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fandom-monium · 2 years

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Breathless

Summary: In which Willow can't seem to catch her breath around Hunter. "You want to help with my research, right? You think I got these eyebags from only staying up till 2 am?”

WC: 8.5k

TW: Hunter x Willow Park, mostly post King’s Tide, minor post time-skip where squad returns to the Demon realm, portal works, and everyone is doing ok :D, mutual pining, cute and awkward teen romance???, teenagers amiright 💁‍♀️✨️, idiots in love, a 4 times+1 time fic bc 5+1 doesn’t make sense to me, he fell first but she fell harder, minor insecure Willow, minor Hunter having an identity crisis

AN: Inspired by the linked artwork of amazing Twitter artist @beaniewinnie96!!

⏤

Willow thinks she's getting sick.

They come and go, bouts of airless lungs and necessary deep inhales, attempts of her just trying to breathe, and you would think it should come easy. Something as basic and natural as breathing. At first, she pushes the matter aside. It’s probably just anxiety⏤mini panic attacks⏤subjects she’s familiar with. Those are a thing, right??

She eventually learns that is not the case, and she is completely out of her element.

The first time she has one of those “mini-panic attacks”, she deems them, it’s almost a week after they fell into the Human realm. It's been a hard couple of days. The transition is rough; they never thought they’d end up here, not under these circumstances. When Luz tells stories of her life in the Human realm, her eyes light up in a way the Demon realm never does for her, a kind of wistful gleam and wobbly smile that says, I miss home, though her friend doesn’t say it. But that look, it’s enough to make her dream what it’d be like, their little squad clad in human attire as Luz drags them around her hometown, showing them the wonders of her world. A world functioning without magic.

She got her wish in the worst way possible.

And Luz, ever attuned to the vibes of their team, thinks it’s a good idea to take them to the "mall". Whatever that is. Boost morale, she says. After all, Mrs. Noceda says they deserve to have something of their own while in the Human realm, and they can’t keep rotating between her and Luz’s wardrobe. They pointedly refuse to acknowledge the oversized clothes Hunter’s been borrowing since the rainy night they arrived.

But she's right. A trip to the "mall" is exactly what they need.

It’s strange yet fascinating. A structure as big as Hexside, only sleek and shinier, with store fronts lining the walls and center, reminding her of the local marketplaces at home. The thought alone makes her throat close up. But then Gus’s eyes blow wide and he squeals, practically vibrating as he tugs Mrs. Noceda to the nearest store⏤she assumes for human toys?⏤grinning the widest he’s been in what feels like centuries. Firing questions a mile a minute, he looks his age again, childlike wonder and all, and it’s enough to bring some light back into the children's tired eyes as they break off to explore, Mrs. Noceda shouting back at them to meet at that spot in an hour.

Luz and Amity are quick to pair up, and with no intention of third-wheeling, Willow saddles next to Hunter, an instinct that's quickly become second nature nowadays. They lag behind the couple as Luz directs them to the nearest clothing store (“You-knee-qui-low?” “Close enough.”). Weaving between the racks, she lets her hands brush over soft fabrics and stiff cloths, and it’s not long when she finds something for herself. Satisfied, she wanders into the next aisle to find Hunter frowning at a wall of neatly shelved clothes.

“Find anything you like?”

Hunter jolts, whirling to face her. “Captain! Um⏤” He flushes, tugging the hood over his ears tighter. Endearing, Willow thinks, unable to help the smile that automatically spreads across her face. “No, not yet.”

“Not a big fan of colors?” She asks, coming to stand next to him as she eyes the selection of shirts, all different colors and prints.

“Not necessarily. I mean, I’m used to the neutral colors from the coven, but I don’t mind a bit of color,” His voice comes hesitant, and she notes the way he fiddles with the cloth of a hanging shirt. One of his gloves, the exact pair Mrs. Noceda had to coax from him so she can dry them from the rain, is untucked from the sleeve of the sweatshirt. “But the texture…”

She hums in understanding. Hunter tilts his head curiously as she purses her lips, thoughtful and cute with the green bandana shifting over her ears. His face grows hotter, and as he bats the thought away, she turns wordlessly, scanning the store before walking off. She hears Hunter call out to her, and she gestures for him to follow, leading them a few aisles down, stopping a few times to touch clothes, only twice plucking them off its hanger or shelf.

When they come to halt by the changing rooms, Willow shoves the small stack into his arms. “Here, try these on.”

“O-oh, okay,” Hunter mumbles as she ushers him behind the curtain. The child soldier he was, he’s quick and efficient, stepping out minutes later. He smiles awkwardly, seconds passing as she stares at him, unblinking. He stands straighter, stiff arms outstretched. “So, what do you think?”

Think?

Right. Thoughts. She has those.

But not right now. Any trains of thought she has skids to a halt as her eyes trail over his figure. She knows she has a thing for fashion. Back home, her style is the one thing she feels like she has control over, the one thing she can do effortlessly before she transferred to the plant track, and she likes to think that she’s knowledgeable when it comes to aesthetics now, but she doesn’t realize that skill transcends realms.

She can’t explain it, but something about Hunter in human clothes just suits him. Almost naturally. He looks good. Like really good.

So good that she forgets breathing’s a thing.

Reminding herself that it is in fact a thing, Willow inhales deeply as she collects the first thought that comes to mind. "Perfect," she exhales, and something in her tone makes him flush redder than he already is. She chuckles, eyes crinkling as he gives her a dramatic spin, the warm, yellow flannel swishing along his lean frame, "How does it feel?"

He pauses, blinking at her. "Feel?"

"Yeah. You always seem to wear layers and the gloves would definitely clash with the shirts you were looking at earlier." Without thinking, she takes his hand, the little "meep" he lets out going over her head as she thumbs at the price tag. "This 'flan-nel' felt pretty thick and smooth. A-and both this and the beanie are soft. I thought you might like it?"

Willow looks up, meeting his eyes, and Hunter tries not to stare as her lips quirk, like she's trying to hide her hesitance and insecurity. It's a fraction compared to the first day they met, how he'd hurt her enough to make her doubt herself.

She genuinely hopes he likes what she picked out for him.

To be honest, he'd wear anything if she asked him to. Which is exactly what went through his mind the moment he entered the changing room, nearly bumping into the walls as he yanked the sweatshirt over his head. The captain picked these for you, Hunter! Make yourself presentable!! He threw on the flannel over the black t-shirt he borrowed from Mrs. Noceda, not even considering how smooth and heavy it felt on the exposed skin of his arms, and how soft the beanie felt over the tips of his ears.

The fact that she put that much thought into it, that she hadn't just snatched the first thing she came across as doable, that her decisions were calculated, warms his thundering heart.

Or galdorstone. He's still not sure what exactly beats in his chest.

Whichever one it is, it’s in his throat now as Hunter gathers the courage to take her hand, the one holding up his own. Ignoring the heat spreading to his face, he offers her a reassuring smile, not caring the brunt of his teeth are on display, “It’s perfect, Captain. Thank you.”

She beams up at him, and when she tells him to change so they can go pay with Luz and Amity, he hopes to smile as beautiful as her one day.

⏤

“We’re over budget.”

“...What?”

⏤

The second time she gets another mini-panic attack, they're coming on two weeks into their stay, it's late into the night, and Willow can’t sleep.

It's not weird; it's never easy for her to sleep anywhere that isn't home, except for Gus’s. Coupled with the disaster that was the Day of Unity and the fact she's in a new realm where everything is basically upside down to her, a decent night's rest seems far out of reach.

But she'd never admit that outloud. She doesn't need anyone fretting over her, she thinks, glancing at Luz as she snores softly in bed, and at Amity, still as the dead in her own sleeping bag. They're bigger things to worry about than her skewed sleep schedule. Like finding a way home.

So when she finds herself awake at the oddest hours again, unable to go back to sleep, she decides to head down to the kitchen. Get some more water, maybe make that warm honey milk Mrs. Noceda showed her before. It seemed to work wonders before, when everyone was too worried to sleep. Hopefully, it'll do the trick.

Careful as she shuts the bedroom door, she creeps down the stairs, flinching with every creek of the floorboards. Eventually, she reaches the first floor, only to blink back her surprise as a light from the living room seeps into the dark hallway.

She pokes her head around the corner, calling out softly, “Hunter?”

Just as she thought, there he is, settled on the couch with a thick, leather bound book and a steaming mug on the coffee table. The borrowed pajamas hang off him like a coat rack, but she ignores the burn in her ears as shadows contour his exposed sternum, sprinkled with faded scars trailing down to his chest.

Titan, calm yourself. It's just skin.

Yeah. Of a boy who is ho—

—not ugly.

“Captain?” Unaware of her turmoil, he looks at her, “What are you doing up?”

She shakes off her fluster. "Me? Why are you still awake? It's like 1 am.”

"Oh. Whoops. Sorry," He doesn't sound apologetic. Or surprised. He returns his somber gaze to the book, smoothing a gloved hand over the pages. "I'll try to sleep soon. I'm almost done anyway."

She takes a seat beside him and leans closer, scanning the text. "What's all this?"

"Just a little history, mostly of Gravesfield," Face warm, Hunter’s thankful for the dim light of the lamp as he tilts the book towards her, "Since I can't learn much about how magic works in this world, Vee's been helpful, but learning about the town might help find the root of all this. Or something."

She stares, waiting for him to continue, and he refuses to meet her eyes as he adds weakly, “And I figured, I might as well learn more about where I came from, who I was supposed to be.”

Ah.

“Caleb.” Not a question. Confirmation.

“... Yeah.”

When Hunter told them what he is, he wasn’t ready. The first week confined to their house, Mrs. Noceda and Luz agreed a tour of the town was a good idea. Then they all saw it. Placed at the center of town, a monument commemorating that tyrant, all of them frozen as carefully scuplted stone loomed over them like a taunt, reminding them there are people who don’t remember Belos as a murderer, a psychopath, a supremacist. It took a minute to register the figure beside him.

Hunter.

Or what might as well be the adult version of Hunter. With the slope of his nose, the sharp jaw—he even had the tuft of hair that refused to stay put.

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry.

She’d only just realized who she wants to be. She didn’t have much of an identity to begin with anyway. But Hunter’s a perfect counterpart to her; for the longest time, he thought he knew who he was, what he was meant to do. To have that ripped out from under him…

The conversation following was difficult for everyone, but she can’t imagine what Hunter’s been going through since.

Before anxiety gets the best of her, she pipes up, “That’s a good idea.”

He turns to her, “Really?”

“Yeah,” She gently takes the book from him, weighing it in her hands. It’s heavier than she thought. She flips through it, browsing the paragraphs and pictures, “Studying history, going back to your ‘roots’. I’m not much of a history buff, but there’s a lot we can learn from the past.” She hands the book back to him, gesturing to the spread.

He looks down, confused.

On his lap, a lone, black and white image of Caleb Wittebane stares back at him.

"Good and bad."

Silence stretches between them, and she fidgets in her seat as Hunter mulls over her words. Everyone already said what needed to be said last time. She’s not sure what he wants—needs—to hear right now, not yet anyway, but she hopes her words are enough to bring some relief.

And if they aren’t, if he needs more, she’ll do everything in her power to give it to him.

—Comfort, that is!

It–it’s what friends are for.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Hunter says after a pause, though the smile he gives her is halfhearted.

“Here,” His mind blanks as she scoots closer, “Why don’t you tell me what you've read so far? Maybe we can bounce ideas off each other.”

“Y-yeah! Good idea…” Ignoring the burn in his ears, he starts blabbing about how weird human history is. At first, he stutters, his voice cracking at one point, and he wishes the couch would swallow him whole, like the ones back in the Demon realm. Willow only urges him to go on, about oceans that don’t boil and plants that don’t try to kill you. Slowly but surely, he regains his usual confidence, the kind that only comes from a good student, and they find themselves in a deep discussion, mostly Willow asking questions while Hunter flips back and forth between pages, trying to provide as many answers as he can.

"Hey," He pauses mid rant, "Why are you up? I don't think you told me."

She stifles a yawn, "Oh, don't worry about it. Anyway, you were saying about witch hunts?"

But as she fights to keep her eyes open, he gives her a look that makes her want to bury her face into the couch cushions. It's the same look he gives her when he thinks she's not paying attention, like he can see right through her. Not like she's invisible but transparent, as if he can see her everything. Her stomach flutters.

"You know, Captain, I'm no stranger to sleepless nights," She stiffens as he fully turns to her. His eyes gleam in the lamp light, hesitant yet earnest. "Wanna talk about it?”

She sits criss-crossed on the couch. “It's nothing, really.”

“It can't be nothing if it’s bothering you.”

“We've already gone through this.”

“Then run it by me again,” Hunter offers, the book forgotten on his lap.

She thinks it over. How they've slowly begun to trust him completely. And while he wasn't ready at the time, when the truth was forced out of him, he'd given them as much as he could, about the Golden Guards, about grimwalkers, about Philip.

He deserves to have that same honesty and trust returned.

“It's just—” She takes a deep breath, tugging at her hair. “Hard to fall asleep, new, unfamiliar place and all. Don’t get me wrong, Luz and Mrs. Noceda have been so accommodating and wonderful! But…” She trails off as her heart clenches.

“It’s not home,” He finishes for her.

“Yeah,” She clears her throat, “So can I stay up with you for a little bit? If you want to work alone, I can just—hey!” She sputters as Hunter tosses the throw blanket over her. Then a throw pillow. Then another. She raises an eyebrow, lips twitching as she tries not to laugh, “Hunter, what’re you doing?”

He stands, lips pursed as he arranges the blanket over her and fluffs the pillows. "You want to help with my research, right? You think I got these eyebags from only staying up till 2 am?” She gawks at him and he flushes, “Exactly, so buckle up and get comfortable, Captain, because it’s gonna be a long night.” He turns his back to her, and after a rhythmic clinking, he faces her again, his mug outstretched to her.

She stares at it. “Isn’t this yours?”

“It’s fine,” His lips wobble like he’s struggling to maintain a straight face, his face red like it's about to explode.

It’s adorable, enough to convince her to take the mug from him with a quiet “Thank you”.

As he plops down next to her, a pillow and blanket away, thumbing through the book because he lost his place, she brings the mug to her nose, inhaling.

Honey milk.

Hunter’s a really bad liar, she smiles, taking a sip. Her stomach flutters anyway.

She’s right, however, because she only lasts an hour at best, knocking out before she could head back to Luz’s room. And when she wakes up later that morning with Hunter’s chest as her pillow, the morning light gleaming gold against his bed hair as he snores softly, suddenly she can’t breathe.

But she endures.

⏤

“Hey, how’d you sleep?”

“Fine!” Willow squeaks, gripping her newly done pigtails over her face before running off to the kitchen for breakfast.

Hunter scratches his scar, an eyebrow raised. He has a lot to learn about friendship, doesn’t he?

⏤

The next time she gets another mini panic attack, it happens so fast she chokes on her cereal.

“Captain, are you okay!?” Hunter’s at her side in an instant. Not as fast as his magical phasing but it’s close.

“I’m fine,” She coughs, chugging down her glass of juice. Gasping for breath, she wipes her mouth and gapes at him, “C-could you repeat the question?”

His ears turn red as scarred fingers tug at his fingerless gloves. He swallows slowly, “I asked if you would help me run errands today?”

“Oh. That’s what I thought you said.”

For a second, I thought he asked me on a date, She chuckles to herself. He raises an eyebrow. “Of course I’ll help you.”

She shields her eyes as his curious expression morphs into the brightest grin, so wide it almost doesn't fit on his face. “Great! We can leave in an hour.”

With that, Hunter scurries off, leaving her to finish her late breakfast. She raises another spoonful to her lips, humming in delight.

“So, going on a date with Hunter, huh?”

For the second time that morning, she chokes on her cereal. Gus laughs at her as he enters the dining room.

"It is not, and keep your voice down," She sputters as her cheeks flush, lowering her voice, "He might hear you."

He rolls his eyes. "I doubt it. Ya know, because he's so excited for your date," He smirks, whispering "date" as if it's forbidden. "He specifically asked for you. It's a date."

Her blush deepens, "Stop it. It's not—he wouldn't—"

"Okay~" His eyes soften, "Date or not—which it is by the way—just have fun, alright? You've been working hard lately; you deserve to take a break and enjoy the Human realm too."

"Thanks, Gus," She finishes her cereal, moving to the kitchen sink to clean up. "I'm sure I will, but we're just running errands. How much fun can we possibly have?" She asks rhetorically.

Turns out, a lot. They can have a lot of fun.

The funny thing is, they've barely done anything, and Willow's never enjoyed the Human realm like this before.

An hour on the dot, they bundle up, Willow doing a last minute check and asking if they need anything. With Mrs. Noceda at work and Vee at school, she fights to keep a straight face as the rest of the squad exchange suggestive eyes and knowing grins (because of course they got the wrong idea), allowing Hunter to take the lead as they walk into town. One of Mrs. Noceda’s tote bags is slung over his shoulder, stuffed to the brim with books, and she can’t help but laugh as he adjusts the strap with a huff.

("Do you want me to—"

"I got it!")

The trek into town is fairly quiet but not awkward. She never took him for idle chat but as they stroll down the street, Hunter slowing down enough to keep pace with her, he points out the weird yet fascinating human contraptions, putting in more effort to make conversation than usual. He stammers and rambles, but she can't say she minds it, enjoying his voice as she makes her own comments about what little she's seen of Luz’s world.

It's peaceful, and she relishes in the cool, autumn air brushing the pink apples of her cheeks.

But as the day goes on, she wonders, is this a date???

Since the day they met, Hunter—while he can go on tangents—seems like a goal-oriented person, at least that’s her first assumption. It’s further confirmed when Luz showed them the wonders of human realm video games, and (after hours of practicing the controls) during his turn he refused to explore the digital, free-roam world or take side-quests until he completed every main mission. Whatever’s endgame, he’d see it through before anything else. No distractions.

But as they round the corner, instead of making a beeline for the Gravesfield Public Library just down the street like she thought he would, he makes a sharp turn and ushers her into a quaint, little coffee shop, asking what she’d like to try. Too startled to question him, she picks a pretty green colored drink, something called a “mat-cha” latte. Hunter orders himself what he calls “brown bean blood”.

