#eighties blasts collection

[upsidedownwithsteve]

CAMP UPSIDE DOWN PART TWO Steve Harrington x fem!reader [33K] summer camp, broken kayaks, too much tension and that boy you hate. an enemies to lovers camp counsellor story.

I can’t stop, the way I feel. 

Camp Upside Down was about eighty miles outside of Hawkins, Indiana, just past Belmont and hidden amongst the trees of the YellowWood State Forest. 

It held too many kids, a collection of old wooden cabins, a few impressively sized lakes, sports equipment that was made in the sixties and Steve fucking Harrington. 

It’s not like you had always hated the boy, you just couldn’t really remember the last time you liked him. 

The first of June brought blue skies, summer rolling in with thick white clouds, the kind that didn’t look real. The Indiana air was warm and hazy, growing hotter in the afternoon, long days, bright nights and the return of fireflies and open air pools. 

Each year you left Hawkins behind, a kiss pressed to each cheek by your parents, your old car packed to the brim as you headed west for six weeks, to your home from home, buried between cedar trees, amongst giant redwoods and overgrown wildflowers. 

You rolled out of town and took the sun with you, windows down, radio blasting music and static, that soft buzz that you loved so much. You sped past the water tower, the quarry and the wheat fields, the strawberry patches and the forest that no one liked to wander too far into. 

You hated that Steve Harrington followed, his car newer, shiner, faster. You hated when he overtook you on the straight, before you had even had a chance to leave town. So you would hang your arm out the window, middle finger poised in a pretty salute just for him and he’d send you one back, like clockwork, like you’d practised it, like it happened every year. 

If you could get close enough, your car bumper threatening his, you could just make out the scowl behind his raybans, the twist of his lips cursing you out in the reflection of his rear view mirror. 

It went on like that for the whole drive, never stopping unless the boy did, refusing to fall behind, because bathroom breaks were for losers and you did not fucking lose to Steve Harrington. 

It was flat out, foot down, wind whipping in on the highway; a game of cat and mouse, curses yelled over the radio, hair messy in your face, just pushing the speed limit until overhead signs and four lane roads turned into something else. 

It’s like the sun got softer when you turned off the freeway, the light hazy between the trees and it made this part of the world seem like it was just for you. 

Single track roads took you through the forest, past rivers and lakes, mountains in front of you, Hawkins behind you and the air was sharper, muddled with pine and moss, still wet tree trunks from the morning rain, wildflowers and something too sweet to name. 

Smoke threaded through it all when you got closer to camp, the big wooden archway greeting you like an old friend, the cabins appearing through cracks in the forest, the doors open, staff carrying in pillows and sheets, prepping for the arrival of the kids in a few days time. 

And when you pulled your car into the staff parking, a clearing between trees behind the big gymnasium, you turned off your engine, closed your eyes and listened to the little slice of peace you’d get in your six week stay. 

No kids, no screaming, no arguing, no singing. Not yet. 

Just bird calls and the buzz of insects, soft wind between branches and the slow crackle of the main campfire if you strained your ears hard enough. 

“Your shitty car gets slower every year, princess.”

You swore, low under your breath, the soft “for fuck sake,” mixing with a sigh as you let your head fall onto the seat and you opened your eyes.  

Steve was standing at your open window, hip leaning against the side of your car, arms crossed, expression smug. He grinned at you. 

“Harrington,” you greeted, a drawl that lacked any sort of warmth, tinted with annoyance instead. 

The boy tsked, sarcasm dripping from him as he leaned in, arms on the window ledge, peering into the car and peering at the pile of cassettes on your passenger seat. 

“Blondie? Really?” 

You swatted at him, brows knitted together already because you’d been at Camp Upside Down for quite literally three minutes and the boy was already doing his best to infuriate you. 

“That’s not very nice,” he told you but he was still grinning. “You didn’t miss me?”

You pushed the car door open, knocking Steve out of the way in the process and you scowled as you popped the trunk, turning to him with a glare. 

“Miss you? I saw you at the store two days ago.”

Steve watched you haul out your bags, snorting when you let them fall to the forest floor without much care. 

“Yeah, but you called me a dickhead and hit me with your cart.”

“You yelled across the store and asked me where my cauldron was.”

You set the boy with a stare, a little dead behind the eyes, just like you’d perfected. Your lip twitched into an almost smile when you let another bag tumble out of the trunk, narrowingly missing the boy's foot when he flinched out of the way. 

