More Involved (to the limits of an observer, at least?) rather than just some flyers related to her shop, and an npc mentioning her

WILL WE GET ACCORD IN AUTOMATA-- WAIT THIS IS NOW GOING OFF

i juST REMEMBERED THAT IN TJE 1.3AA PLAY WHICH IS BASED ON A2S BACKSTORY BUT THE BOYS VERSION, THEY HAD ACCORD? ACCORD WAS IN THAT. ACCORD IS ALREADY INVOLVED IN AUTOMATA.

UHHHHH. SHIT WELL ANYWAY CONTINUING FROM THAT. pascals despair is going to be worse this time because instead of the kids having a group death, they seemed to be eating each other instead

devola and popola backstory and their exile due to the actions of the other units who failed project gestalt

probably more references to replicant as a whole??? considering the flashbacks they put in? they also showed angelus impaled on Tokyo tower but i missed that part of the rewatch. i only watched a few episodes w my friend and missed that

literally EVERYTHING going on with the change from adams death to eves death???? seeing adam become more fleshed out as a character as he is based around hate, realizing his brother meant everything, LOSING said brother, and then going berserk while also indulging in the hatred hes so obsessed with. be it towards other machines, the androids, or himself for allowing himself to miss sight of his own treasure (eve)

my brain is fizzing out and my hands ar estarting to hurt because of how much i typed and how cold it is but. holy shit i am obsessed. its so good. it all just keeps going. and going. and going

#natm lb #Uhhhh hm thays a lot of obvious fhings probablg but i just love the depth this gave??? #i will also have to see if someone got the entire concert scenario written up and if its comparable with any of this #like how the church ties into the rest

[marvelouslyalwaysme]

I posted 10,510 times in 2022

46 posts created (0%)

10,464 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@cocoamoonmalfoy

@secretly-of-course

@turtlegirl521

@whiterabbit71188

@thisautistic

I tagged 302 of my posts in 2022

#try guys - 22 posts

#netflix - 15 posts

#ned fulmer - 14 posts

#heartbreak high - 14 posts

#the try guys - 13 posts

#heartstopper - 9 posts

#first kill - 7 posts

#keith habersberger - 6 posts

#tag game - 5 posts

#queer - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#kluas is wild and klaus is kluas but he truely sees ben as a platonic brother even if its not their ben i still dont think klaus would do it

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Literally just found out that paper girls got cancelled...I was mad about first kill I was super sad after the wilds but COME THE FUCK ON!! PAPER GIRLS?!? PAPER GIRLS?!?! I'M SO FUCKING LIVID AND I'M JUST FUCKING SICK OF GOOD SHOWS GETTING CANCELLED BACK TO FUCKING BACK. I was really rooting for paper girls and I got my hopes up but I should have fucking known better. This fucking sucks

17 notes - Posted September 10, 2022

#4

honestly i keep talking about the ned fulmer shit to deal with the fact that i liked him a lot!!! and he's a piece of shit now!!!! it was the same thing when people realized brendon urie was a dickwad like- i feel betrayed man

Ned always was my least favorite (not to be one those but....) and actually recently hes been getting more on my nerves lately (before the cheating was announced) but I still feel horribly betrayed because he was just putting on this fake act so I totally get where you're coming from, I was not not a fan of Ned I guess I felt meh about him as a singular but I am a try guys fan so it does suck it won't be the four no more but he fucked up so what are you gonna do

51 notes - Posted September 29, 2022

#3

I saw a lesbian on tiktok say first kill was worse than Riverdale... Like the fuck maybe first kill isn't perfect but worse than Riverdale??? now y'all are just saying stuff to say stuff

52 notes - Posted June 14, 2022

#2

WHY THE FUCK DID HEARTBREAK HIGH FUCK SO HARD???, THAT FINALE OMFG IF THIS SHOW GETS CANCELLED I'M KILLING MYSELF CAUSE THIS SHOW GETTING CANCELLED WILL BE FUCKING IT FOR ME I HAVE NOT BEEN THIS PHYSICALLY, AND EMOTIONALLY HYPED OVER A SHOW IN SOOOOO LONG, THE PART WHERE CASH GETS ARRESTED I THINK I NEED TO WATCH THAT SCENE OVER AND OVER AGAIN A MILLION TIMES AND THEN JUST MAYBE I'LL BE ON THE WAY OF GETTING OVER IT, I CRIED, I SCREAMED, I THREW UP

70 notes - Posted October 3, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Sorry to all the people who follow me and don't give a fuck about the try guy/ned fulmer cheating scandal and have to deal with me spam reblogging every post I see, I'm trying to stop and I just can't

1,006 notes - Posted September 28, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review