(“Sir, do you mean coffee?”

“No, I said brown bean blood.”)

Once he hands the cashier neatly folded human money (how did he get human money??), they leave with their drinks warming their hands as they amble towards the library.

As soon as he returns the books, he asks her if they can browse. Of course she says yes; she has literally no where else to be, and she figures he needs to find new research material for the week, so they find a table to set their things down. He’s so kind, she thinks, appreciating how he points out a few sections she might enjoy like the decorated rows of YA books. They split off, and she wanders around until she takes his suggestion, pulling books from the YA shelves to glance their synopsis.

At some point in her literary endeavors, she happens upon Hunter in the plant section, flipping through a thick book with an expression she’s only seen when they’re slaving over history books and (stolen) old texts from the Gravesfield Historical Society. His brow is furrowed and lips pursed, as if deep in concentration. He must be because he only notices her once she whispers his name, squeaking as her voice brushes his neck. He fumbles to catch the textbook.

On human realm plants.

Why?

Before she can ask, he slams the book shut, tucking it under his arm and asking if she found anything she wants to check out.

She perks up; she did, holding out a book thicker than her forearm, a hardcover of beautiful human art and design. Based on the summary in the sleeve, it sounds romantic while chock full of adventure. Her favorite.

He guides her to the self-checkout counter, and she giggles as he makes a big show of whisking out a rectangular piece of plastic. Human realm magic, she awes as Hunter scan’s their books, a line of light roaming over the book’s barcode with a small beep. This isn’t his first time at the library. She’s impressed.

Done with the library, they head outside, books tucked away in the bag, but instead of walking back, Hunter steers her to sit at the nearby bus stop, saying he wants to show her something. The bench is cool under her and her half finished matcha latte is lukewarm in her palm now. She doesn’t mind though, waiting for this “bus”. It’s nice just being around Hunter, who buzzes in his seat next to her even after they board the human contraption, his knee jumping with what she assumes to be excitement and anticipation. But as the bus starts, she notices they’re heading away from the Noceda house.

“Ummm, Hunter?” She frowns as the library shrinks in the distance.

He watches the digital clock of the bus. “Yeah?”

“Is this supposed to take us home?”

“What? Oh,” He whirls to her, face burning as he realizes he should have been more specific. “Sorry, the bus isn’t what I wanted to show you. Not that it’s not fascinating—I’ll definitely ask Luz more about it later—but this is a bit further from the library. I promise it’ll worth your while though.”

She gives him a reassuring smile, “Ahhh, I understand.” She doesn’t. As the library disappears into the horizon, the sun high and the sky less cloudier than that morning, her head spins as her mind runs a mile a minute because is this a date????

She sips at her latte, mulling over it. No, it can’t be. Right?

He did specifically ask for her.

Boy’s been sheltered almost his entire life. She’s not sure if he even knows what a date is.

Then again, he bought her a drink and introduced her to human realm fiction.

But this is Hunter, she’s talking about! He wouldn’t be into her, not like that. He’s the former Golden Guard, a prince, a—

“Captain, we’re here.”

Startled, she scrambles to follow as he weaves between the few boarded passengers with a certain level of grace that she could only assume comes from years of military training. They hop off the last step, her boots meeting cobblestone, and she straightens her clothes.

“Tada!” He gestures in front of them, beaming wide enough she can see his tooth gap. A low building stretches not too far up the road, vines snaking up its old marble walls and lovely flower bushes of all kinds lining the cobblestone walkway leading up to the entrance. On display out front, similar to the Historical Society, a simple but polished sign reads—

Gravesfield Botanical Gardens.

“I… Wha—”

“I know you’ve been homesick for a while now so, I asked Luz and Mrs. Noceda if there were any public gardens around and they told me about this place. It was hard to figure out the bus system and scheduling the best time—luckily it’s a weekday so they close late—but I thought this might cheer you up,” Hunter explains, pulling out the plant encyclopedia to show her, “I even studied a bit to try and keep up with you,” he adds with a weak chuckle. His heart hammers in his chest, and he worries it’s about to hop out and flop to the ground if Willow keeps gawking at him. He bites his lip; not in front of his captain.

She blinks as her lips close and part like a fish out of water.

Since they arrived in the human realm, all she thought about was how her dads are—how everyone is really; if Gus’s doing okay, reassuring Luz, supporting Amity and Vee if needed. And when they no longer needed her reassurance, she focused her energy into researching a way to get back home. Outside of studying human realm plants in her spare time, her research skills are abysmal by comparison, but Hunter seemed to appreciate her support nonetheless, letting her (try to) stay up late with him, always her own mug of warm honey milk ready by the time she came down to the living room.

If he noticed her self-avoidance, he said nothing, and a part of her appreciated that.

But more so, rather than making a huge deal out of it, forcing an emotionally charged conversation out of her, he tried to lift her spirits.

She recalls Gus’s talk that morning, ‘Date or not—which it is by the way—just have fun, alright? You've been working hard lately; you deserve to take a break and enjoy the Human realm too.’

You’re wrong, Gus. It’s not a date.

Mistaking her silence, the hopeful glint in his eyes fizzles out and she nearly screams when he deflates, “Sorry. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to your garden back home—oof!” He looks down, blinking as she burrows her face into his shoulder, “Captain?”

“It’s perfect,” She hugs him a little tighter and he grunts. As if trying not to scare away a stray cat, he slowly wraps his arms around her, his hands feather light as he pats her back.

She wants to cry. For a boy who’s been deprived of physical affection most of his life, something so simple and small shouldn’t feel this nice.

Before she sinks into him further, she pulls back and gives him a wobbly smile. “Thank you, I just—” She clears her throat. Get it together, Willow. “I really needed this.”

He nods, dazed and tomato-faced, “O-oh, yeah, of course.”

“Come on,” Her smile stretches into a grin as she loops her arm with his, leading the way. He clutches the book to his chest. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned!”

Yes, he’s the former Golden Guard. Yes, he’s a prince.

But he’s also her friend.

And as she drags him through the gardens, flipping through the textbook between them like a catalog, that is more than enough.

(For now.)

⏤

“So how was your date?”

“Not a date!!”

⏤

The last, most notable time it happens, they’re back in the Demon realm, or at least, what's left of it. If she thought the Human realm was upside down, this place is both upside down and backwards, remnants of the Boiling Isles scattered about like debris. The relief of their return quickly passes.

Now, they have to find The Collector.

And they do.

What was once a home welcoming outcasts and weirdos now stands a twisted rendition of the Owl House. It levitates midair, chunks of its towers and the surrounding land orbiting like planets to a sun, nestled between lightning spitting clouds as water rises from the ground.

With the help of their palismens, it’s easier breaking into the floating fortress than it is navigating within, a labyrinth of moving walls, stairs leading to nowhere, and doors going into places that shouldn't be there. Not to mention beasts birthed from what she thinks are children’s drawings, colorful, disfigured ink creatures worse than any abomination she made when she was in the track. Hunter barely snagged the back of her shirt before she could fall into a pool of paint, and her eyes burned green as she used a barrage of vines to decimate a monster, before it could consume Hunter.

Willow hopes the others are fairing better than them as they leave a trail of vines and scorch marks in their wake.

The idea is to meet at the top of the tower, clustered by squirming wooden Hooties like a rat’s nest, where The Collector most likely is keeping King and Eda. Slowly, they climb the tower floor by floor, slaying doodled beasts while keeping an eye out for the other. The Collector might try to separate them. That's the last thing they want.

They’re in the midst of battle, stuck in a long, dark hallway with seemingly no end as monsters bubble up from the floor like water. In a mess of green vines and gold flashes, they’re not sure what floor they’re on now—they lost count what feels like ages ago—but the walls groan and vibrate harder, louder, and Willow meets Hunter’s eyes, exhausted but hopeful, thinking the same thing.

They’re close.

She struggles to catch her breath. Her muscles ache, her eyes burn, and her heart hurts. Her magic is draining quick, and at the rate they’re going she’s not sure if she’ll have any left by the time they reach the top.

If they get to the top, a small, darker part of her hisses.

She shakes her head. They have to. For King. For Eda. For everyone.

Once again, with a wave of her hands she conjures two fist-sized spell circles, trying to conserve what little magic she has left. She feels the seeds buried within the walls and the floorboards, old but ripe for the picking.

Another monster lunges for her, and she does what she does best. Thin but thorny vines burst from below.

It’s as she turns another beast to puddles when she glances back at Hunter. And at the monster coming up from behind, unhinging its jaw to the floor, ready to swallow him whole.

Up until this point, Hunter’s held his own, masterfully spinning Flapjack’s staff in his hands as they plowed through monster after monster. But he’s breathing hard, his skin gleaning with sweat. There’s even blood dripping from a gash on his shoulder, probably from losing speed. He’s slowing down. Phasing must’ve took a lot of him if he’s resorted to other, more common forms of magic.

Which is how she knows he won’t dodge in time.

Her feet move faster than her mouth as she shouts his name. He meets her eyes for a split second before looking up, too late as the roof of the monster’s mouth looms over him.

Gritting her teeth, she casts a spell circle as wide as the narrow corridor, using as much magic as she can in the seconds it takes for her to barrel into Hunter’s side. Wood splinters, thick vines shoot through the cracks, and her vision grows dark as they clasp under and around them like a fist.

A beat of silence.

Then a sickening squelch and splash, and after a moment, the vines—fatal and thorny and dripping with monster goop—unfurl. Hunter squints as his eyes adjust to the light. “What—?”

She groans.

“Captain,” Hunter gasps, scrambling to his knees as he gently rests her head in his lap.

“I’m fine. Just-just give me minute,” She pants, sweat beading her forehead. She opens her eyes, wanting to reassure him, only to hiss and press her face into his stomach at the bright light.

Hunter grimaces, glancing at Willow, to the puddles of monster goo scattered on the floor and walls, and to the exit door as her breathes come ragged. He’s got that expression, she realizes, peaking up at his side profile. His brow is furrowed, and his scar shifts as his jaw clenches. She can practically see the dozens of calculations running through his mind.

As she opens her mouth, ready as she’ll ever be, he gathers her in his arms.

She blinks, “Hunter, what’re you—” She squeaks as she’s easily lifted off the floor, her face bright red.

Before she can wallow in her embarrassment, he's already kneeling down, careful as he rests her against the least messiest wall. “Stay here.”

She jerks back. “What?”

“You’re staying here. I’ll go ahead without you,” He grinds out, expression pained like it physically hurts.

“No, you’re not. I can still fight.”

“You’re almost out of magic.”

“You’re not fairing any better—”

“Willow.”

She looks at him incredulously, and he gazes back. The dark circles under his eyes improved immensely while they were in the Human realm, but in the short time they’ve been in the Demon realm, they’ve returned with a vengeance.

“I don’t get it. Why–wha–” She stutters, hurt and confused, unsure of what to ask. How to argue.

His mouth parts and closes as tired eyes shift from one place to another, like he’s trying to find an answer in the woodwork. He lets out a shaky breath, “If this fight is going the way I think it’s going, I’d rather The Collector kill me than you. Any of you.”

Before she can interrupt, he shakes his head. “And no, this has nothing to do with an identity crisis or whatever—I’ve come to terms with who I was and who I am now—this is just facts…” He meets her eyes, and she’s taken aback as they gleam with conviction.

Down the hall, the door leading to the next room thrums awake.

As if it’s their last, he hugs her, his chin resting on her shoulder as arms wrap around her, gentle and firm. It’s the best hug he’s ever given her.

“They can make another me, but they can’t make another you.”

Her breath hitches.

“Willow, if this is the last time we see each other, I just want you to know,“ He pulls back, not noticing the way his words knock the wind out of her. Exhausted as he is, his eyes crinkle as he smiles, wide enough to show off his tooth gap. “It was an honor to be in your life.”

Just like that, he stands, turning his back to her. Her mind freezes as she hears the clack of his boots grow distant as if in slow motion.

How—how dare he! She wants to scream, cry, throw a tantrum—maybe that’ll stop him—but her body refuses to move, her head a jumble of thoughts as anger and sorrow rises within her all at once.

He can’t bench me! Who does he think he is?

I’m in no condition to fight.

She thinks about every time she was ready to throw down, he was there. He had her back no matter to circumstances. Now, as her shoulders slump in defeat, watching Hunter come to a halt, eyeing the glowing door suspiciously, she can’t even follow after him.

An “honor”? What a joke. More like disgrace.

Her head aches as every memory runs through her mind like a film reel on fast-forward, remembering how much she’s learned to lean on him. How much she’s learned about him. From his little quirks to his odd hobbies. He’s considerate, intuitive, and passionate about learning.

He gazed steadily, as if he truly believed his words.

'They can make another me.’

Her throat closes. She swallows.

Another him?

“No!” Before he can grab the doorknob, with a strangled cry, her eyes burn as she conjures a small spell circle, using up the last of her magic to summon.

A vine grapples him to the floor and he grunts, turning on his back. Willow looms over him, green eyes aglow, tears welling like dewdrops as she falls to her knees beside him. “I don’t care that you’re a-a copy. I don’t care who you were made after. I care about you,” Her eyes dim, though they don’t lose their shine as she sobs, voice cracking, “So don’t ever say that. Don’t you ever say that because you’re wrong.”

Hunter blinks up at her, taken aback; in the brief months he’s known her, she’s never raised her voice at him. Not like this.

“There can never be another you. And if there was, I wouldn’t want another one.”

She misses the look Hunter gives her as she weeps and hiccups, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, no longer holding back the tears. They trail down her cheeks, drip down her chin, and her nose is getting stuffed. She's too drained to care.

She hears Hunter shift as he sits up. When she opens her eyes, he’s tugging off his gloves—scuffed and worn from battle, stained with the goo of their enemies—only for him to reach out and wipe her tear-stained cheeks with scarred, calloused hands. She lets him.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” He reassures her, his voice thick and raspy. He doesn’t even have the sense to feel embarrassed of the intimacy behind the action. His captain’s crying. He just wants to make her feel better.

She sniffles, giving him a pointed look through the tears, “Don’t apologize. Just promise you’ll never say anything like that again.”

“Okay, I promise,” He nods hurriedly, a little scared.

A little more in love.

In front of them, the door glows, pulsating with a magic that makes the hair on her neck stand on end, and once they recover, side by side they step forward as Hunter pushes the door open.

⏤

“Are you ready?”

“I’m right behind you.”

⏤

Willow’s not sick. Unless you count lovesickness as an illness.

(The human version. Not the Demon realm’s lovesickness. Because that would be a bad thing.)

But there's still work to be done, so she sets it aside.

Until now.

Months after teaching the child god a lesson, most of the Demon realm goes back to their daily lives, witches and demons going back to work, school resuming its normal schedule. Even students are relieved to be back in class as life goes back to normal.

Except for the coven system.

It’s undergone huge changes with the help of the new council, consisting of some of the previous coven heads like Raine and Darius.

And Hunter, she smiles, cheeks warming.

He’s been busy lately, going to school with them during the day, all the while taking part in council meetings as an unofficial member. Proposing new laws, rewriting old ones, advocating for “wild” magic, a term that eventually loses its meaning. Darius complains he doesn’t need “Little Prince” backseat-delegating for him.

“I know it’s not my fault, but the least I can do is try,” he told her once, still feeling somewhat responsible for the mess Belos left behind. He intends to fix the monster’s mistakes one by one, and he has.

It’s slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

With so much going on in everyone’s lives, they haven’t seen each other outside of school and flyer derby practice to her dismay. But for the first time in what feels like forever they’ll be hanging out together as a squad, somewhere that’s not on school grounds or video-chatting. She's excited. She should be excited.

So why is she sweating bullets?

With pursed lips, she smooths out the white skirt of her dress. She’s the first to arrive, her boots clacking against the cobblestone bridge connecting the outer and inner rings of Bonesburough—a halfway point between where everyone lives—the clear water below calm with no bubbles in sight. Around this time of year, the waters within the city limits cool enough to a comfortable, lukewarm temperature, allowing the rare winter flora to bloom.

She can’t explain it, but she thinks winter’s her new favorite season.

Minutes pass, and she perks up every time a figure draws near, only to deflate when she sees another stranger pass by. She frowns; she’s not that early, is she…

As she’s about to check the time on her scroll, it pings several times at once and she pulls up the message notification. All from Amity, Gus, and Luz, all the same variation of:

Hey—

Something came up—

Sorry, can’t make it—

Disheartening as it is, plans fall through, so she’s not too broken up about it, but her eyes bug out of her head when she reads:

Good luck ;)

She blinks once, twice. If they’re not coming, that means…

“Hey!” With a small “eek!”, she spins on her heel as Hunter bends over, his tooth gap whistling as he tries to catch his breath. He offers her a small smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh, it’s fine. It’s only been a few minutes,” She waves him off.

He sighs in relief, glancing around, “Great, so—um—where’s the others?”

“Apparently, Matt needed Gus for an emergency, and Luz and Amity had to go see Mrs. Noceda for something,” she explains as her scroll dissipates. She tugs at the cuff of her sleeve. “But they said to have fun without them.”

“Oh, okay,” He bites his lip, withholding his excitement. He motions towards the inner city, and with a polite tone, “After you, Captain.”

She giggles, thanking him as they head to the shopping district.

They don’t have a plan as they keep in step with each other. Conversation ebbs and flows like water; sometimes they’re enjoying each other's presence, other times they're loudly debating on flyer derby strategies or the color beige. They talk about anything, really, about important updates in their lives to stupid small things like Flapjack making a nest out of Hunter’s old notes.

They find themselves in the market district at some point, and Hunter offers to pay when they stop at an iscream stall. She refuses, he insists, and contrary to the cool, shrieking dessert she bites the head off of, it's a warm reminder of the day he took her to the Gravesfield Botanical Gardens, the first of their many hangouts. Slow to finish her latte then. Slow to finish her iscream now.

Time passes quick, and before she realizes, they’ve come full circle back to the meet up spot as they sit on the short, stone walls of the bridge, finishing off their cups.

“This was nice,” She says before taking another scoop. The iscream has since stopped its tortured cries.