Steve shrugged, tongue pressed to his cheek to stop his grin as he stared at you right back. 

“It was a valid question.”

You slammed the trunk, your gaze on the boy withering and you kicked at one of your bags. You hated this part. 

“Are you gonna help me with these?” You really didn’t know why you were bothering to ask, because the boy was already backing away, hands shoved into the pockets of his Levi’s and he was still fucking grinning. 

“Why would I do that?” He questioned. “Besides, I only came round to tell you Hopper wants everyone in the office. Now.”

You glared at Steve, seething, lips parting with a high pitched scoff as you threw an arm out and gestured to all your belongings, most of your life packed into four too big duffel bags. 

“You fucking just watched me unload the car.”

Steve hummed happily, too far away for you to throw a pine cone at. He tutted, all faux concern and sad brown eyes. 

“Damn, I did, didn’t I?” And then he was walking away, heading to the offices that were housed in the row of cabins by the lake. “Don’t be too late, princess, Hops already in a shitty mood.”

——————

Camp leader Jim Hopper, was indeed in a foul mood when you arrived twenty minutes later, out of breath and just as annoyed as he was. 

The cabin was full, bodies squeezed between desks and the moth-eaten couch was piled with people. Faces new and old stared back at your sudden entrance, the scowl that was already on your face only deepening when Steve, who was leaning lazy against a wall, wiggled his fingers at you. 

“Hawkins,” Hopper barked, “how nice of you to finally join us. You think after doing this for four years, you’d know that the first day meeting is always at eleven o’clock sharp.”

Hopper's habit of calling people by their hometown should’ve been insulting, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a teddy bear looking man, moustache twitching when he was either annoyed or amused, but he had soft eyes and an even softer patch for the camp kids. 

When you first pointed out that there were three counsellors that came from Hawkins, he merely started calling you Hawkins number two, so you tended to not remind him after that. 

“Sorry,” you huffed, not sounding all that sorry, and you glared at Steve as you squished yourself between Eddie Munson and Robin Buckley. 

“Okay, shitheads, listen up,” Murray, Hopper’s right hand man, stood with a clipboard, thick rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. “Roll call.”

“Muson, music. You’ve got three new kids that have signed up for private guitar lessons, you’ll get their info by tonight, make sure you check in with Joyce at reception.”

Eddie Munson, one of the older boys nodded, long, dark curls already frizzy with the warmth that the forest trapped beneath its canopy. Originally from Philadelphia, the boy was still dressed in his leather jacket, a denim vest that had ripped sleeves and a giant Dio patch sewn messily onto the back, ready for a metal concert rather than s’mores around the campfire.

“And for the love of god, wear the proper uniform this year.”

On cue, Hopper started throwing out the mandatory shirts, white and years old, the sleeve cuffs red, just like the printed ‘staff’ on the back, in bold, capital letters. 

“Nancy, you’re moving up this year, senior counsellor,” Nancy Wheeler, another Hawkins native, nodded sharply, her hair clipped back and uniform already on. “We’re gonna need the first week's schedule done for the kids arriving at the weekend and christ, make sure these idiots turn up for their shifts.”

Robin snorted from beside you and Murray rounded on her, a finger pointing accusingly. “Buckley, any more missed shifts from you this year and you’ll be on clean up duty for every dinner shift. Bob wants you in the mess hall tomorrow for lunch prep.”

The girl scowled, mumbling under her breath about how it wasn’t her fault she never heard the morning tannoy. A pretty girl from Detroit, Robin was all ripped jeans and backwards caps, sarcastic comments and sleeping wherever she could make herself comfortable.

Hopper threw a shirt at her, grinning when it landed against her face with a soft thump.

“Jonathan.” The boy who was busy fiddling with the camera around his neck suddenly looked up, eyes wide as if he’d been caught half asleep. “The parents are more than happy to buy more of the photo packages this year and we need new prints for the newsletters so we want content, content, content. No slacking and distracting your girlfriend or you’ll be sleeping on the other side of the lake.”

Jonathan Byers, from Bloomington, just a few hours from Hawkins, mumbled an agreement before walking over to sit by Nancy and resting his head on top of hers.

“Hargrove,” Hopper barked from behind his desk, “you’re back on sports but we’re a lifeguard down this year so you’ll be splitting shifts with Harrington.”