“Yeah, I missed hanging out with you,” Hunter tenses, tips of his ears pink as if they’ll blow off, “—guys! You guys. Too bad they couldn’t come. Not that I don’t enjoy being alone with you! You’re—um—”

“Thanks, Hunter.”

“You’re welcome, Captain.”

They settle into a comfortable silence as they enjoy their snack, but as Willow continues, she can feel Hunter glancing at her every ten seconds, his knee jumping.

She sighs, “Hunter?”

“Y-yes?”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No? What makes you think that?”

“You’re staring. And your iscream’s melted.”

He looks at the paper cup, “Oh…”

She sets her cup beside her. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know! I know,” His eyes soften at her, and she wants to shout, yell that she'd literally give her eyes and ears if he asked. “It’s just—there’s something I need to tell you.”

She turns her attention to him. “Okay…”

Taking a deep breath, he starts, “You know I’ve been busy with the council and fixing the coven system and going to school,” She nods, “Darius has been talking about traveling to other islands, and I've never been outside the Boiling Isles so…" He trails off, scratching his scar. "He offered to take me with him."

Her heart stops. "Oh."

"Yeah," His brow scrunches at her lack of response.

"I mean oooh! That-that's great!" Shaking her stupor, she tries to smile, "Is it just for fun or…?"

"Sort of. We'll be acting as some sort of ambassadors, studying other kingdoms and republics and sending reports back to Raine and the others. Not much different from what we've been doing now to be honest, but Darius says there's a lot we can learn from them."

“Cool, cool.” Not cool. Not cool at all!! In her head, she screaming, rolling on the floor in a panic. “So when do you leave?”

He thinks about it, “Once I finish this semester, but that’s if I—”

“What?” Her heart picks up speed, her voice rising as she argues, “He can't wait till you finish the school year? Or maybe even after graduation?”

He shrugs, her panic flying over his head. “I’ve had private tutors for most of my life. Technically, I don’t need school.”

She sputters, “But what about the Entrails? What am I supposed to do without my best flyer?”

“You guys were fine without me before—”

“That’s not the point!” Hunter’s brow shoots up as she stands, “What about your friends and family? You just made friends your own age and your family’s here: the team, Gus and Amity, Luz and Eda—”

“Well, yeah—”

“And me!”

His ears perk up. Heat crawls up her neck and across her face, and realizing what she's doing, she sits back down with a groan, "I'm sorry, this isn't how I wanted to do this. I shouldn't be trying to change your mind."

"I just really like you," She babbles without thinking, her face completely on fire now as stares at the ground, unable to look at him, “And it's hard to imagine my life without you, but if that’s what you really want then you have my full support—”

“Wait, say that again.”

She picks her head up, just wanting to curl up in bed. “You have my full support?”

“No, the other thing,” Hunter shakes his head, his forelock swishing.

“It’s hard to imagine my life without you?”

“No, before that.”

Her cheeks puff up and she’s blushing all over again. “I really like you?”

Her dress wrinkles in her fists as she squirms under his gaze. He’s so close, his eyes—more pink than wine as the sun begins to set—blinking owlishly. She’s not sure if he’s breathing, to be frank. And just when she thinks he’s about to reject her—

“I’m not going.”

She tilts her head as if she heard him wrong. “Huh?”

“I never accepted the offer,” He says. “I’ve got a pretty good thing going here. Be a shame to just leave all that now.

“…Right.”

“Eda and Raine would miss me around the house. Can’t have Luz and King turning my room into a play room either.”

“Of course, of course.”

“And I definitely can’t leave the Emerald Entrails. How else are we supposed to get to nationals, right?”

She snorts, “Okay, now hold on—”

“I still have to tell the captain how I feel too,” She pauses, and his red face reflects her own. “Also I’m pretty sure she’d drag me underground if I tried to leave.”

He gives her a loopy grin as she guffaws.

“So, I’m not leaving any time soon,” he finishes.

Once her laughter dies down, she looks at him, uncertain. “And you’re not just saying that because I confessed to you?”

“I made my decision long before this conversation. You just happen to beat me to the punch,” He pouts.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work on your timing later,” she teases as she nudges him with her shoulder.

He shoves her back, their shoulders brushing as they smile shyly at one another. She’s not sure who moves first, but they lean forward, eyes closing and lips parting. Heart doing jumping jacks, she can feel the warm puff of his breath against her lips just as they—

“Omg finally!”

They jump back, and before either can register the joyous shrieks of their friends, they tip back and yelp, arms waving frantically.

And crash into river below.

But it’s okay, Willow thinks, her dress bellowing in the water like a blooming flower. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust.

The collar of Hunter’s white shirt unfolds as he hovers in front of her. He meets her gaze, and an air bubble escapes his tooth gap as he smiles at her.

Laughing, cupping a hand over her mouth before she loses any more air, bubbles floating around them like underwater stars, she doesn’t mind how he takes her breath away.

Because Hunter’s there to give it back.

#huntlow #winter toh #hunter x willow park #hunter wittebane x willow park #hunter clawthorne x willow park #hunter toh #hunter the owl house #toh hunter #the owl house hunter #willow park #willow park toh #willow park the owl house #the owl house willow park #toh willow park #this first time ive written anything in months and its the longest oneshot ive ever done AND for my new otp?? whoops :p #had a vivid image of hunter being a self-sacrificing little shit after Hollow Mind and this popped out #also i noticed an autistic hunter tag on ao3 and idk if thats based on canon or not BUT #i like to imagine if his hands arent terribly scarred he wears gloves bc he has a thing with textures or maybe hypersensitive to touch #bc ik i do and i. must project onto my comfort character :D #this is my first time writing for huntlow hopefully theyre not ooc

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dutybcrne · 1 month

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From a very young age, Kaeya held such a fondness for handholding. Whether it was his father clinging tightly to him to make sure he didn’t get lost, Adelinde’s gentle, grounding hand closed over his to comfort him whenever his nerves got the better of him, Crepus’s rough-palmed, firm yet comforting grip as he brought him back home, or, as it was most often of all, Diluc’s warm, yet at times uncomfortably tight hold as he dragged him anywhere, everywhere, determined to always keep Kaeya close and eagerly show him all there was to see, Kaeya treasured the gesture greatly.

Of course, being as shy as he was, initiating it himself was always the harder part. So much so, he would tend to hold pinkies, rather than outright take a person’s hand in his own. Eventually, it would become his most common way to go about the gesture of affection.

#hc; kaeya #//Handholding is one of his favorite ways of affection bc 1) it’s not too overwhelming when it comes to his touch aversion #//The sensation is all focused in one spot; and even then; it’s more grounding than uncomfortable bc of how firm people’s grasp tends to be #//He really took to holding pinkies bc he realized he could ‘test’ people that way #//If it was a bother to them; they wouldn’t blink twice before moving their hand from his hold. so rejection isn’t as BIG; more subtle #//And if they Liked it; they could either accept it as is or make him happier and take firmer hold of his hand #//Once he was more confident; he would go straight to more outright handholding. Klee ofc got that RIGHT from the getgo. Bc she is smol &#liked him from the start. Even if her Pyro energy did make him uncomfortable at first; but he got used to it. for her #//Luc made it easy to go right to it to—the kid would always seem to know when he wanted to hold hands for whatever reason and grabbed hold #before Kae could link pinkies. kae did like the fact that Luc would Pout the few times Kae did link pinkies instead of hold hands #//Pout; & snatch his hand firmly in his like ‘Why did you do that? THIS way’s better’. Love the image of bby!Kae grabbing bby!Luc’s sleeves #but lbr; they deffo held hands a lot as kiddos. Bc we all know just how (canonically) indulging Luc is with whatever Kae wants. Once Luc #//figured him out; it was a Very common sight; seeing Luc tromping around like the proud lil protector he was; & Kae scurrying after him #//Lil subtle delighted gleams in his eye compared to Luc’s more overt confidence and joy. So common a sight; it was no surprise that #Kae was Deffo distressed when Luc inevitably grew out of it. Adjusted; yeah; but the sudden Change was deffo NOT good for his nerves #//Clung to Addie a lot to make up for it; until he heard the maids tittering abt how childish he was being #//He quit that FAST; finding other ways to stave off his nerves and show his affection #//Sometimes when he’s drunk at Angel’s Share; he gets tempted to hold Luc’s hand—an old habit dredged back up bc he wants comfort #//But any sudden moves Luc makes; whether bc he noticed Kae reaching out or not; utterly scare the urge away every time #//He’s made his peace with Luc resenting him; but it still stings that the ONE person he felt closest to is now practically a Chasm away #//Not like he helps any with that; running away or lashing out every time Luc tries to bridge gaps or shows concern #//Sends him into fight or flight mode every time—who’s to say Kae won’t fuck it up and make a Luc regret trying?#//Might as well sabotage it all himself—at least THEN he knows with utmost certainty it will end failure. Whoops veered off topic #//The closer he is to someone; the more likely he ends up toying with their hands a bit—esp if Interested in them #//Likes playing with their fingers; linking; unlinking and slotting them together; tracing lines on their palms #//Cute shit like that. He likes seeing how they fit together; the differences in size and how they feel #//This was all bc I saw a detail from a show pointed out on the Twitter ndnfn. And thought the pinkie thing was SO cute. Anywho #//Hi. Shit happened irl & I am still not 100%. Not saying what bc it’s not a pleasant topic; but know I am ok #//Just a lil tired. But kinda wanna hcs for rn. I had a lil burst of energy earlier today. that was nice. Over a long dead show; no less #//But it helped lift my mood a bit. I still kinda wish I could drink rn tho. Think it’d help my brain rn

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hotmess-exe · 6 months

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I just read a comment on an afropop music video saying "Nigerians are carrying the continent"

man, it's one thing when everyone else does it. but I BETTER NOT start seeing Africans conflating Nigeria The Nation with Africa The Continent. THEY don't see a difference in our art or music or histories or cultures or tribes or languages because Africa is still a fucking country to most non-Africans. but YOU, fellow African. You know the fuck better.

I had better the fuck not see that bullshit. being most visible or most recognizable on the global stage just means you're winning a popularity contest. Popularity ≠ Quality. And especially not in a popularity contest thrown by a world that never has and continues not to value our lives, our autonomy, and ESPECIALLY our arts and culture.

#it was South Africa growing up #the West — actually nah #non-Africans love reducing our entire continent down to one country's public image #i better not see us doing it #imma fly back home and make a coast to coast trip just to whoop ass #...but i know its probably us dumbass first and second gens saying this bullshit #i feel fucking old #just thoughts #sweet mother #there's a lot being said in that short and stupid statement #nigeria is carrying us musically...#nigeria is carrying all 50+ nations musically #nigeria is carrying all the regions...#fuck outta here w that shit por fuckin dios #this was on a fucking Rema video who i adore and genuinely do believe is one of the best Africa has to offer right now #but that just pissed me off more bc anyone who actually understands how art is made and influenced #would ever think that stupid shit just cause you heard a great artist #i should be less mad about this lmao #but i love music #and being African #like A LOT

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keyotos · 11 months

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new theme alert (we all clapped)

#tana talks ⋆˙⊹#ughh that shit took years off of my life istg #instead of writing i chose to make pretty images #whoops #but isn't she cuteeee like????

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thursdayglrl · 1 year

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love seeing a content warning being like oh boy, spicy! and then. the content.

#it's never the actually disturbing shit either like idc if you get graphic but as soon as like #a conversation about suicide gets a little too honest. or you talk about body image or Not Eating in a certain way #whoops! all triggers!

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orcelito · 1 year

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oh yeah uh i forgot to talk about my day. i havent rly been existing as a person whoops. uh

work kinda sucked but not NEARLY as bad as yesterday. honestly yesterday was probably the worst shift ive had in uh. well at least a year im betting. it was really so very bad.

today was better except Whoops my bike broke a little bit. forgot to mention that too. i left it at work overnight in the storage room n im gonna bring it to the bike shop tomorrow. so im gonna be without my bike for a few days </3

uhm. otherwise ive been procrastinating, still not doing my dishes, reading trigun fanfic and rewatching trigun stampede and reading trigun maximum. and also browsing etsy for trigun merch, of which i bought a few things.

now im thinking about skipping class again bc it's accidentally oh so late and i am very tired. i can rationalize it to myself that it's Totally for the sake of finishing my lab tomorrow. but really ive just lost control of this semester and i barely wanna do shit anymore. lol.

#speculation nation #also listened thru the 2nd trigun stampede OST album two whole times #went walking home bc i got no bike rn and i was just meandering down the scenic path #(it's thankfully not flooded anymore. a lil muddy at spots but i managed to avoid it)#saw some deer tracks. crouched by the river for a little bit. all while sipping at a hibiscus tea i brought from work #went home. read embarrassing fanfiction. swore i was gonna do the dishes and then just watched trigun stampede #went looking on etsy. went reading the manga. i swear it's overtaking my entire life.#im trying to be gentle with myself tho. saturday's shift did Not help me with the mental breakdown ive been fending off for weeks #oh yeah and easter. fucking easter. i was neutral/negative leaning but the shop i wanted to go to was closed today #which pushed it solidly in the negative direction. like for fuck's sake this is a fucking witchy shop and they're closed for EASTER?????#i wanted to go buy a tarot deck wtf. and the Spiritual Shop is closed for a Christian Holiday??? okay lmfao #meanwhile we kept having ppl call to ask if we were open today n it was just like 'man this is a bubble tea shop what do you think'#O Lord Bless This Bubble Tea for it was Made In Your Image.............#or some shit like that idfk. like yes we did have a few ppl call off for easter but majority of us are gay and/or Definitely not christian #the handful of us there kept laughing about how little we care about easter. one girl saying she completely forgot about it #and like. man. yea. easter's one of the most pointless ass holidays outside of christianity #at least there's fun in christmas for non christians in the gift giving. easter is just like. there are eggs now???#and this is to celebrate The Lord?????? ok lol #anyways yea my days r happening. i keep skipping class. probably will again. Whoops sorry professor man but im just tryin to survive now

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strohller27 · 5 months

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#whoops more diary entry shit but uhh #i just realised something about my last two crushes I had’t realised before #I wasn’t/I’m not suspicious of their intentions. because they didn’t treat me like I was something to parade around #their compliments feel (felt) sincere. they listen(ed) to me when I needed to talk. they weren't scared to have deep conversations #they offer(ed) help and insights and take(took) what I have to say seriously #they don’t(didn’t) put words in my mouth or try to tell me how I should feel/what I should think #it’s almost as if the last three people to show any interest in me were nothing like the people I have/had crushes on #because those three people put words in my mouth or tried to tell me how to live/be #because their image as someone ‘in a couple’ was more important than who I was or what my needs were #because for them it was more important to prove to themselves that they were ‘worthy’ of love or that they were 'good in bed'#than our actual relationship was #no wonder I’m not at the 'get married' chapter of my life yet #I fall for people who are super unlikely to be single because they’re sensitive and caring and they get chosen super fast #I also fall for super unattainable people. (maybe so that I can hide behind their unattainability)#(maybe it’s so I don’t actually have to ‘inflict’ myself on them. because it’s safer for me to just imagine than to have something that #I’m not sure I deserve.)#ouch. that’s some painful truth right there man #fuck me I need to get out of my own way. but also I need to be sure I can trust someone before I let them in #it’s a catch-22 and I’m not happy about it

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sirfrogsworth · 7 months

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Do you remember that Aussie sword guy who used to talk about medieval weapons?

And, like, he seemed pretty good at talking about swords and shit. He seemed to have a good grasp of the history and tactics. He'd analyze movie weapons for their realism and that was fun. He did demonstrations with real weapons. For a time I really looked forward to his videos popping up in my feed.

He seemed like a harmless sword-fighting aficionado.

But then I guess he wanted to spread his wings. So he started down an anti-woke path. Giving questionable critiques about media and feminism. He started defending boob armor by showing historical examples even though most of those were decorative and not battle ready like in the games.

Then he admitted he was a fan of The Daily Wire.

And that was disappointing.

I missed him nerding out about swords, ya know?

Well, Shad decided to spread his wings again.

He has become...

*bad French accent* An artiste.

You see, he types words into a little box. Then a little robot does a google image search and steals a bunch of art. Then that robot reconfigures that art to be nearly indistinguishable from the source material. Well... aside from the occasional artist watermark.

Whoops!

A.I. art is very difficult. Sometimes when you type words into the box you get a woman with 5 lopsided anime tiddies. Or 20 fingers on one hand. It takes time and effort and experience to type in the perfect magic words so that you get something close to your imagination that doesn't belong in some sort of Lovecraftian horror ripoff.

For example, check out this cool "pirate hat" I asked A.I. to place on my head.

Clearly, I am not skilled enough at typing words into a box to get a proper pirate hat.

It. Is. Not. Easy.

I heard someone say you have to type things in a box for 10,000 hours before you start getting truly masterful generations.

I mean, you can't type "marathon runners" and expect that to actually work.

THIS REQUIRES SKILL, PEOPLE.

And I am a lowly amateur. I can only dream of becoming the box-typist Shad has honed himself into.

The thing is... Shad is very upset.

He is upset that you don't like his "art" and he is ready to die on this hill.

So... before he croaks on a mound of bullshit, he has something to show you. He has created something truly brilliant and when you see it, he is convinced you will validate his considerable efforts.

Before I show you his "Not. Easy." artistic masterpiece I'd like you to sit with what he has said for a second.

Ruminate in the verbiage.

Process the ideas and points of view presented.

Digest his plea for you to accept and love his hard won battle after typing words into a box to manifest his imaginings.

Have you sat?

Ruminated?

Processed?

Digested?

Okay, here it is...

#long post

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sanguineterrain · 1 year

Text

i'll put us back together at heart - s.h.

Summary: It's 1987. You haven't spoken to Steve Harrington in nearly five years. Then Dustin Henderson tells you about a sweet deal he has at Family Video, where he can rent any movie he wants.

Pairing: ex-best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings/tags: friends to strangers to lovers. the reader is twenty in 1987 and i technically made steve twenty-one/about to turn twenty-one. s4 happened but eddie's alive and vecna's dead. no earthquakes or anything like that; reader has no idea about what really happened. lots of angst, mentions of billy hargrove (yuck) and steve's s1 asshole friends.