Billy Hargrove, California bad boy, was sliding an unlit cigarette between his lips, getting the tip slick as he grunted his agreement. He caught his staff shirt as it flew through the air at him, winking at you when he tucked it into the waistband of his too tight jeans.

“And for fuck sake, Billy, no non staff members in the cabins after six,” Hopper groaned, “I’m not having screaming mothers at my door at one in the morning this year, corrupt the girls of Indiana on your own time, not mine.”

“You two,” Murray finally rounded on you and Steve, a sardonic grin pulling at his lips. “Lovebirds, you’re both on games and swimming.”

Steve and you both huffed out a protest at the term, features pulled into a scowl and you flipped off both Robin and Eddie when they chuckled.

“And Jesus Christ, if any more of your lovers' tiffs result in more broken equipment, it’s coming out of your wages.”

You scoffed, a sound of protest as Steve swore. “Bullshit, what broken equipment?”

The rest of the team snickered as Hopper levelled you with a stare from over the top of the computer screen. Murray snorted from behind his fist and even Steve had to try to hide his grin at your words.

“There’s three cracked kayaks, fourteen broken tennis racquets and a box of punctured basketballs sitting behind the gym as we speak, sweetheart, don’t even go there.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself off of the couch, grabbing Robin’s hand and yanking her up with you when she batted at your arm. 

Everyone else shuffled to their feet, leaving the few newbies in the corner, wide eyed and worried as they waited for their orientation. 

Hopper glared at the seven of you as you lined up at the door, restless and waiting to escape to your cabins, to steal some food from the kitchens when Bob wasn’t looking.

“No drugs,” Hopper announced before Eddie could open the door. “No smoking, and for god sake Munson, don’t tell the kids that you can eat the mushrooms, not again.”

Eddie had the audacity to look bewildered, brown eyes big and doe like as you held in a snicker from behind him. He swatted at your leg and you thumped him back, grinning when the back of your hand caught the edge of his rolling tin in his front pocket. 

The older man moved onto Billy, glaring when the boy only smirked, sliding a pair of gold rimmed aviators over his eyes. 

“Nudity is for the showers and your own cabin, California, I don’t wanna see your ass comin’ out of the lake, I don’t care how early it is in the morning.”

Billy simply grinned wider, snickering when Nancy blushed, rolling his eyes when Robin dug her fingers into his ribs. 

“And you two,” Hopper lifted a hand, gesturing between you and Steve once more, “if I gotta break up any more fights, or play couples therapist, you’ll be paying for my own before summer is over, you hear me?”

The pair of you sulked, eyes lowered to the floor and feet shuffling as you weighed up your options of arguing back, but the office room was lacking its usual cloud of cigar smoke and the coffee machine in the corner had a piece of paper with a big ‘out of order’ scrawled on front.

“Loud and clear, chief,” Steve smirked, eyeing you from where he stood, Eddie grinning between you both.

Murray opened the door to the forest and the sun, the wall of heat seeping in and fighting with the old aircon unit and Hopper’s last words to you all before you slipped out were:

“Play nice and don’t kill the kids.”

Billy caught Steve by the shirt as they left, the boy’s watching as the rest of you walked down the gravel path that led through the trees, splintering off from cabin to cabin.

The blonde boy turned, grinning sharklike, sunglasses still on. He nodded to your retreating frame, taking a second to watch the way your shorts rode up the backs of your thighs as you climbed the cabin stairs behind Robin. 

“You tapped that yet, Harrington?”

Steve glowered, ripping away his arm from the other boy but his reaction only made Billy smirk wider, a lighter appearing from his pocket as he lit his cigarette. 

“Get fucked, Hargrove,” Steve did his best to sound bored, like he didn’t care.

But it only made Billy laugh, blowing smoke to the blue skies and he followed Steve down the opposite trail, heading towards the same cabin that Eddie was currently dragging a small amp into. 

Steve huffed when the blonde boy stomped up the stairs behind him, stepping over the forgotten bags that lay unpacked on the floor. “Maybe that’s Hawkins' problem, you know?” He asked, referring to you. Billy eyed Steve, leaning against his top bunk, the air in the wooden cabin so much cooler than outside. “Maybe she just needs a good seeing to.”