A/N: oh my lord. i don't know where this eighteen-wheeler of a fic came from but here it is. there is a happy ending, not to worry. i'd never do that to y'all <3 feedback and reblogs are always always appreciated!

divider by firefly-graphics

August 1981

"I wish we could stay eighth graders forever."

You lift your head from your orange pool floaty. Steve drifts on the surface of the water. His hair is longer, way longer than you've seen it in the three years you've been friends. He says it's better for styling that way; he's even bought a gel and cream for his hair. You don't understand why he wants to change something that doesn't need changing.

"Why?" you ask. "I thought you were excited for high school."

He hums. The sound echoes in his backyard.

"It's bigger than middle school. More kids, more teachers, more work. I like eighth grade."

"I'll help you with your work," you say.

Steve turns his head and smiles at you. Part of his face is in the water, the image distorted.

"You'll do great," he replies. "You're so smart."

Steve doesn't say those things to get you to help him like other kids do. Steve means it.

"You'll do great too," you say. "You're funny and nice and my best friend. People will like you."

"You think?"

You nod. Steve turns his head and closes his eyes again.

"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks.

The floaty squeaks as you move to sit up. You paddle to Steve so you can look at his face.

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I dunno." His eyes are still closed. "You might make super smart friends. And I'll just be a dumbass holding you back."

You shove Steve's shoulder lightly.

"You are not dumb, Steve."

One muggy June night had had Steve admit he wasn't thirteen, like you and all the kids in your class, but fourteen. He had been held back in third grade after his parents moved from Illinois. It's why my brain's mush, he'd said. I was born dumb.

He had made you swear not to tell anyone.

"You're not dumb," you say again. "Say it, Steve. Say you're not dumb."

His frown deepens, but he still won't look at you.

"Tommy says I am."

"Tommy Hagan is a shithead," you shoot back with so much venom, Steve's eyes fly open. "It's not true, whatever he tells you."

You hate that they've been hanging out more this summer. You can't tell Steve that, because it's not like you own him. He can be friends with whoever he wants. But you can't help that your skin crawls when Tommy and his stupid girlfriend, Carol, drops by and pulls Steve away from you.

“Promise?” he asks.

“Yes, Steve. I promise.”

“‘Kay.” Steve smiles a little. “Thanks.”

You nod and lay back on the floaty.

“Wanna get ice cream after this?” he asks.

“Just us?”

“Just us.”

Now. (January, 1987)

You slam the phone back onto the receiver. A girl playing Pac-Man carefully glances at you.

Whoops. Right. You're still at work.

You smile and give a thumbs-up. She turns around. You return to your wallowing.

You’ve called three different video rentals. Jewel Films, which is about to go out of business; More Movies, whose attendant hung up on you before you could say Molly Ringwald; and finally, Blockbuster, which is thirty minutes outside of Hawkins. None of them have a copy of Pretty in Pink.

And okay. You could just watch another movie. You don't need that specific one. But this year has been shit. You'd thought after starting college, you'd finally break out of the Hawkins forcefield that had limited your social life. You'd thought you'd make friends and not be so terribly lonely. Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn’t it?

Obviously, whoever said that is a big, fat liar.

“Dude!” you hear a familiar voice exclaim. “Stop hogging the game!”

Tawny curls peek from under a green and yellow hat. The hat hovers over an older boy who’s glued to the Tempest booth. You go to them. Dustin Henderson lights up when he sees you. You can read his hat now; it says Camp Know Where ‘85.

“Hey, Y/N!” he greets brightly. “This guy has been here for a half hour. I left to get nachos and when I came back, he was still here.”

“I’m this close to beating my score!” the kid insists.

“Come on, guy," you say, one arm on the machine. "You gotta give other people a turn."

The kid, evidently demon incarnate, sneers at you.

“Who’s gonna make me? You?”

You lean against the side of the game, considering.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he says.

You snort.

“Sixteen? And you’re still on Tempest?”

He glances at you.

“So?”

“Everybody your age is playing Rampage, that’s all.”

You wink at Dustin. He beams.

“And, uh, I saw a couple girls hanging around Rampage,” you add.

The kid turns to you. You tilt your head innocently.

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Seriously. People always flock to the new games.”

Which is true. The girls part is not, but he doesn’t need to know that. With that attitude, he won't be getting many phone numbers anyway.

You drum your fingers on the game like you have all the time in the world. And sure enough, the kid takes his quarters and heads towards Rampage. Dustin jumps in delight.

“You’re awesome, Y/N!"

You grin. “I try. Where are the others?”

Dustin sours.

“They ditched me. To hang out with their girlfriends! Can you believe that shit?”

“No way!"

He shakes his head.

“I know, right? My friend told me that that’s what happens in high school. People change, y’know? And he’d know, I guess. He’s old like you.”

You scoff. “You make me sound like some kind of ancient. I’m not that old, Henderson.”

“It’s okay, Y/N.” He pats your arm. “In many cultures, the elderly are wise. Now in my experience, this hasn’t been the case. But I think you’re wise.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Dustin smiles like the little shit he is and puts his change in the slot.

“Well, contrary to what this other friend says, I’m sure it’ll pass,” you say. “You guys will hang out again."

You swallow your acidic truth. Dustin's a good kid, and so are his friends. You don't want him to turn cynical like you have. He's too young.

Dustin shrugs, starting the game.

“I guess so. I got a copy of The Lost Boys for us to watch on Friday. They said they’ll be there.”

“Whoa, seriously? That one just came out, how’d you get a copy?”

“My friend,” he says. “The one I mentioned. He works at Family Video and reserves stuff for me.”

“Huh. I thought Family Video was closed."

You'd applied to work there last year and never got a call back. You'd gone by once and it had looked abandoned. Hence why you now work at the arcade across town.

"It almost did, but Keith took over so now it's barely scraping by."

"Ah. Sweet deal on the movies."

“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, eyes crinkling. “My friend's pretty cool. You'd like him."

"Would I now?"

"Absolutely," he gushes. "He's a total badass too. He won his first fight last year. He used to be a jock but he's recovered."

"Wow. Impressive."

"Mmhm. I could ask him to hold stuff for you too, if you wanted.”

“You would?”

The game makes a sad game over noise. Dustin sighs and takes a gulp of his slushie.

“Yeah, totally,” he says through a mouthful of blue raspberry ice. “Which one do you want?”

“Pretty in Pink? I missed it in theaters."

“Sure. I’ll tell him to hold it tonight and tomorrow you can pick it up.”

“Cool. Thanks, Dustin.”

Dustin gives you an apple-cheeked grin.

“Gotta stay in good graces with the arcade attendant who lets me play Tempest as long as I want.”

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, walking away. "Don't get slushie on the game."

"'Kay!"

Dustin only gets a little bit of slushie on the game, but he cleans it up with about a million of the cheap snack bar napkins. When he leaves, he tells you to mention his name at Family.

"Who do I ask for?"

"You can talk to either of them," Dustin says. "Doesn't matter. Except Keith. You know Keith, right?"

"Unfortunately.” Keith used to terrorize the arcade before he blessedly moved on. “He works there?"

"Barely." Dustin scoffs. "He's almost never there, so don't worry. And feel free to ask for more movies. They owe me one."

Your sole interactions are with professors and a gaggle of high school freshmen. But now you get to watch any movie you want. Maybe this year won't totally suck.

The bell rings pleasantly as you step inside. There's a few people on line, so you take your time walking in. There's a movie display with about thirty copies of RoboCop. A cardboard cutout of RoboCop stares back behind his red helmet.

"Can I help who's next?"

You go to the counter. A girl about your age with a choppy haircut smiles at you but it's sort of strained. She has a pin on her green work vest that says Ask me!

"Please don't ask for Adventures in Babysitting," she says.

"Oh. No, I'm, uh, Dustin's friend?"

You can't believe you're name-dropping a high schooler.

She nods in realization.

"Oh, yeah. God, I keep telling that dweeb not to promise holds."

You wince.

"Sorry. If it's going to get you in trouble…"

Her brows raise. She smiles a bit.

"No, it's okay. Usually my coworker deals with it but, well. He's taking an extra long break today. So, what movie was it?"

"Pretty in Pink," you say.

"Classic," she replies. "John Hughes fan?"

"Somewhat. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I like Molly Ringwald."

She grins.

"Me too. She's pretty."

"Super pretty," you agree.

The girl considers you, then sticks out her hand.

"I'm Robin," she says. "Nice to meet you."

You take her hand. "Y/N.”

"Did you go to Hawkins High?"

"I did. Graduated last year."

"Oh, cool. Are you in college?"

You nod.

"Hawkins State. Twenty minutes from here."

"Sweet! I'm taking a gap year, but afterwards, I’m gonna apply there. It's cheap. College is college, right?"

"College is college," you agree. "But I wish I'd gone away for school."

You don't know why you're telling her this. You've known Robin for all of two minutes. But she seems friendly. And her sense of style is cool. She wears a blue blazer and tie underneath her vest.

"How come?" she asks.

"Everybody from Hawkins is there," you say. "And I… I just want a new start."

Robin smiles sympathetically.

"They're jerks," she says.

You huff. "Yeah."

You'd turned yourself into a social recluse a million years ago. It's your own damn fault you can't befriend anybody in this town. At least, not anymore.

Robin types into the computer, then smacks the monitor. She groans.

"Ugh. Gimme a second," she says. "Stupid technology."

"No problem," you say, smiling. You like her. Maybe you can integrate Family Video into your regular routine, become friends. You can see Robin becoming a good friend. One you wouldn't grow apart from.

She disappears into the back room. You browse the old releases and stop at Die Hard. This one you saw in theaters. John McClane is a badass.

You think of Dustin, and his supposedly badass new friend. It's too bad you didn't meet today. Dustin has a good sense about people. If he says so, it's possible you and this friend really would get on.

The bell rings again. You're slow to look up. The entrance is empty when you do. You keep reading about John McClane's adventures.

"Have you been waiting long?"

You turn at the new voice. The video slips out of your hand and clatters onto the counter.

Steve’s hair has grown since you last saw it. He looks different too, though he has yet to break out of his signature church boy polos. There's a smattering of stubble on his jaw. His arms are lean with muscle. He wears a matching work vest like Robin's, name tag printed Steve in blocky font.

He looks at where you've dropped Die Hard and smiles.

"This is a good one," he says. "John McClane is a total badass."

You blink.

"Did you want to rent that one?" he continues, meeting your eye.

"No," you manage.

"Okay, no problem. Just browsing?"

He doesn't remember you.

You stare and stare. Steve leans in, concerned. He's changed, but he hasn't. He's still handsome with his swoopy hair and big, dark eyes, but the Steve you knew wouldn't have been caught dead working at a video store.

And he doesn't remember you.

"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuine.

You take a step back from the counter. The blood roars in your ears. Robin comes back in, Pretty in Pink in hand. She looks at you, then at Steve.

"Got it!" she tells you. "Computer should work now."

"I have to go," you say.

You don't look at Steve again, instead focusing on Robin.

Her brows rise.

"Oh. Is everything—"

"I forgot my wallet," you blurt. "I can't pay for the movie. Sorry."

"That's okay, we can just—"

You run. The bell chimes over her words. You keep running until you get to the bus stop, three blocks away.

Only there do you stop to catch your breath.

And then you cry.

February 1982

"What do you think about Marie?"

You look up from your textbook. Steve is doodling in the margins of his notes. You gently prod his arm. He returns to reading but his leg starts to bounce under the table.

"Marie Iverson?" you ask.

"Yeah."

Steve glances at you. He pushes his hair back. It had taken him freshman year to get his bearings with all the gels and creams, but now, his hair is a point of pride, always perfectly coiffed. Seniors call him "The Hair" and high-five him in the hallway. You hate it.

"I don't know. I don't know her that well."

"She's cute."

"I guess so," you say.

It's harder to get Steve to focus on homework these days. Last year, he happily made flashcards with you and even bought fancy gel pens to share for your notes. Now, he prefers to talk about girls or—

"I was thinking of asking her out."

The tip of your pencil breaks. You really ought to start using pens, but you don't like being unable to erase.

"Shit, here. Take mine."

Steve offers his still perfectly sharpened pencil. You stare at it.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah." You take the pencil. "Thanks."

"Sure. So what do you think?"

"I don't know, Steve. I thought you talked about this stuff with Tommy."

"I would, it's just…" Steve shifts uncomfortably. "He can be rude about it sometimes. He doesn't even get why we're friends, y'know? Doesn't understand why I don't just date you."

Tommy is a moron, but you've said that since last year, and Steve's never listened before.

"Some people don't get it," you say mildly, because you have an upcoming French test and there's no use in getting upset over Tommy Hagan right now.

"But you do. And you know about this stuff better than me. Girls and all."

"Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I know what girls are best for you to date, Steve. It's weird to talk about."

Steve deflates.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."

You sigh and rub your temple.

"I thought you knew all about that," you say, extending an olive branch. "Asking girls out and stuff."

"Well, I mean, I've kissed girls but I've never… you're, like, the only girl I really know."

Something like pride swells in your chest. Selfishly, you want to keep Steve. You don't want to help him if it means losing him. Oh, you're so greedy, aren't you? You watch Steve run off with Tommy and Carol and nameless seniors and seethe, because Steve was yours first. Steve is yours.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah." You give him back his pencil and fish for another one in your bag. "Did you ever think about writing how you feel?"

"Writing?"

"Yeah, like a poem or a letter."

"I'm terrible at writing," Steve laments. "The letters get all jumbled and I never spell a damn thing right."

He'd told his mom once how letters melt into each other, how b's become d's. She'd taken him to get his eyes checked, and when the doctor said Steve was fine, Deborah Harrington had told her son to stop begging for attention.

"Someone who really likes you won't care about spelling mistakes, Steve," you tell him. "As long as you write from the heart. Don't do that cheesy shit and quote Romeo and Juliet. They're young, impulsive, and they die at the end, and that's not romantic."

Steve laughs, nose scrunched.

"What!" you demand. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, 's just—of course you'd have something to say about quoting Shakespeare."

"It's overdone," you say, crinkling your nose. "And girls would much rather read your own words."

"So you think I should write Marie a letter?"

"If you really like her," you say. "Only write letters for girls you really like. Otherwise they lose their meaning."

Steve frowns. "I don't know if I should write her a letter, then."

Don't, you want to say. Don't write any of them letters.

You shuffle your papers into a stack.

"Can we study now?" you ask.

"Oh, sure, yes. Sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, Steve."

He shifts closer to you. His leg has stopped bouncing.

"Lemme take you out," he says.

You nearly swallow your tongue.

"Wh–what?"

"For ice cream," Steve clarifies. "Like we used to. Dairy Queen."

"Oh. Okay, sure. But after we study."

Steve beams. "I'll drive you."

Steve's dad had bought him the BMW as a birthday present this year—not that Richard Harrington actually knows when his own son's birthday is, considering the gift was three months early. Still, it's another point of pride for Steve and about all anybody talks about whenever his name comes up. Steve is the only person in your grade with a car. Junior girls hit him up for rides. You make yourself scarce when they do.

You don't care. You liked Steve before the car. And the clothes. And the hair.

Your throat feels tight. You want your best friend back.

"Just us?" you check.

You can't tell these days. Steve seems to hang out with everybody but you. You're shocked he'd even asked to study together.

"Oh, sure," Steve says. "I just have to drop off Tommy and Carol first, okay?"

You check your watch and close your book.

"I have class," you lie. "I'll see you later."

Steve catches your wrist. He looks at you and you're struck by how sweet his face is. It's not like you didn't understand why girls want him but it's Steve. Your Steve, who still sleeps with a nightlight and who framed a picture of a sports car he cut out from a magazine because he'd thought it would make him cooler (it didn't. You still tease him about it.)

"Please," he says. "For helping me."

Your eyes slit. "I didn't help you to get stuff, Steve. I helped you because you're my friend."

Steve blinks like he's forgotten what it's like to be friends with someone just for the sake of being friends.

"You're right," he agrees. "You're not like that. I'll tell Tommy and Carol to find another ride. It'll be just us. I promise."

You perk up at that. "Really?"

"Really. You can sit in the front with me and we'll play Bruce Springsteen, like we used to. Please?"

"Okay, Steve." You ache. You’ve never been very good at telling him no. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."

And maybe… maybe your best friend is still in there after all.

Now

You ask your shift manager if you can work at the snack bar today. It's in the back and you won't have to deal with any game hogs.

"You didn't put enough syrup in my slushie."

You might have overshot the perks, though.

Slushie Girl's hair is bleach blonde and hairsprayed to God. You want to tell her that all that hairspray doesn't keep friends. Or brain synapses.

"I don't make the slushie," you say for the third time. "That's how it comes out of the machine."

She shoots you a mean look.

"I'm complaining to the manager."

You paste on a smile.

"You do that. Have a nice day."

She finally walks away, probably on the hunt for your manager, who's definitely smoking a joint outside to avoid this exact situation.

Dustin comes around the corner and this time, he's with the rest of his party. You smile.

"Hey, Y/N!" Dustin greets.

Lucas waves at you. Max and Mike are arguing and therefore are in their own world. And there's their newest addition, El, whose story you're still not clear on, as well as Will, quiet as always.

You lean your elbows on the countertop.

"What'll it be, gang?"

"Six nachos and six slushies, please. One blue raspberry, three cherry, and two Coke."

You fill up the slushies first. Dustin dances on his toes.

"So did you pick up the movie?" he asks.

"Oh." You try to smile. "I went there but I couldn't. I forgot my money. Pretty dumb of me."

Dustin accepts this with no argument.

"Well, you can go back. They'll hold it for a few days."

You're never setting foot in there again, but you don't tell Dustin that.

He takes his slushie and immediately starts drinking.

"Slow down, dude. You'll get a brain freeze," you say.

"You sound like Steve," Dustin informs you. "Doesn't Y/N sound like Steve?"

Lucas nods.

"Yup. They're both parents."

You feel queasy. You focus on making the nachos, the cheese pouring out thick and gooey.

"Did you meet Steve?" Dustin asks. "You probably know him from high school, but he's different now."

"Yes," you say quietly. "I knew him."

"I promise he's different. Even Mike likes him, and Mike hated his guts. Right, Mike?"

Mike pauses in his animated discussion with Max and looks at you.

"What?"

"I'm telling Y/N about how Steve is cool now," Dustin explains.