Eddie raised his brows, looking carefully between his bunkmate and Billy, wondering if there was about to be a new record for how quickly a fight broke out. The current sat at seventeen hours after arrival, but there had been a lot more vodka involved that time, and maybe a comment or two about that one time Billy got the clap from some girl in the next town over. 

“Now now, boys,” Eddie intoned, “I’ve not nearly had enough sleep to deal with this shit.”

He went ignored.

Billy continued, teeth sharp and white and bared as he followed Steve around the bunks, leaning against the dresser before the boy had a chance to open it and his eyes flashed when he watched the muscle in the brunette’s jaw twitch. 

“Think she’d let me?” Hargrove asked, “think she’d get a little wild for me?” “Don’t you have shit to do?” Steve snapped, refusing to look at Billy, ‘cause he could feel the tips of his ears getting hot, a horribly uncomfortable tightness clawing at his throat. 

But Billy could see right through him, years of spending summers together, watching the way you and Steve argued, nose to nose and chests panting. He always made sure he had a front seat to the show and poking the angry bear only made the inevitable first argument so much more fun to witness.

Billy clicked his tongue, still grinning unbearably wide. “Maybe I can go visit Hawkins… I’m sure there’s something heavy that your girl needs help with.”

“She’s not my fucking girl.”

The blonde winked at Eddie as he passed, the longer haired boy doing nothing to hide his smile, knowing fine well what game Hargrove was playing. And shit, he was winning, ‘cause by the time Billy left and Steve spun back around, his fists were clenched and a heavy scowl pulled his brows together. 

“You’re too easy, Harrington.”

“Shut up,” Steve muttered, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. He liked Eddie, and god, he knew he was right.

——————

“You know, every summer I expect you and Harrington to walk into camp, hand in hand, talkin’ all sweet to each other,” Robin wasn’t looking at you as she spoke, too busy stuffing already crumpled shirts into the shared dresser, but you knew she was grinning. “The sexual tension has to break sometime, you know?”

“Over my dead, fucking body.”

Your reply was one she’d heard before, year after year, summer after summer, because every June, the same thing happened. Fall outs, arguments, screaming matches in the mess hall, head to head battles on the dock, late night yelling over a campfire and a bottle of cheap bourbon.

“I still don’t get it,” the girl smirked, finally eyeing you from over the top bunk. The late morning light made the small cabin glow, the surface of the lake reflecting in through the open window and off of the panelled walls. “Steve isn’t that bad.”

“That’s because you didn’t have to go through high school with the King himself,” you deadpanned, already bored of the conversation. You’d had it before, several times over with almost all the camp staff, each one wondering why you and Steve fucking Harrington wanted to kill each other over a game of dodgeball, the last poptart at breakfast, picking teams on games night. “Harrington got everything I worked hard for, just ‘cause his daddy has some money.”

You threw your now empty duffle bag to the ground kicking at it until it slid underneath the bed. Your own pillow was in its rightful place on top, the peach coloured case clashing horribly with the army green duvet, but it smelled like home. 

“I announced I was running for class president in sophomore year, and then that asshole decided he would to,” you levelled Robin with a stare, still petulant after so many years. “He threw a party at his stupid rich house and by Monday, everyone was talking about Steve Harrington’s pool and how they were voting for him.”

“Don’t you think it’s unhealthy to hold onto such a grudge-”

You cut the girl off, on a tangent now she’d brought the sore subject up. “Like, wasn’t it enough that he was the swim team captain? And then! When we got into that stupid fight in Junior year, we both ended up with a weeks detention but no, no. Mr Harrington swoops in with a little two grand donation to the school’s library upgrade and low and behold, little Stevie is suddenly off the hook.”

You kicked another bag, this one not as empty and you tried not to wince when your toe made contact with what you assumed was a collection of books. 

“As long as his record is squeaky clean, right? S’not like his dad won’t just pay his way into fucking Yale, or Princeton, for him anyway,” you were grumbling now and when you looked up to see Billy Hargrove walking by with a too smug smile, you flipped him off, trying to make yourself feel better.

He just wiggled his fingers at you in a wave, winking when you grimaced.

“I think I need a drink,” you said, throwing yourself down onto the bed and concluding your Steve Harrington rant, more than likely only the first of the day.

The sheets smelled the same, like they always did. A little musty, like the back of a storage cupboard, almost hidden by the laundry detergent you knew Joyce made Hopper use. Fresh like pine needles, like the forest floor and mountain air. Kinda like another home. 