"Oh." Mike shrugs. "He's fine. Much better now that he's not dating my sister."

"He's not?" you ask. "But they were in love. I–I mean, that's what I heard, at least."

"She dumped his ass," El says, and it sounds a little ridiculous in her soft monotone.

Max scoffs, taking her Coke slushie.

"Did you live under a rock? It was a huge thing."

"Now Steve is lame," Mike says with a snort.

"Getting dumped doesn't make somebody lame," you say with an old ferocity you'd thought had disappeared.

"Okay, jeez." Mike holds up his hands. "Steve's alright. He's different, that's for sure."

"He's our paladin," Lucas says. "A protector."

Dustin nods eagerly.

You blink. "He protects you guys?"

Max elbows Lucas. You have no idea what that's about. El steps forward and smiles softly.

"Yes," she says. "He's our babysitter."

"Aren't you guys freshmen? I thought you were too old for babysitters."

"Oh no, Steve doesn't get paid for it or anything," says Mike. "He just does it 'cause he has nothing else to do."

"That's not true!" Dustin argues. Then he shrugs. "Well, it's a little true. But he does like us. He's a good guy. He cares about his friends."

You bite your tongue, not wanting to reply to that.

"That's great, guys. The girl, Robin? She seems pretty cool too."

"That's Steve's best friend," says Dustin. "She's great."

"Oh." You wince. "Best friend?"

Dustin huffs. “Yeah. They don’t date. He won’t say why."

"Platonic with a capital P," Max confirms. “It’s obviously because he’s in love with somebody else.”

“Not Nancy!” Lucas protests.

“There are other girls besides Nancy, Sinclair.”

You busy yourself with serving the last set of nachos. The kids pull out crumpled bills and coins in return. You count the money and stack it directly into the register; you know there won't be any change.

When you turn, they're still there. Dustin has his signature grin on, eyes squinty.

"Yeees," you drag out. "Can I help you?"

"We need a favor," Lucas says. "Please."

"Hmm." You lean over the counter. "What's up?"

"They're showing Prince of Darkness on Friday," Dustin explains. "But it's rated R."

"So just sneak in. Isn't that what you guys did at Starcourt?" you ask.

"We had an inside man then. They're a lot stricter at the new one," Lucas frowns. "They ask for IDs 'cause some mom complained after her kid snuck in to watch Risky Business."

"And why can't your babysitter take you?"

You sneer at the thought. Steve spending his Friday nights herding a bunch of adolescent teens into a movie theater. There's a reason you consider Dustin affectionately delusional.

"He has a stupid date," Dustin groans. "He's a serial dater, Y/N. It's terrible. He gets lucky once and totally ditches us."

Now that sounds like the Steve you knew.

"I see. I don't really like horror stuff."

"You don't have to stay!" Dustin insists. "You can watch whatever you want after we’re in. I'll pay you back for the ticket."

“This would be so much easier if Steve still worked at Scoops,” Mike grumbles.

You blank for a moment, the image of Steve in a sailor’s hat and those ridiculous shorts whiting your brain.

“Um,” you begin. “You know I don’t have a fancy BMW to cart you guys around in, right?”

“It’s cool. We’ll get there,” Max says.

“So?” Dustin bounces on his toes. “Sooo?”

You sigh. It’d been nice of Dustin to get you the movie, even though you’d chickened out and ran. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll get you guys in.”

Dustin pumps his fist. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re my favorite old person.”

You roll your eyes. “Funny. Any funnier, and I might rescind my help, Henderson.”

“Byeeee!”

They all disperse to the arcade. You wonder how on earth Steve got involved with them.

March 1983

“Okay, but if you had to choose.”

“Pass. I would literally rather swallow pennies than kiss Principal Coleman’s bald-ass head, Steve.”

Steve takes a triumphant swig of beer. “So you’re saying you’ve got the hots for Benny the janitor.”

“No!” you insist through giggles. “I don’t. God, you’re gross. Can’t believe I’m being treated like this on your birthday.”

“Exactly! My birthday.”

He rolls onto his side in his deck chair and nearly faceplants on the cement. You reach out, reaction time delayed.

“Steve!” you yell. “Careful.”

“I am, I am,” he mumbles, and rights himself on the chair. “Jus’ wanna see you better.”

“I keep telling you you need glasses.”

“I do not,” he whines. “My vision’s ten outta ten. Could a guy who needs glasses do this?”

He crumples up a Twinkies wrapper and throws it towards the garbage. The wind picks up and sends the wrapped into the pool.

“Shit,” he says.

You belly laugh in delight.

“Wait, wait, redo. Go fish it outta there.”

“Oh, as if. I’m not going in there. I told you you need glasses. Even Mother Nature agrees.”

"She does not. Mother Nature thinks I'm a doll."

You hum and close your eyes. Alcohol always makes you sleepy.

The chair scrapes against the concrete. You hear a crinkle of a chip bag. Those are your only warning before you’re crushed by two hundred pounds of drunk boy.

“Steve!” You wheeze, squirming as his hair tickles your face. “Get off!”

"’M sleepy,” he mumbles.

“Well, don't sleep on me, weirdo.”

“‘S cold.”

“You run, like, a hundred degrees, don’t lie.”

He lifts his head. “So you’re saying I’m hot?”

“I’m saying all that booze cooked your brain,” you reply sweetly.

“I’ve been wounded,” he moans and plops onto your shoulder.

“Ugh.” You resign to your fate and lean back. Steve’s not actually that heavy; even drunk, he has a lot of control over his weight and he’s situated himself so he isn’t crushing anything important. No, you squirm underneath him for a very different reason.

“Steeeeve,” you whine. “You’re gonna squish me into a pancake.”

“Can’t believe no one else came.”

You still. Steve’s face remains buried in your shoulder. His body is beside yours, and he has an arm slung over your belly.

“I didn’t—didn’t want a party,” he continues. “I always throw parties. I thought I’d do somethin’ different. An’ none of them even wished me a happy birthday. ‘Cept you.”

You rest your hand on the back of his hair. It’s wind-blown and messy from the drinks, free of his heady hair gel. You’ve never loved it more.

“Did you tell them your birthday is today?” you ask gently, even though you know he did.

“Yeah,” he says. “Told all of ‘em. Guess they weren’t listening.”

“I listen.”

Steve looks up at you. His eyes are glassy.

“God, I miss you,” he says.

You feel the wall you’ve built this year crumble, just a little.

“I’m right here, Steve.”

“I know but—been a jerk lately. I know I have. You’re my best friend, okay? Nothing’ll change that. I–I love you so much.”

Your breath hitches. Steve barrels on, not noticing.

“And I’ll be better. We’ll hang out more. Not–not here, drunk. But for real. We’ll go to the movies. Y’wanna see a movie?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanna see a movie.”

“‘Kay, what movie? Anything you want. We’ll get popcorn and Raisinets.”

“You hate Raisinets,” you choke through a watery laugh.

“I’d eat Raisinets anytime with you.”

You lay there, in the dark, the only sound being the pool filter.

“Let’s watch the new James Bond.”

“Hmm, okay. But you’ll have to say the name eventually.”

Your nose crinkles. “I am not calling it by its name.”

His laugh is warm in your neck.

You don’t tell Steve to get up again. He snuggles into you, leg over yours. You fall asleep like that, curled underneath him.

Now

“Wait.” Max stops. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?”

“Game plan?” El asks quietly.

“Yeah. Some of us aren’t so great at playing it cool.”

She stares at Lucas.

“I play it cool!” he squawks. “I am so cool!”

“Right.”

“Just let Y/N do the talking,” Will says. “She’s technically the adult so she should act like this is a conscious choice.”

You shrug. “Makes sense to me.”

Dustin beams. “This is gonna be great!”

“Or a total disaster,” Max says.

You go to the counter, the kids trailing behind like ducklings.

“Six tickets for Prince of Darkness, please,” you say. “And uh, one for Dirty Dancing.”

The attendant looks at you, then at the kids.

“Don’t you mean seven tickets for Prince of Darkness?” she asks. “It’s rated R.”

Shit. “Right, yes. Sorry. Seven tickets. And one for Dirty Dancing. We have another friend who’s late.”

“Uh-huh.”

The attendant, whose bored expression you’ve recognized on your own face after long days in the arcade, hands you your tickets without any questioning.

“I think we’re in the clear,” Lucas whispers when you enter the concession area.

You wait for them to buy their snacks. Max persuades Lucas to let her mix M&Ms into their bucket of popcorn. He agrees and shuffles closer so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder while they share.

“Okay, last stretch,” Mike says, shoveling a frighteningly large handful of sour worms into his mouth. “We just have to get past the ticket guy.”

Said ticket guy is a kid who can’t be much older than you. You think you might’ve gone to school together, but you’ve made it a point to eviscerate everything about high school from your mind.

“Hey,” you say, trying to act cool. Maybe you’re the one Max should’ve been worried about, instead of Lucas. “Uh, here are our tickets.”

He takes the tickets, then looks behind you.

“Prince of Darkness is only for people seventeen and older,” he says.

“I’m an adult, so I’m with them,” you explain. “I’m, like, their guardian?”

“Yeah, uh—” He hands you your tickets. “No can do. There needs to be an adult for each person under seventeen.”

“Come on,” you cajole. “They’re high schoolers. It’s not like they’re gonna be scarred for life watching some zombies, or whatever.”

He shrugs. “Rules are rules.”

“She’s an adult!” Dustin argues.

“Look, if you’re gonna hold up the line, I’m gonna have to—”

“Yo, Gillespie! That you?”

Dustin turns and lights up. The seven of you part for Steve Harrington and his date, a pretty strawberry blonde you think you had biology with.

“Harrington, man, what’s up!”

Ticket Prick gets up to slam Steve into a bear hug. You barely resist an eye roll.

“Shit, I haven’t seen you in a year! Where’ve you been all this time? Hey, did you hear about that shit with Munson?”

Steve flinches. It’s a tiny movement, indiscernible to the trained eye. But it’s there all the same.

“Gillespie, c’mon. Don’t bring the party down with that,” Steve says, all sweet charm.

“Sorry, sorry. Daisy,” he greets the girl attached to Steve’s arm.

“Gil,” she replies with a giggle. “You smell like popcorn butter.”

America’s future taxpayers. Terrifying.

“Are you gonna let us in or not?” Max interrupts, arms folded.

You feel a burst of pride.

Gil shoots her a dirty glare and puffs up, ready to fight a fourteen year old. Steve cuts in smoothly.

“Gillespie, listen. I know her.” He points to you. You bristle. “I can personally vouch that she’s just trying to do right by these kids. They wanted to see Prince of Darkness, y’know? Get away from the parents.”

“It’s a sick film,” Gil agrees. “You seen it?”

No, of course Steve hadn’t seen it. He hates horror.

“Planning on it,” Steve says, the ultimate image of playing it cool. “Look, you remember sneaking into the movies. Fast Times? Ring any bells?”

Max rolls her eyes. You’re inclined to do the same.

Gil laughs dopily, and nudges Steve. “Hell yeah, I do. That was a crazy night, Harrington.”

Steve smiles thinly. “Sure was. So whaddya say? For old times’ sake?”

Gil considers your little troupe. Then he shrugs.

“Why not. Manager’s not here anyway.”

He takes the tickets and tears them to stubs, then gives them back.

“Theater six. On your left. Enjoy.”

The kids stampede into the left theater wing. You hang back with your own ticket.

“Appreciate it, man,” Steve says, all smiles. “Take care, alright?”

“Hey, you too, Harrington! We gotta catch up!”

Steve and Daisy go in. You expect them to walk right past you, and Daisy does, predictably. But Steve stops.

“I’ll catch up, okay?” he tells her. “Find us some good seats?”

She paws at him a little, then goes, sodas in hand. You stiffen as Steve walks and stops three feet away from you.

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about that. Gil’s an asshole.”

“I know. He yawned during my poetry reading sophomore year. And then you guys went to the movies together.”

Steve shrinks. “Your poems were great.”

You’re suddenly exhausted.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I just… I wanted to see you. Say hi.”

“Okay.” You cross your arms. “Hi.”

“You forgot your movie,” he says. “The other day.”

“I didn’t want it that much.”

“Dustin said you looked everywhere for it.”

“Well, in the end, it didn’t really matter,” you say. “Not enough to stay.”

“Y/N—”

“I think your date’s waiting for you,” you interrupt. “Better get back to her. Wouldn’t want to taint your reputation.”

Steve makes a noise like he’s been wounded. You turn on your heel before you can think better of it.

“Wait.” He catches your wrist. Steve’s grip is light, like you’re something precious to hold. You wrench your arm away. “Y/N, I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask. “For forgetting me? I didn’t expect you to remember, Steve.”

“I didn’t forget you,” he insists. “I could never forget you. I wasn’t—please, can I just explain?”

“I don’t need your explanations,” you snap. The hurt corrodes your tongue like acid. “I know what happened. We were both there. You left.”

Steve’s eyes are huge and dark. He looks like you just stabbed him in the heart, and that makes you feel worse. You’d thought telling him how much it hurts would put you back together, but all it did was break you more.

So you run. Again.

You slam through a back exit and rip your ticket into a million pieces. The wind is cold and unforgiving. Your eyes sting.

You call out sick for two days in a row. You kind of expect to get fired, but then again, people have been leaving Hawkins and if you’re not here to serve the masses their slushies, who will be?

So, after lying in bed not thinking about movies and strawberry blonde girls and how sick you are of this town, you get up and put on your arcade vest.

Now it is two in the afternoon. You’d heard it was supposed to snow today.

Robin eyes the snack counter like it holds the next plague outbreak. You don't blame her; you make it a point to wash up to your elbows after work.

"Slushie?"

She looks at you like she’d forgotten you were there. "What?"

You point a thumb at the machine. "Are you here for a slushie?"

"Oh. No, sorry. Red dye makes me insane in the brain. Steve actually—"

Robin stops, grimaces. So he's told her. Probably everything, if the kids had been telling the truth.

You're honestly surprised she's here. Unless it’s to, like, swirlie you in the vat of artificial cheese.

"Are you here to drown me in nacho cheese?" you ask.

Robin's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "What? No!"

"Just checking." You lean against the counter. "What can I do for you, Robin?"

Robin suddenly looks like she's never interacted with a human being before. You like her a lot. Steve probably does too.

"I came to drop off your movie." She holds the tape over the counter like it's a pool of lava.

"But I didn't pay for it." You shove your hand in your jean pocket; you only have a couple dollars on you. "I guess I can get you the money tom—"

"It's on the house. For a fellow Molly fan."

Robin wiggles the tape with two fingers. You take it and wait for a catch. There is none.

"Thank you," you say. "You didn't have to do that."

"Actually, it wasn't me," she confesses. "I'm just the mailman."

You prepare to hand it back but Robin shakes her head.

"He's not going to pop out of the slushie machine, okay? He's just trying to make it up to you."

"He doesn't need to make it up to me," you bite, except those aren’t the words you mean. "Why does he even care? We're not in high school anymore."

Robin smiles a sad smile.

"I know," she says. "We’re not. I know he should've known to fix things earlier. He's received a lot of blows to the head, though, so he's still catching up."

The thought turns your stomach. More? More you weren’t there to protect him from?

"He doesn't owe me anything," you say and wave the tape again. "You can take it back and leave it for somebody else."

"Y/N, I know we don't know each other, like, at all. But it's important to me you know that Steve cares about you, because you’re important to him. And you knew him way before I did, and you probably know a lot of stuff I don't, and that's good because he has a friend like me, but he should also have a friend like you too, Y/N."

"I don't want to be his friend," you mumble.

"Yeah," Robin says. "I figured. But I don't think that's a confession he should hear secondhand."

You look at her, stunned. She's such a clever girl. You hope she treats Steve well.

"If you two are—"

"We're not," she says, like this is a regular explanation she goes through. "Steve and I are friends. Steve has crashed and burned with every single date since his fall from regency. Steve is the best person I've ever met."

"Yeah, I’ve heard. You and Dustin are his biggest fans."

Robin snorts. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it."

You shake your head. Your eyes feel hot.

"This town is so shit," you say.

"Yeah," Robin agrees. "It really fucking is. But I'm not asking you to give this town a second chance. Just him."

"Why are you trying so much?" you ask. "You don't even know me."

Robin shrugs. "No, but you're the one person Steve used to be friends with who's not an asshole, and I think us non-assholes need to band together."

"I can sometimes be an asshole."

"Me too. So are those little dweebs. How about calling ourselves the Semi-Assholes Club?"

You laugh. "We'll get jackets."

"With partially drawn butts on the backs," Robin says with a giggle.

You look at the tape in your hand.

"Does Steve like John Hughes?"

"He does. He's a total sap for those. He thinks he's in his own coming-of-age movie because he's delusional."

He sounds perfect. He sounds like the friend you loved.

"I did want to watch this one," you say.

"It won't hurt you to," Robin promises.

You suppose not.

December 1984

You don't believe the whispers. All week, the rumor mill spins tales of Billy Hargrove finally pushing the King off his throne. There's no way he'll show his face, a girl at the adjacent lunch table astutes. I sure as fuck wouldn't.

Steve Harrington is a loser. Steve Harrington got dumped for Jonathan Byers. Steve Harrington may as well be dead, and on and on.

Every line gets you angrier. A boy who sits behind you in chemistry taps his pencil like he always does. Tap, tap, tap.

Halfway through class, you snap at him to quit it. He does, but not without a tinge of embarrassment. You’re so angry this year. Angry at your loneliness, angry at the unfairness of said loneliness. You might’ve done this to yourself, and that fact only gets you angrier.

You see Nancy Wheeler in the hallways with Jonathan Byers, and the confirmation of that rumor should make you happy. It doesn't.

A week later, most of the excitement has died down. Everybody’s moved onto the next big thing, which is to deduce who fucked in Vice Principal White's office. One look at V.P. White, and it had been decided that it can't have been White himself.

You can't care less. Once upon a time you might’ve laughed about it with a friend, but you don't have any more of those, and high school is bullshit with or without them. So.

Steve walks in twenty five minutes into the period. Mrs. Kaplan gives him a downright beastly glare and demands to know where he had been.

"I'm sorry," is all he says. "If you give me detention, I understand."

There are a few snickers that rub at an old hurt, one that had flared up whenever somebody dared to make fun of your best friend. It doesn't bother me, he'd said, and you'd known it was a lie.

It bothers me, you’d replied, and Steve had hugged you tight.

Mrs. Kaplan seems more stunned Steve hadn't swaggered past her like a peacock escaped from the zoo and lets him go sit down without a fight. He takes the only empty desk, two rows across from you. You stare. You can't not.

Half of his face looks like it was mashed in a garbage disposal. It's purple and a sickly yellow. His eye and lip are still swollen. You stare and stare. You feel queasy.

Billy had done that. You're so angry. You think you might never get past this grief, this loss of a once permanent fixture in your life.

No one wished Steve a happy birthday this year, you realize out of nowhere.

You stare and stare and stare until Steve looks right back. You're blindsided by thick guilt, like blinking through a milkshake. And then the familiar curl of anger returns because why the fuck should you feel guilty? You aren't the one who fucked everything up, who mascerated this good thing. Steve did this to himself. Steve deserves to walk the halls alone. It's Steve's fault.

But when you look at him, at his raw wounds, at his bruised knuckles, you know that he already believes he deserves every punch Billy Hargrove gave him.

You hate Steve Harrington. But you really wish you'd been there to drive him to the hospital.

Now (And Forever)

The tape sits buried in your drawer for three days. You don’t know what Family Video’s return policy is, but you hope you’re not racking up late fees. You doubt name dropping Dustin will work again.

It’s Saturday when you decide to watch Pretty in Pink. You remove the video from its sleeve. An envelope falls out.

The front has your name printed in squished, loopy script. You remember January at Steve’s house, a stack of thank-you cards courtesy of his mother awaiting the Harringtons’ sign-off. Steve’s hand would cramp and you’d take over while he made grilled cheese for the both of you. Love, The Harringtons, and there was no love in that house, but you think maybe Steve loved enough to make up for it.

Hi, the letter begins. I hope you’re good. Robin told me you’re going to Hawkins State.

That’s fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you. Are you still writing poetry? I liked that one you wrote about the birds who shared a branch and kept each other warm. I still have it in my notebook in my room.

I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry for every night since freshman year, honestly. I’m kind of a dumbass, but you know that, so it doesn’t really excuse anything. I think I’ve actually lost brain cells since we drifted apart.

You crumple the corner, suddenly hot with anger. Who keeps telling him he’s dumb? You want names.

I didn’t forget you, you know. I got scared and I thought maybe I could ease into it, but then you recognized me and… well. I don’t blame you for running.

Anyway. I’m talking too much about myself, when there’s nothing to say. I’m really sorry about what I did, or, actually, what I didn’t do. Somebody told me I was living on autopilot, and that it wasn’t really living at all. I think it was you.

I’m not living on autopilot anymore. I woke up. And I realized that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I love Robin and the kids and this little family that has apparently invayd invaded your life too. Sorry about that. They never leave and they eat all your food. Good luck.

But I miss you. I always have.

Shit happened these last few years that I’ll tell you about one day, if you want. I’d rather not, though, because you’ve always been the paranoiac (like that one? Robin said it’s an SAT word) of the two of us and I feel like this would just make you even more of one. But I will tell you, if you want to hear it. I want to tell you everything. I want you to tell me everything too. Like we used to.

I want you to tell me how college is going. Who the annoying jerks in your classes are so I can go beat them up (kidding). I want you to stop by to rent movies so I can lend them for free and you’ll yell at me about taking advantage of fre friendships.

Fuck, I miss you. It’s always been there, bubbling below the surface. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I know you said writing is how we express things we can’t say. You were right. You always are. Can’t believe I forgot that.

It’s okay if you don’t want to be friends. I mean, it hurts, but I respect it. I understand. Most days, I can’t believe people can bear to be around me. But then I hear your voice in my head, telling me that most people are shitheads and that I’m golden and. Well, I don’t know if I believe that, but you were right that most of the people I surrounded myself with were shitheads. Except you, of course. And then I went ahead and fucked that up.

I’ve been working on finding the non-shitheads of the world. I think I’m doing pretty well. And I wrote this because I realized that while I will probably end up buried in this fucking town, you’re going to do something incredible. And nothing incredible ever happens in Hawkins, so I figure you’ll be far away when you do it.

I didn’t want to miss this chance to write things I never said. So here they are. And you can do whatever you want with them. You’ve always been the best of the two of us. I trust you.

You should watch Dirty Dancing. You’ll like it. I did. I’ll see it again if you want. I’ll watch anything with you.

Did you know there’s another Bond movie coming out in the summer? We could watch that one together too. If you wanted more time to decide.

Sincer

Your friend,

Steve

You don’t bother ejecting the tape. You run all the way to the bus stop, Steve’s letter in hand.

You have to see him. No other thoughts register except that one. You have to know if Steve wrote these words because he can’t say them or because you won’t listen.

It isn’t too late when you get to Loch Nora. The neighborhood is dead, which is weird. Steve’s house looks frozen in time: his parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. You wonder if they’ve ever come back since you’ve been gone. You wouldn't be surprised if the answer is no.

There’s a tarp over the pool. The gate is locked with a chain. You can’t sneak in through the fence like you used to. Not that you would. You don’t think strangers can sneak through pool gates.

You knock on the door three times. And wait.

Steve’s car is in the driveway, a duller burgundy than when he first got it. There are a few scratches in the paint. No longer a prized possession. Maybe well-loved instead.

The door swings open.

Steve says your name like a prayer. You swallow and steel your spine.

“I got your letter,” you say.

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. It curls around his ears. Waves of want hit you.

“I don’t want to be friends,” you continue before he can speak. “I don’t—I can’t do that again.”

Steve’s mouth draws into the saddest frown you’ve ever seen.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“I…” You pull out the letter and wave it. “Did you mean it? Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Steve whispers. It’s like a shout in the quiet street. “I meant it.”

“Like a friend?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Will you love me like a friend forever?” you ask.

“Always.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you as something more,” you blurt, watery. “I have for a long time.”

You hear the door shut. This is it: your heart on the line, all for nothing—

“Then I’ll love you as something more back,” Steve says. “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”

And he holds you the way you’d held him so many times. You inhale and wrap your arms around his neck. You’ve got an iron grip around the letter. Tears slip down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you confess.

Steve nods against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds a little wet. “I missed you too.”

“You were wrong,” you say into his neck.

“Hmm?”

You pull back to look at Steve.

“Incredible things do happen in Hawkins.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve smiles, cheeks blotchy. “Like what?”

“We found each other again.”

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x yn #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things x you #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington angst #friends to lovers #strangers to lovers #friends to strangers to lovers

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llamagoddessofficial · 5 months

Note

oh my gosh, i just pictured something that i personally think is hilarious and badass.

remember that scene in aggre where Skull absolutely whoops Hit’s ass?

now remember that Farmer Sans is on par with Skull in terms of strength?

oh yeah, i think you know where i’m goin’ with this.

Country bumpkin Farmtale Sans beating the shit out of Mafiafell Sans is unironically an absolutely incredible mental image. Farmer rolls his shoulder with an intimidating crack, says "aight, guess we're rumblin'.", spits out the straw grass he was chewing and then makes an absolute fool out of this city slicker. He doesn't even take off his hat. He's been around more intimidating horses than this turnip.

He's soft and polite. Don't mistake that for weakness.

#llamagines

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thespineoftherighteous · 7 months

Text

more more more more aftg show bloopers (p 4?? I think?) whoop whoop de fuckin whoop

Neil's actor being a huge Duolingo dork and in the behind the scenes while the other actors are fooling around between takes you can often see him with his head bent and hear the little 'ping!'s coming from his phone

also during late night shoots, as it gets closer to midnight he always has a point where he's like SHIT my Duolingo streak. and then just blocks out everyone while his fingers fly over his screen

(fans make compilations of him proudly showing his Duolingo streak to the camera and the number grows as the seasons progress)

(he definitely is the kinda bitch who cares more about maintaining the streak than actually learning languages)

actually omg while we're on the topic of languages

Kevin's actor tenderly reciting his French lines to Matt's actor and Matt's actor is just smitten. and he goes "say something else, love" and Kevin's actor strokes his cheek while saying another one of his lines and Matt swoons

(then Kevin's actor turns to the camera and goes "I just told him that he's a disappointment and is going to get his ass handed to him by ravens if he doesn't do exactly as I say" and, from the ground, Matt's actor goes "hell yeah you did. talk dirty to me any day of the week you sexy, sexy man")

coach's actor is always swearing to the point where they implement a swear jar...really it's just something for the kids to jokingly rag on him about, but he goes with it, and every so often they'll empty the jar to buy the cast and crew pizza

they're filming outside at night and it's cold and in between takes Matt's Aaron's and Renee's actors are all huddled together for warmth and Matt's actor gets pulled aside to get his makeup touched up and the other two just shriek at the absence of his heat and catch up to him to tuck themselves against him again

Andrew needs to snap his fingers in one scene but everyone finds out that day that his actor doesn't know how to snap so he has a little impromptu snapping lesson and of course it turns into everyone else trying to one-up each other with their snapping abilities

Nicky's actor telling everyone what he's going to steal from set (will literally say"[about Allison's bathrobe] damn that shit soft as hell. Ive been needing a new bathrobe actually. I'm stealing this" or "I'm stealing this lighter/bandana/sunglasses/etc") but because his humor is so dry everyone thinks he's joking. until months later. when the prop department can't find shit

Renee's actress is doing something completely mundane but Neil's and Allison's actors start narrating what she's doing like they're in a nature documentary (always with Australian accents for some reason??)

"and our specimen now reclines herself vertically on a piece of furniture us humans know as 'a desk.' this clearly less-developed creature seems not to understand the purpose of such an object. but given that this is her first time outside her natural habitat (the jungle) her lack of familiarity with modern technology is to be expected"

Renee's actress: *flips them off*

"ah and here we witness one of the most common behaviors of this specimen. specialists have dubbed it 'flipping the bird,' and explain it as a nonverbal expression of affection" "oh fuck off"

photo from another cold night-shoot and it's of Matt's and Dan's actors, she's standing in front of him zipped up in his hoodie, just her head poking out and they're having a conversation with other castmates like it's the most normal thing in the world, looking the very image of the couple they play

so much glorious content from shooting the dorm sleepover scene. the most popular thing to come from it is a picture from after they wrapped where the cast and some members of the crew had moved even closer to each other amid all the blankets and are asleep on top of each other

Andrew's actor will sometimes actually eat the ice cream he's given instead of just pretending to eat it, and halfway through the scene he casually mentions that he's lactose intolerant and sends the crew into a worried frenzy

if you haven't clocked it yet, these bitches are competitive. and one day, one thing led to another, and soon a bunch of the actors are all being filmed having a plank-holding competition. Dan's actress is the first to drop and she gets booed at for it because "you're an ex-stripper where tf is that upper body strength?"

she flips them off and goes to sit on Kevin's actor, hoping to squash his plank, but instead he starts doing push ups with her on his back. she grins

(Rikos actor wins that competition btw. and Neil's actor goes on a rant about "we succumbed to the ENEMY? a RAVEN? your characters would be ashamed of you" (he also lost?))

Allison's actress pretending to do a get-ready-with-me using all the stuff on Allison's vanity

Wymack's actor falling asleep in The Dad Pose™ when they're shooting a scene on the bus. and everybody gathers in to take pictures

when Kevin and Neil get all up in each other's faces their actors will pretend like they're going to kiss each other

not really a blooper but just all the actors for the foxes and the ravens mingling together in between takes and it looks so wrong

give me all the actors constantly taking the piss out of their characters

for ex during a scene where the monsters are in the car on the way to Edens, Nicky's actor looks towards the backseat where everyone is in character and goes wow what a fun crowd we are you'd never believe we're about to hit the club

night shoots are a. struggle. for Dan's actress. and the others love to take videos of her just standing on her mark with the most spaced out expression on her face

Andrew's and Neil's actors are shooting one of their typical intense, deep scenes and after one take, as soon as "cut" is called, Andrew's actor grabs Neil's face and starts serenading him with the song that's been stuck in his head all day

Renee's actress getting scolded for sneaking snacks into her costume

when Nicky's actor messes up a line (and he's the least likely of everyone to do it) he starts spewing Spanish

Andrew's actor constantly teasing his brother and Katelyn's actress whenever they have scenes together

like the two of them will just be talking together in between takes and Andrews actor will be behind the camera recording them and saying shit like "look at that MINYARD RIZZ" (or he'll use their actual last name) "hey btw [Katelyn's actor] I taught him everything he knows"

that scene where the foxes are rushing out of the dorm to check on their destroyed cars and Matt's actor just faceplants (Neil's actor: "wow. the dedication")

in one scene or other Allison's actress is drinking an iced drink and during one take she just keeps calmly shaking the ice around in her cup until one by one everyone cracks

in one scene Allison's actress is wearing sunglasses. and in between takes she lies down and on camera you can see Kevin and Matt's actors whispering trying to figure out whether or not she's sleeping because they can't see her eyes

Aaron's actor always using Neil's actor as a pillow during car scenes because they're always next to each other and they're actually hella tight irl

the kids love to steal any props that coach's actor needs to use (pens clipboards etc) before they start rolling just so they can watch him try to subtly fidget trying to find his prop before they get to the point in the scene where he actually needs it

all the actors just taking pictures together in the most brutal settings on set.

like Neil's makeup has his face all busted and everyone wants a selfie with him. they all have a photoshoot with the trashed cars. they have another one in front of the "happy 19th birthday junior" set. Neil is tied up at The Nest while they change his hair and Jean's and Riko's actors take selfies with him. another photoshoot with Neil handcuffed in the police car. all these settings in terrible scenes and the actors are in front of them with grins and peace signs

they're terrible.

#are y'all bored yet?#aftg #aftgtv #neil josten #kevin day #aaron minyard #matt boyd #andrew minyard #dan wilds #nicky hemmick #allison reynolds #renee walker #david wymack

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chronically-ghosted · 2 months

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vivarium

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: ezra x f!reader word count: 8K summary: you request a vacation for your birthday. With the rain and a few drinks, you get a lot more than you asked for. warnings: alcohol drinking, minor age gap (less than 10 years), oral (f!receiving), fingering, smut, possessive!Ezra, dom!Ezra, one booty smack, dirty talk for real, smut, pining, a bit of angst, referenced/implied orphanhood, made a religious sex pun and i'm so proud of myself a/n: so @morallyinept requested this and it turns out when I write for a boy for the first time, it can’t be less than 7K – whoops. i've gotten ezra requests from some moots before, so i hope this lives up to your expectations! **massive thanks to @toomanytookas for editing and providing the initial validation so i don't post in a mouth-frothy haze. I've never had a beta like you before and I genuinely feel like I've turned over a new chapter in my fic writing. thank you!

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Your feet in the clear blue water, the humidity like a wet tongue on your skin, you scratch a nail under the tab of a mustard yellow can, crack it open, and drink. The bite of alcohol dulled by the carbonation, you take several pulls, drawing out the mid-afternoon buzz from two other cans and whetting your mouth in the heat of the jungle day. You lean back on your elbows into the sponge-soft grass, and let out a massive sigh.

A few feet ahead of you, on a repurposed inflatable reentry tube, your long-time privateer partner chuckles, the sound deep in the back of his throat as he floats by. Thick fingers and exposed heels dragging along in the crystal water, he greets the yellow sun like an old friend – arms wide, chest out, a lazy smile on his face. A damp rag – supposedly clean – sits over what you know to be dark-earth eyes, every other inch of him relishing in the inevitable sun tan.

“I see your aaahhh, pet, and I raise you a mhmm.” The rubber squeaks as he adjusts, tips his scarred chin up to the cloudless sky and rests his head back. “Kevva said there’d be days like this, but I think the old hag mighta left out a thing or two.”

You grin, the wet heat of Banu 8’s lowlands drawing sweat droplets onto your hairline at the back of your neck, settling thick behind your ears where it co-mingles with the drunk haze loping around in your brain. You watch Ezra with his bare arms, hairy legs, and prominent nose turned towards the divinity he’s so fond of invoking and the thought crosses your mind – again:

Shit, he’s so fucking hot.

Oh, bad thought.

You drop your gaze, pressing the cold aluminum lip of the can to your mouth, drinking quicker than you probably should, anything to distract you from your partner as he obliviously floats by.

For our sake, you silently beg the hungry little creature that whines and snaps at the image of a shirtless Ezra, please fuck off.

While Ezra whistles a vaguely familiar tune, terribly off-key, you scoop up the cool lagoon water and dribble it over your hot knees, then your thighs, dampening the rims of your make-shift shorts just enough to cool them without leaving them vulnerable to a permanent state of moisture due to the high humidity. You flick the last drops of the water onto your chest, your white cotton bra choked to your skin. A final effect, you press the cool can to the thrumming pulse on your neck, closing your eyes with a relieved grunt, taking the time to enjoy the sensation of the cold metal against the rapid beat in your throat.

From the water, you hear an unsettled grunt and you open your eyes to find that same shirtless Ezra staring at you, the rag now curled in one hand against the rubber float. He swallows, looks at something past your ear, and again tries to adjust in the sticky rubber float without flipping himself over, his hands falling into his lap.

“Neptune, dear, would you do us the favor of tossing over one of those cans? I’m parched. I think my lovely skin is drying out.”

Neptune. His favorite nickname for you. You never got any real explanation from him as to why you got that name, other than after you’d officially joined his crew, you told him you came from a blue planet in a far off system. But that was often the way of things: Ezra did something and you didn’t question why. From that simple truth, you learned about how to repair and rebuild the entire electrical system from a drop pod. You learned, in excruciating detail, the parts and mechanics of a thrower, so much so that you could almost identify the model number at a glance. You learned about which corporate dig sites to avoid, which made for easy marks, and which would draw the eye and ire of entities hardly worth the trouble.

Being out on your own since you aged up out of the orphanage had not gone the way you hoped and life had not been so kind as to teach you any other way to survive. Ezra had found you in the back of a red spice market, cornered and slurping down the last few of your credits from a muck bowl that you had vastly overpaid for.