Robin barked out a laugh before coming over and standing between the space between your knees, your legs splayed over the too narrow mattress. She offered you a hand, exaggerating a loud groan when you took it and she pulled you back up to sit. An affectionate pat fell on your head before she looked around the mess of your half unpacked cabin, sheets and folded towels on the dressers, drawers open and half full, a litter of shoes by the door and an unplugged radio on a chair. 

“You know what?” She huffed out, “we both need a drink.”

——————

The keg party by the lake was a first night tradition, the older staff members long gone to their beds after a tiring first day in the forest heat, lugging around equipment and furniture. 

The rest of you gathered at the dock, crowding the small part of the water front that had sand instead of rocks, the air still warm from the leftover sun despite the stars in the sky. It was inky black in the middle of the woods, the clouds navy, the lake a mirror and the fire gave off an impressive amber glow.

Everyone was painted in orange light, pink and red on their cheeks, smoke in their hair and a different kind of fire in their chests when Billy produced a few bottles of cheap whisky, a half bottle of bourbon and surprising everyone, Nancy had added a bottle of vodka to the pile. Cheap beer came in the form of lukewarm kegs and despite the effort it took, Jonathan pulled the short straw and drove out of camp, meeting the delivery boy on the main road to pick up a pile of hot pizza boxes. 

It smelled like summer, smoke and god awful decisions.

The dirty beat of Need You Tonight by INXS started through the tannoys above you, the old, tinny speakers hidden in the trees.

Some people cheered, others moved to the sand to dance, a slow grind of bodies with their bare feet in the lake, water lapping at ankles as they moved. Steve was grinning from the dock, a rip in the one knee of his jeans, the skin underneath already tanned as if he belonged under the sun. The white t-shirt he wore was threadbare, years old with ‘camp upside down’ faded in green on the chest. 

He was watching you, a feeling that used to make you unravel, like you knew he did it just to earn a rise from you. So you waved instead, sugary sweet and full of sarcasm, huffing when he beckoned you closer with a hand that was holding the last of the bourbon, and you told yourself it was the promise of alcohol that made your feet move. 

You rolled your eyes before narrowing them at the boy in front of you, your red cup clutched to your chest and you couldn’t help but take another step forward, just a small one, until the toes of your shoes were touching his.

He looked down at the wooden boards, the water lapping underneath, barely seen between the cracks in the dark, but the boy was too focused on the way your converse bumped his nikes. It felt like a challenge, like everything with you did and when he looked back up, your chin was tilted high and your eyes were glittering.

You looked like trouble and he hated it. 

“Is this another one of your shitty mixtapes, Harrington?” You let the words drip from your lips, whisky mixing with distaste and the late night air.

Everything was warm and sweet, bourbon and peaches, campfire smoke and leftover lake water on your skin. Steve looked at you, eyes shining, freckles on his nose like stars and he grinned.

“How’d you know, princess?” He took the cigarette that had been tucked behind his ear, slid it between his lips as he kept your gaze, always undefeated in the staring contests you both never meant to start.

“‘Cause it sounds like something a boy would make when he’s trying too hard to get a chick in his bed.”

He lit the cigarette, still grinning, the end of it caught between teeth and Steve Harrington looked so unbelievably ready to play one of your little games with you. The ash burned red in the dim light, the sounds of your friends and co-workers dull behind you both.

“Does that mean it’s working?”

“You fucking wish, wonder boy,” you scoffed and you made a grab for the bottle he was holding, twisting your lips to hold in the annoyance when Steve moved it out of reach, holding the amber liquid above your head.

“So mean already,,” Steve tutted and you hated the familiar warmth that wrapped around his words, like it was supposed to be a compliment. “Don’t you usually wait for day three before breaking out that one?”

“Give it,” you demanded, and from over Steve’s shoulder you could see Eddie and Jonathan watching, expectant smiles on their faces and interest in their eyes.

“Make me, princess,” Steve answered, voice just as short as yours but he sounded too amused, like he always did when he was trying to push your buttons. The boy was too tall, his hand and the bottle well above your head, leaking into the night sky above and you weren’t going to humiliate yourself by trying to jump for it. 

So you drained what was left in your cup, the vodka was too cheap and it burned your tongue but the mix of cherry kool aid made up for it, staining your tongue red. You swiped at your lips, grinned and planted your hands on Steve’s chest much to his surprise. 