For whatever reason, he offered you a job on the spot, despite you having nothing to offer him. and no experience in anything except cleaning prophylaxiams and staying out of the way.

And yet, he has been far kinder than life, or anyone else, had ever been to you.

As a result, loyalty was only a fraction of what you felt for him. What had begun as overwhelming adoration had grown hot to the touch, slippery between your fingers at night, and perhaps – what you feared most of all – obvious.

Yet when Ezra looked at you with a smile on his face, it was only comradery he wished to share with you, certainly not his bed. He shared it with practically every other bi-pedal humanoid you came across, but not you. And this you had to accept. And you did.

But being a little drunk made it that much harder to remember where to keep your hands to avoid being burned.

“Sure, Ez.” You tuck your legs out from the cool water and dig around in the canvas bag at the base of the white nut tree. Most of the ice had melted into the bright green grass around the lagoon, but a few of the cans were still cold. You’d probably tease Ezra later for skimping on the insulation bucket the provisions store the port offered, but he had been so eager to get to the camp ground after spending an “exceedingly exorbitant amount of time stacked up against human drivel on public transportation”. One lopsided grin, and you’d give him the world.

“Ez–,”

He lifts the rag, glancing at you over his shoulder, hands cupped as the can flies through the air. The cold metal presses against the overheated skin on his chest and he hisses. Eyeing the can ruefully, he cracks it open and drinks deep. You busy yourself with sliding to the edge of the pool again to keep from watching his throat move.

Ezra finally pulls back, smacking his lips, with a pleased groan. He wets the rag again and dramatically flops it over his eyes. Hidden from his view, you watch the roll of water down his temples, his neck, his chest.

“Name anything better than this, Neptune, I beg you. Free from obligation or assignment on commission. Where my only moral imperative is to drink as many of these as I can and remind you how beautiful you are. Which . . .” he tilts the bottom of the can towards you, head still tilted back on the raft and dripping rag covering his vision, “fantastic, by the way.”

Having stifled your blush while under his watchful gaze about three or four other times today, without him looking, you flush so hard and fast you go lightheaded. Beautiful, he said. You drink more carbonated alcohol to choke back your rising heart, your eyes skim over the curve of his nose, a drop of sweat as it peaks on his forehead. You can’t linger over him too long; he has a six-sense about you – unable to know what you’re thinking but that you’re overthinking all the same.

“Was this worth the trip on public transportation, Ez?” Your ankles stir the water again.

“I could do this all day,” he sighs contently, bringing a warm smile to your face. “And definitely all night.”

Maybe you’ll both be so sun-drunk later tonight, you’ll fall asleep together on the pallet on the floor. Of course, by nightfall, someone will have to come to their senses and you’ll be tucked back into your separate sleeping bags, but maybe, as a present you couldn’t possibly ask for, you can just nap together.

With the bottom plush of your lip stuck between your teeth, you rim the metallic edge of your can with your nail, ankles spinning slow circles in the water.

“Thank you, Ezra,” you say quietly, “for the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

It began as a sort of joke one night on the volcanic hotspring moon of Wulkan after a twelve hour shift hunting through the black ash in search of fire pearls. The job was rather rushed, and Ezra had his reservations going into it, but fire pearls were a near certainty and you both needed a boost after a jump exchange had gone a little cockeyed. Sweat dripping from his temples, the provided water packs in the harvest suits doing just enough to keep him from passing out from heat exhaustion, he extended the skein of hydro-electric towards you across the narrow lane between your cots and asked you if you could be anywhere right now, any system, where would you be.

“Somewhere so cold I freeze my tits clean off,” you said with a sigh and wiped your own sweat-drenched forehead. You could smell yourself after two days of sweating profusely, but your stench in comparison to the rest of the crew, including Ezra, barely registered any more. You took a sip as Ezra laughed.

“A grievous crime against humanity and all its luscious gifts, but I get your meaning. Anywhere else?”

“Water.” This was said with more conviction, so much so it turned Ezra’s head towards you. “The few memories I have of my home planet and my parents, we were always near or in water. An ocean, maybe. I’m not sure. But I remember being really, really happy and I think being near water . . . it would make me happy again.”

You handed the skein back to Ezra, something unreadable in his gaze. He took it back from you, his fingers dark from the ash that clings to everything. On the other side of the tent, the rest of your crew and other teams mill about, yelling, with cutlery clattering as the camp gets ready to slow for the night, a graveyard shift picking up in just a few hours.

Ezra’s eyes are as dark as the ash you’ve been shifting through the past two days.

“Then you shall have it, Neptune.” He said, quietly. “I’d give you the fucking galaxy if I could.”

Those words often came to you in the crevice between sleep and wakefulness, when your mind was idle and the reins that tightly bound your affection for him loosened without a conscious grip. When you thought you weren’t being watched.

The flat of his foot hooking behind your ankle breaks you from your reverie. Cast into shadow by the wide, rubbery palm leaves above your head, he looks at you curiously.

“That look of deep consternation is giving me a headache. Spill.”

With a faint smile, you gently bump his knee with your own. “Nothing, Ez. I’m just glad we get to take a break from it all. I can’t remember the last time I . . . the last time we’ve just had nothing to do.”

He cocks his head as his gaze crawls up your ankle, your shin, to your knee. You think it might linger on your thigh before it bounces to your face. You tighten your grip on the hot, expansive feeling behind your ribs and stare back at him.

“Then that’s a black mark against me, as the leader of this clan.” His mouth curls, eyebrow arching as he talks, knowing that statement has been a point of playful contention between you two for years. “A good overseer knows when to crack the bullwhip and when to let it rest.”

“Well, a better overseer knows when to demand that her team rests, because sometimes they have no idea what’s good for them.”

His foot rotates behind your ankle, his toes brushing against your calf, bringing your attention to your own body part in the water. Your legs are hairy, nearly as much as Ezra’s, and you haven’t shaved your pits in possibly a decade. Ezra once brought home a professional nightwalker, one from the Upper City, to the derelict flat you’d been sharing for two weeks as you offloaded your haul to the under markets. You never forgot how smooth her skin had been, shaved clean and smelling of moon lilies. That scent permeated the small space for weeks afterward. Even now, just the sight of moon lilies makes you nauseous.

His aversion to you runs much deeper than physical aesthetics, even if you can’t help but wonder sometimes if becoming as smooth and hairless as the nightwalker might change his mind.

“Observational to a fault as always, Neptune.” The ball of his foot rests briefly between your legs before he pushes off from the spongy lip of the lagoon’s edge. He floats back into the sun, his head shaking slightly, a smile drained of amusement on his lips. He inhales as the sun crests over his forehead and he glances up at the blue sky. “I have no idea what’s good for me.”

Something about his tone, the way he turns away from you, scratches a very raw place inside of you – a place that fears and obsesses over abandonment. You wouldn’t survive it if he abandoned you, if he left you to fend for yourself one day. Logically, you know he would never do that – he has sworn up and down to your face that that notion is fundamentally ludicrous to him – but the anguish of him silently rejecting you from his bed again and again and again makes that fragile place inside you bleed red.

You stand up, swipe another can from the bag, and move towards the waterfall.

“I’m taking a hike.”

You feel his eyes on the backs of your thighs as you march towards the gentle incline.

“Be safe, Neptune,” he calls softly.

For a fleeting second, you wish he had made you stay.

The first fat raindrop splashes against your cheek and wakes you from a humid, irritated nap. You’re scowling by the time you open your eyes to several more wet droplets as they splatter against your neck, your forehead and you sit up, even more frustrated than when you fell asleep. The last sticky tendrils of dreams snap and pop as you pull yourself onto your feet, back hunched and arm held high against the steamy sprinkle. A crack of lightning, then a growl of thunder, and the sky splits open, drenching you in seconds. With a snarl of your own, you snatch up the empty can from the grass next to you and make for your camp down the hill. As you crest the top, you see a figure standing outside the tent, back tense and hand raised as if searching through the twilight gray downpour.

Normally, the thought of warming up beside Ezra in your yellow tent fills you with something inexplicable, the grime and load of the day melting from your shoulders, but your buzz from earlier has thickened, made worse by the heat, the emotions in your heart all gummed up and smashed together. The sight of him cranks up your irritation high in your ears. With a huff, you concentrate on a smooth slide down the hill without breaking your ankles and not the fire rising in your gut.

But the rain and the distance apart has only stoked his own outrage.

“Where the hell were you?” He snaps as you yank back the velcroed tent flap. He is dripping from head to toe in jungle rain as he follows closely behind you into your small space. You ring the water from your hair into a corner and scowl up at him.

“I fell asleep. The rain woke me up. I came back as soon as I could.”

His eyes narrow, water rolling off his bare shoulders as if he still stood out in the downpour. The droplets pat pat pat against the tarp floor as he snatches up a fiber towel and dries himself off, scowling all the while.

“I searched for you, calling your name up and down this fuckin’ jungle and I didn’t hear a peep. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d been hurt?”

“Then I would have fucking dealt with it, Ezra.” You stomp to your feet, neck hot from his patronizing gaze. Hands on his hips, you feel like you’re being scolded. “I can take care of myself.”

One dark eyebrow arches mockingly, the scar on his cheek twisting in his scowl.

“And you expect me to lay about, twiddling my thumbs, while I wait for you to return or until you deem it appropriate for me to fret over your corpse?”

That patch of blonde hair is a shade darker, drenched and pressed flat against his forehead. His bare chest is littered with scars and divots where chunks of flesh had been torn away. His skin is a reflection of the hard life he lives. You doubt you’d look any different if you’d seen yourself in a mirror.

“We are partners, Ez,” you grind out between locked teeth. “Equals, alright? I am not your little sister for you to fuss over and you are not my keeper.”

At that, the indignant swell of his chest deflates and the anger in his eyes flickers before fading out.

“You are beyond capture,” he mutters, eyebrows down but gaze distant. “I’d never dream of keeping you, Neptune.”

Again, it’s his phrasing that hurts most of all. You glance away, the backs of your eyes growing hot and tight, drying out despite the sticky moisture warming the inside of the tent. But then his hand around your elbow startles away the tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

“You are the most important thing to me in the entirety of this world and the next,” he says softly, earth eyes searching your face. “I came on too strong, I know that, but the idea that you’d ever be gone from my side for any amount of permanence . . . well, it’s been a lifetime since I’ve felt fear like that.”

His frown goes belly-up, a hopeless smile on his face. “I wasn’t aware I even still could.” His calloused thumb brushes your skin, skin that nearly catches fire from the rough drag of scar tissue, before he lets his hand drop. Your own curls into a fist at your side, a tremor rattling the bones of your wrist in an effort to keep from reaching up and touching that moon-shaped scar you dream about at night.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ez. You taught me enough to survive in a world like this. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

That smile goes wan, sickly. “That’s the problem, dear heart, I trust you with my life.”

He swallows, as if suddenly bashful to make direct eye contact with you. He clears his throat before rummaging around in his canvas bag for dry clothes. He yanks a black, sleeveless shirt on over his head before setting up the materials for a flameless pocket fire.

“Since my dreams of showing you something called a barbeque have been quite literally rained out, we’ll finish off the rest of the dredge pack tonight. But come first light, I’ll fix you breakfast so succulent, the smell alone’ll make your mouth water. How does that sound, Neptune?”

He barely slows to breathe as he seamlessly switches topics from breakfast to another meal made at camp without looking up or stalling in his prep for dinner, hands almost disconnected from the humming of his mouth – one so methodical, the other like a channel rat on fire.

“– and the thing was no one was really sure enough what a squatter egg looked like when it goes bad. But being out in a cramped hold-out for two weeks where it was so dark, your own ass and someone else’s had no demarcation, well, there wasn’t a single peep of dissimilitude . . .”

Words strung together so quick and so melodic, it was always incredibly easy to fall into a sort of easy trance around Ezra. Sounds and syllables just sounded right coming out of his mouth and after a while, that trance became a state of repose, Ezra’s own sense of calm filtered to whoever was also in the room. But not to you, not right now.

After spending immeasurable time with less than half a space between you in cramped tents and in claustrophobic dig sites, you could read the tension on the lines of his body as well as the lines on the palm of your hand.

“Neptune? You with me?”

Ezra glances up at you, always aware of you and your movements like the twinge on a spider’s web, a signature smile that has always seemed to shine a bit brighter for you plastered over his face. The anger was the only thing holding you up and with it gone, you can feel your bruised heart twinge as it folds over itself.

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m gonna switch out of these wet clothes before we eat, okay?”

He hums, nodding, eyes fixating on the steadily boiling water in front of him as you turn away to the other side of the tent, by your pallet and traveler’s pack. As further evidence that he feels nothing but companionship for you, you feel his eyes remain nowhere near you as you strip off your shorts and bra for a sun-warm suit. Then again, you’d like to think it’s kind of scandalous to be changing in front of him, but you’d both seen each other naked more times than you could count – there is no modesty in foxholes. The space between your hips and your thighs feel sticky from sweat and the slick rain, the curve of your spine warm and flushed. The zipper is loud in the silence.

You’re braiding your damp hair away from your face when he sighs and the noise makes you look back at him.

“Answer me honestly, if you’ve ever cared for me a tick. Do you regret it?”

His eyes are sorrowful, worried, brow fixed down. Ezra is not, and never has been, a man prone to melancholy. His wrists rest loosely over his knees, gaze deep in the bubbling bone broth. The rain outside taps insistently at the tarp.

“Regret what?”

“Coming with me and taking on this life. It’s not an easy one,” he says quietly. “I should have offered you another choice, that day in the market. But one look at you and I . . . I was willing to trust you with my life, Neptune – far, far too soon. Even at my best, you make me irrational.”

You watch him, his broad shoulders moving, as he scoops up the hot, dark liquid into two bowls, and joins you by the entrance to the tent. You pin back the flap as he settles, the scent of humid rain immediately flooding your mouth, the pattering sound now twice as loud. Wordlessly, he hands you a spoon before digging into his own bowl.

The heat of the soup burns away all the silly, impossible things sitting on your tongue. You sit in silence, his presence never rushing you to answer before you are ready. As you eat, you stare out at the dark lagoon, where you had both been only hours ago, the clear water murky beneath the downpour.

“No, Ezra, I don’t regret it.” He stills, as if surprised you’re answering him now, mid-meal. He lowers the bowl to his lap, eyes trained on you. “You saved my life, more times than I can count.”

Your words loosen the rigid lock of his shoulders. He grins. “As you’ve said, you would have been just fine without me.”

Your vision goes blurry. You pin him with such a stare, you watch the blood rush from his face.

“But it would have been only half a life.”

“Don’t kid about that, Neptune, it’s not –,”

“I’m serious.” You put your bowl down and rub your eyes with your sleeves. Of all the ways he hasd seen you bare and naked, he’s never seen you this vulnerable. “I don’t wanna do any of this without you. I want you, Ezra.”

“You have me, dear heart, you have me.”

“Not like that and you know it.” You watch as understanding rolls across his face. His lips part, eyes wider. He swallows and you stare at the ceiling, cheeks suddenly wet and hot. He said he’d never leave you, but what if this is the thing that finally does it? Could he work with you, knowing just how deeply you love him, and not feel an ounce of disgust? “You told me once sex is just a way to pass the time, but never, not once, have you ever even tried to pass the time with me.”

He swallows, deeper this time, jaw locked, his eyes fluttering with the force of it. He brings his knees to his chest.

“Because it wouldn’t just be passing time with you.”

In that moment, you’re grateful for the rain, for the sound of something to fill the silence.

You stare at him, cross-legged in front of the open corner of this yellow tent, abandoned bowls growing colder, but he sits with his leg up, knee to his chest, as if to ward you off. Ward off whatever is growing in your gaze, under the flat bone over your heart in your chest. But whatever is stifling the air in your lungs, is warming his eyes past the point of comfort, barrelling towards expletives and the crass, the lewd and depraved. You cannot go back to having him look at you any other way.

That look loosens every line in his face when you crawl into his lap, your knees around his hips. The backs of your thighs go damp, even through the suit, pressing down onto his still-damp shorts, and you think his breathing has quickened.

His massive palm hovers near your cheek, unwilling or unable to pull you forward or push you back, his oak eyes searching your face for signs of discomfort as if he had somehow dragged you across the tarp floor.

“Neptune,” he mumbles as he focuses on the curve of your bottom lip, “this is unwise. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You can feel the hard curve of his shoulders as you follow the lines of his arms and settle them on his collarbone. Nothing has happened that can’t be undone – not yet. Your perfect, vicious Ezra hasn’t pressed you flat on your back like you thought he would at the hint of sex. You could return with your dignity tomorrow morning, this moment never spoken of again, and he’d let you have that. The shake of his elbow with his palm against the tarp is the only indication that something might be unsettling to him.

But it is your birthday after all. Maybe he’d let you have this one thing. He doesn’t know you’ll die without it.

“If you don’t want this . . . if you don’t want m-me, then say something. Push me away and I’ll never bring it up again.” You cup the sides of his neck as your hips shift forward, closer to him. The air in your lungs tightens, breath coming in shallow pants. Only then does he drop your gaze and fixate on your encroaching heat. “At least then I’ll know.”

There. Out loud. It’s been said, heard above the deluge of rain against the tent and the jungle outside.

His palm finally settles on your cheek. It brings a sense of wholeness to you like you’ve never known. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a breathy exhale pours out of your mouth. His thumb catches the plush curve of your bottom lip and he draws it towards your chin, his own mouth open, enraptured.

“Sweet thing, how have you not always known?”

His mouth is humid against yours, as if he swallowed the jungle while looking for you, his thumb releasing your lip to capture with his own. The tip of his pointer finger massages the hinge of your jaw, just below your ear, and he manipulates your head until your mouth parts like he wants.

His tongue skims your upper lip, a tentative exploration into the unknown rewarded with a low groan that is warmed by the heat coiling low in your hips. You taste his tongue, a hot glide inside your mouth, and you feel his arms slip around your lower back, his inhale of breath sharp across your face as he brings you closer. He bites your lips roughly, the spark of pain and pleasure crackling across your face as if you’d brushed a live wire.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, prying you from the back of his neck, just for a moment, his eyes heat-soaked. You suck your teeth, mouth open and seeking, and the hand around your jaw drops to your collarbone, the breadth of his palm nearly suffocating your throat.

The briefest pressure – the slightest touch – at the pulse at the bottom of your neck and your hips rock forward into him as he flattens his other palm to your ass, clutching you to him and pinning you to the pallet.

His teeth scrape against the curve of your ear, pinching the cartilage between his incisors, while his hands frantically search up and down your waist. His weight smothers you, his stomach breathing into yours, the flat plane of his chest rubbing your nipples raw against your suit, an unfocused lurch to his hips every time you tug on his hair. With every breath, every time you try to savor his touch, the taste of his mouth is like a wave, dragging you forward, wrapping a dizzy chain around your throat and squeezing.

Ezra’s greatest weapon has always been his mouth, that silver string spinning faster the longer he captivates you, spell-bound. Now he uses to decimate you in entirely new ways.

The suck of his lips against the moist flesh below your ear distantly distracts from the afterburn of his unkempt beard against your jaw, your cheek. His lips alternate patterns of reward with a plush kiss and punishment with a stern nip when you try and stifle a moan. The edge of his shirt is damp from resting against his shorts when you slip your fingers underneath to palm the small of his back. He stills when you run your fingers around to the front of his trunks.

His hand curls around a clump of hair at the base of your skull, his eyes darker than volcanic ash. The steady heat of his groin against your thigh is a sensation you’ll chase for the rest of your life.

“You know what happens when you touch a man there, Neptune?” He’s breathing hard, you both are, and the way he snags your hair in his fist has your head twisted at an odd angle, but you’d be damned to a Kevva-forgotten corner of the cosmos before you drop his gaze. You nod and that moon-shaped scar on his cheek twitches. “I know I didn’t teach you that.”

“L-learned it – somewhere else – Ezra.” Your mouth isn’t working properly, your lips swollen from his kisses, the slight pain in your scalp making it difficult to focus, while your cunt tightens hungrily. “Had to.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you wouldn’t give it to me.”

He leans back, his forearm tense and corded where he has you by the hair, a seemingly disinterested scowl on his face. But by the throbbing length pressed up against you, so far from where you need him the most, he is anything but.

“So you’re saying this is my fault?” Without breaking eye contact, his chest raised inches above yours, his fingers snag on the blue zipper by your collar and your breathing nearly stops. He hums to himself, eyes following the path of the zipper as the material separates, click by click by click. When it reaches your belly button, he stops.

“Ezra –,” it’s a whine and you can’t even chastise yourself for it. And neither, it seems, can he.

Head tilted as if curious about the label of a box beneath colorful wrapping, he dips his wide hand beneath the edge of your suit. The heat that radiates from his palm against the curve of your stomach has you writhing underneath him, your knees drawing up to his hips, trying to catch any relief.

But he takes his self-satisfied time. Callouses of a hard-won life snag and drag over the soft paper-thin skin that covers your ribs as he maps you in one hand. When he cups your right breast in his palm, the noise you make is a sob of gratitude.

“You let another man besides me do this to you?”

The snarling pit of your own thoughts slows as some awareness realizes he’s speaking to you.

You swallow, clutching his bicep, begging for forgiveness before even opening your mouth to answer.

“It didn’t mean anything, Ez, it wasn’t you – it meant nothing to me–,”

“But you let someone else touch what’s mine, hm?” That lazy, slightly irritated look on his face, he rotates his hand, squeezing the cup of your tit again, before sharply pinching your nipple.

“Ezra–,” you choke out and his thigh shifts between your legs, just close enough to feel the heat but nowhere near close enough to grind against. His thumb rotates the raised flesh slow enough to capture and catalog every sigh it draws from you, his eyes catching between his hand and your relaxed face.

He wears the same expression he does when sitting in the backs of blackmarket tea shops and smoky alebins. When the prospect of striking gold becomes all he can think about.

“Strip.” He suddenly commands. He lifts off you just enough for you to wrench your arm through the armhole, all the while keeping a rough palm on one breast, and then the other. You watch him massage your flesh and your ribs tremble with an unsteady breath. Only when a slightly cool breeze meanders over your bare shoulders and chest do you realize that the tent flap is still open, your head inches from the edge. A perfect and unimpeded view to anyone who wants to watch him hungrily grope your tits. Embarrassment peaks sharply, despite his hand pressing you into the tarp, you wrench your neck back and look over your shoulder through the window of the open tent as if you need to confirm that you are giving the jungle a floor show.

“Ez– shit, the flap–,”

He finds that the skin beneath your breast had grown sticky and slick from sweat, the humidity still oppressive even with a breeze. He bends his head and licks that same sweaty path and your attention snaps back to him, nails curling against his scalp, his warm breath a high-intensity balm to your roughly-played-with nipples.

“Not a soul in sight, Neptune,” he murmurs lazily into your ribcage, his nose running up and down the valley between your tits. “And if there were, let them learn a thing or two.”

His teeth nip the swell of your stomach as he crawls down your half-naked body. Without his heat and hands, the tenderness from his attention on your breasts ratchets up to an ache, a minor preoccupation before he hooks his fingers around the rest of the jumpsuit and tugs.

You are naked beneath him, swollen chest rising and falling, your knuckles scraping against the pallet as you search for something to grip with all your might. You smell of lagoon water and hot jungle air, of muggy photosynthesis and algae. The smoky scent of the black ash of that distant planet never really left Ezra and the dampness of the rain seems to stir it up. He towers over you, dark and breathing heavy. Smoke and brimstone.

He gropes your ankles, then your calves, hands gliding over the thick hair there – now grown soft in length – as he slowly spreads your legs, with a light you’d never seen before in his eyes.

“Neptune, I revolve around you.”

A wave of anxiety lurches up your throat when he brings his mouth to your cunt, the cloying, imagined scent of moon lilies threatening to tear you out of the moment – he won’t want you wild like this – but it’s forcefully yanked back down with a single stripe of his tongue. His previously casual, authoritative persona cracks when he buries his face into your unkempt curls and lets out a deep, overly pleased moan.

Your back bends and he’s gathering up your limbs in his arms to pin them down, nearly resting his forehead on your pubic bone. A few more licks, some deeper than others into where you drip for him, and your thighs start to shake. His fingers around your thighs squeeze roughly against your flesh and pull you further apart.

Between the flush of slick seeping from you at an embarrassing rate and the wiry hair kept natural out of a certainty no one would see it, he must be drowning or choking, his tongue flicking and sliding, nose prodding your clit just enough to spread the sparks of arousal up through your spine. Feeling as though you’re losing your grip on reality, you sink your hands into his hair, thumb rubbing back that blonde patch, and tug. The moan he shoots into your cunt as he rocks forward into your touch has you whining helplessly. The tarp squeaks where he rubs his hips into it.

His arms curled around your thighs, your hips shake with restraint against every lap of his tongue until he flicks your clit and your hips grind up against his obliging mouth, a sunspot of pleasure flaring brightly. But all too soon, Ezra lifts up onto his elbows, his hands smoothing across your stomach and he pops his mouth up from your wet folds. With an irate gasp, the swell of bliss fading, your gaze snaps down to plead with him, but he shakes his head.

Wordlessly, he takes one hand from your thigh and wipes his mouth clean with a swipe of his fingers. Then, with his eyes wide, the skin around his mouth loose, he crooks two fingers at the top of your mound before sliding them down where his mouth was seconds ago and presses them inside of you. That simmering in your low belly roars back to life and you toss your head against the unforgiving pallet, eyes slamming shut. He growls at the obscene sucking noise your cunt makes as he plucks at you, in and out.

“Oleaginous,” he hums, so quietly, it might have been for him. He tongues your clit lightly, pushing his fingers as deep as they can go, watching you thrash. “Mine. Understand?” You remember that tone of voice from when he had you dissecting throwers on a workbench in front of him. You nod, eyes fluttering open, balancing on the precarious edge of release.

You want to obey his every word.

His thumb twists up, opening your clit to him and within a whispered breath of “good girl” he sucks your bundle of nerves and launches you into orbit.

Your entire body goes stiff from the force of it, only to crash back down into his waiting hands, your voice wavering on a high-pitched, girlish wail that shrieks above the sound of rain. Waves of bliss lap at every nerve ending and your vision goes fuzzy for a minute, the only sound you can register is the pounding of your blood in your ears.

And then you register the steady, wet plunge of his fingers still dragging in and out of your pussy.

“Was that mine?”

Your clit tingles from overstimulation, but you’d rather die than have him stop – you want to answer, if only you could pick up the pieces of your voice. You can only nod, whining. He presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh, the skin there smeared with your release.

“You did a bad thing, letting someone else touch what’s mine.” He scolds, rubs that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head, holds his finger to it until it burns. You cry, his punishment evident. “Now you have to apologize, Neptune.”

You nod again, mouth wrenched open as he drags you back and forth across pleasure and pain.

“Y-y-yes, Ezra,” the words are bone dry, cracked between your teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Pure wickedness strikes those earth eyes and scorches them a singed black.

“Unfortunately, atonement is a fickle thing,” Ezra tuts, dragging his lips across your thigh in a mockery of a kiss, “and I’m not quite ready to offer absolution. Despite your offerings,” he wipes his mouth with a stroke of his palm, “this godhead remains rigid.”

You whimper. He grins with a mouthful of teeth.

Ezra pulls back onto his knees and shuts your thighs, his hand palming your ass as he indicates that you should turn. Your entire lower half still feels like jelly – no one has ever made you come that hard with just their mouth before – but you obey. You stagger onto your hands and knees in front of him.

His wide palm appears beneath your chin.

“Spit.”

You do.

That spit-wet hand cups your still wet cunt, middle finger rubbing briefly against your clit, before it disappears. You feel him move closer, hear his slick hand pump himself a few times with a grunt. Hot lips drag up your spine, interspersed with the nip of teeth, and when he lays across your back, his hands overtaking yours and threading your fingers together, his bare chest presses up against the skin of your back and you shudder.

He noses your temple, his throbbing cock coated between your folds. He bites at your jaw and follows your line of sight through the open tent flap.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it? All that moisture, dripping and running over smooth rock and fern. All that heat coagulating in spaces it shouldn’t fit. All that . . . open field, for anyone to just wander into. Take a look around and smell the air. Could they smell you like I can, Neptune? The way you leak for this cock?”

As he hums filth in your ear, his hand settles again at the base of your throat, thick fingers squeezing just enough to threaten, before sliding down to your swinging breasts, rough palms catching your swollen nipples, then arching down your stomach and between your legs.

He plays slowly with your clit; barely enough stimulation and he knows it.

“Ask for forgiveness.” He croons in your ear. The breeze returns for a moment, and between the heat of him mounting you like a feral animal and the hesitant touch of outside air against your sweaty chest, you shudder with a groan.

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I’m so–,” his middle finger increases its pressure slightly and the words shatter in your mouth, “sor-ry.”

“And for what?”

He continues to rub between your folds and the minute hitch in his breath is more intoxicating than anything he’s done so far. This is affecting him just as much as it does you. He kisses your jaw then tugs on the skin with his teeth.

“For letting a-anyone but you t-touch me.”

Ezra presses his damp forehead into your shoulder, panting, your correct answers soaking the neurons in his brain. Your reward is the faster stroke of his finger.

“And why was that a reprehensible thing to do?” His hips rut into yours, the scrape and rub of his cock between your slick lips and thighs almost enough to set you off.

“Because it’s yours – I’m yours – f-fuck, Ezra, I’m yours, I only wanna be yours,” you sob.

He’s suddenly gone from above you and the loud crack of his hand against your ass cheek deafens you for a minute, the sting skittering up your back and down your thigh.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your elbows shudder, the weight of his tone, his hand nearly forcing you onto your chest with your ass still in the air. You wanna be so good for him.

He’s breathing hard and his skin is warm and damp where you feel his thigh press against the back of yours. There’s a measure of restraint he’s showing and it makes your heart pound in anticipation. You swing your hips back at him, as if you could catch yourself on his cock.

“I wanna show you I’m yours,” you cry, nails curling into the pallet. “Please, Ezra, please!”

His broad hand settling on your spine draws a hiccup out of you, a sob.

“Breathe . . . Good girls get what they need.”

On an exhale, his blunt tip spreads you apart and he shuffles closer as he thickens inside you. His loud, unabashed moan overwhelms yours, when you think you might just be devoured by him. His hand, the one at your hip, squeezes you, silent reassurance. You can feel the knuckles on his other hand against your slick lips as he feeds himself into you.

“Neptune, talk to me. How,” your cunt tightens around his girth at the sound of his voice coaching you along and he grunts, as if suddenly dizzy, “h-how do you feel?”

“Amazing, Ez. Please keep going don’t stop I can take it–,”

He obliges; something’s reconnected the wires in his brain enough to tell him to move. He huffs before sinking deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. He bottoms out and waits again, letting you both catch your breath.

“Spent a hundred moons thinking about this.” The puff of breath against your shoulder is the only warning you have before he presses his mouth to your skin. His hand free of your clutch, his thumb softly rubs the muscle of your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, wherever he finds bare flesh. “Would wake up in the night, with you a few feet from me, looking like divinity made sin, made real, but I wasn’t worthy to touch you. You got me all tongue-tied, Neptune, all mucked up in the head. A silly boy,” he purrs.

You glance over your shoulder, unsure which Ezra is going to meet your eyes, but wanting all of them. The man you feel most safe with in this world and the next greets you and you reach back and squeeze his hand. He chuckles softly, and with it, comes a gentle roll of his hips. You gasp, airily, your gaze slipping from his face to his chest, to the steady breathing in his stomach, and then to the growth of hair that fades as it reaches up his low belly. How many times did you sit across the room from him with your fists in tight balls, watching as he regaled exploits of riches and wonder, all the while thinking about how thick his cock is outlined in his suit – you’re so blinded by breathy dreams of what the musky scent of his cock must taste like that you miss that he’s pulled out farther, halfway now, and you are completely knocked senseless when he thrusts back in, a beat faster.

“Later, Neptune. I’ll let you suck my cock later, but right now I’ve gotta ride this pussy to oblivion.”

Your thighs quake at his promise, cunt squeezing him, and he huffs, picking up speed.

“I felt that. You really like sucking cock that much?”

All you can answer him with is a whine. Your knees are starting to ache from the barest cushion the tarp provides, the palms of your hands sore, but you can’t find it in you to remotely care. With every stroke, he fills you up to a breaking point before riding you back out. Moaning gratefully, you finally drop onto your elbows, your cheek scraping against the pallet with every forceful thrust behind you. He tilts your hips up higher, on one knee to fuck down into you; he’s searching with his cock for that spot that made your brain numb.

Like a flood, you feel bliss roll down your spine, his hands on your lower back pulling you up another peak, and you gasp, at the edge of a very, very long drop, the sounds in the tent as sticky and wet as the rain outside.

But Ezra’s sounds are loudest of them all. Grunting. Hissing. Moaning like he’s fucking the best pussy of his life. You open one eye, glancing over your shoulder and the sight drops open your mouth. Hips pumping forward, skin dewy with sweat, he breathes like a freshly broken-in stallion, relieved that something finally bested him. Chest full and tight with muscle, flushed pink with roaring blood. Stomach torqued with tension. His rhythm is caught between his hands pulling you onto him and his cock thrusting into you. A frantic beat that bounces wet and hot, mouth agape and eyes rolling shut, his head drops back between his shoulders. You push back slightly and he stutters, the hand on your hip tightening.

“Not gonna last, Neptune–” he grits, his jaw locked tight. The image of him actively staving off an orgasm for you to finish first has been imprinted on your brain for the rest of your life.

“J-just a little harder, Ez.”

He obeys, submitting as you had for him, sweat curling around his neck and down his chest.

As release barrels down on you, those mahogany eyes catch and hold yours in a second that lasts through infinity. They promise you things that you didn’t know you asked for, those eyes, made vows only your soul could hear. You see, in that instant before you are swallowed whole, that he’d die at your feet, if you asked him to. He’d give up every worldly treasure he won through grit and his teeth if you needed it or wanted it. If it made you happy.

His Neptune – in the crushing grip of your gravity. Willingly caught in the trail of your comet as you fill up his night sky.

“Yeah, that’s it, right there – Ez-ra!”

His face blown out in near ecclesial bliss is the last thing you see before your vision goes white. Your heart pounds in your ears so loudly, it's the only thing that exists for an instant. And then you shatter with a perfectly soft cry, bliss breaking across you like a heavy wave, and you succumb to exhaustion.

Behind you, he groans, fucking you faster through it, snarling something entirely incomprehensible.

You think you might say his name, you don’t know what your mouth is doing, but whatever you say, it breaks him and you are dragged through another low shock, the flood of cum deep into your achy cunt enough to contract your walls again, his harsh groan stuffing your ears just as full.

The rain is barely louder than your desperate attempts to breathe.

The tarp crackles as you slump forward onto your stomach, Ezra dropping to his side with half his body over yours. Panting raggedly, his hand curls up to the base of your neck, a reassurance of his presence and commitment when words have failed him.

You lay like that for a long time.

And then, when feeling starts to return to your limbs, you turn your head, your nose rubbing against his. When you breathe hotly across his face, he grins a satisfied grin that splits into a chuckle. You laugh with him too, curling up into his chest, his forearm is sticky across your spine, and he kisses your forehead.

Staring up at the tarp, together you listen to the rain.

In the long drawn out, buzzy silence, his nails scratch the base of your skull. And then, like he remembered something vital, he picks his head up and looks at you.

“Do you want this to change things for us?”

“Yes.” You cup the muscles of his thick neck. “Yes, Ezra. I want this to change everything between us. Please.”

He smiles, unguarded and open.

“Wild horses never stood a chance . . . especially against these tits.” He nips at the swell of your breast and you laugh. “I had no plans of letting you go in any case . . . but we are bound from this day forward. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod. A stroke of heat passes over his eyes and Ezra leans forward to kiss you, his hand on your cheek pulling you in close, as close as you can be, two sticky bodies, cum-dried and tingling.

“And if we’re going to spend every year of our lives together, I have a question for you.” he pushes away a stray strand of hair stuck to your face, nose tip to nose tip, “did you have a good birthday, Neptune? Are you satisfied?”

With a giggle that has his eyebrow arching playfully, you kiss his cheek.

“I already told you. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

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