But just as his mouth fell into a pretty ‘o’ shape, his brown eyes darkened to that dark honey shade you were used to, you pushed, hard. He hit the water with a splash and to the raucous sound of whoops and cheers, a wolf whistle when he emerged, white top soaked and clinging to the ridges and dips of his muscles, tangled at his waist. 

He spluttered, waist deep in the lake as he stared back up at you, hair dripping into his eyes and oh, he was mad. You were fucking joyous, wrapped up in the way people were laughing and you didn’t break eye contact with the boy as you bent at the waist and picked up the bottle that’d dropped as he fell.

You pulled off the lid, grinned and brought it to your lips, draining the rest of the smoky drink, another burn that nipped at your throat, your chest, your skin. You felt too warm when you chased a stray drip of it with your thumb, sliding over your lip before sucking it back between your lips.

“Made you,” you told Steve. 

The things you do, don’t seem real. 

The kids arrived in a wave of colours and chaos, bags forgotten on buses, new cabins already turned inside out and Joyce had a queue as long as the lake outside of her office, her hands full of allergy medication, inhalers and requests to change bunks ‘cause ‘Kyle Jamison snores like a seventy year old with a lung condition.’

The camp itself was just as messy, it always had been. The old cabins littered the space, winding dirt tracks leading you into a cluster of trees, surrounding the old wooden huts, the porch light almost always flickering in the dark. 

There was faded bunting hanging from branch to branch, the old gym that sat with its rusting tin roof near the back, the dock with its splintering planks by the lake. The grassy hub at the centre was worn down by constant running and makeshift picnics and the wildflowers that free in between it all were getting too tall, bursts of red, yellow and orange between green moss. 

It was getting old, things were a little broken but the entire forest smelled like morning dew, that ‘it’s just rained’ kinda way and old campfire smoke. It was another home. 

Camp Upside Down was officially in full swing. 

You were pleased to see you had some of your returning favourites in your group that year: Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, Suzie Bingham and Dustin Henderson. 

You were just going through the last of the names on your list, kids gathered in front of you and awaiting their assigned cabins when Steve snatched the clipboard from your hand, huffing. 

“Harrington!”

“What the hell is this?” Steve grumbled, looking at the sheet of paper and at your group. He singled out Dustin, and the boy flushed, all nervous grin and bright eyes underneath his curls. “Henderson, I thought you said you were requesting my group this year?”

The young boy shrugged, glancing at the trees instead of Steve. 

“I, uh, I said I was happy with either of you,” Dustin grinned, front teeth coming in more than they were last year and you beamed back. “Besides, Hawkins sneaks us extra cookies before bed.”

 You shot the boy a look. 

“Hey! I told you not to tell anyone about that,” you admonished, eyes rolling. “And that’s not my name, Dustin, we spoke about this last year.”

But before Dustin could argue back, Steve was pulling you aside, his hands shockingly warm as they wrapped around your wrist. You stumbled into the tree line with him, shoes sinking into moss, senses surrounded by cedar and cicadas and Steve. 

“What the fuck? Steve!” You hissed, pulling yourself from his grasp with a scowl. 

Before either if you could say anything,Lucas Sinclair, a tall, dark haired kid tapped a passing new counsellor on the arm. They looked concerned when the boy pointed to you both, hidden in the trees.

“Mom and Dad are fighting again,” he told them, voice bored and lacking any real worry. 

“You’re stealing my kids, princess!” Steve’s voice was just as annoyed as yours, his brow furrowed as he stabbed a finger at your sheet of names. 

“Stealing?” You scoffed, whacking your clipboard against his own. The metal clip narrowly missed his fingers and he swore at you hotly. “Stealing? They’re children, Harrington, not collectibles.”

The kids in question were giggling where you’d left them, your group mixing with Steve’s as they stared in that unabashed way only preteens could. You flushed when you heard one of them - Nancy’s brother, Mike, you were sure - made wet, kissing noises. Immature and highly ironic, you noted, considering he was standing hand in hand with a girl called El. 

You glared at them all and they quietened, but only just. 

Spinning back round to deal with your other problem, you pointed a finger to Steve’s chest, hating the way he smirked at your sudden frustration. 

“And what’s your point anyway, huh?” You huffed, “you have Maxine this year, I always have Max in my group!”

Steve looked entirely too smug as he bent a little at waist, crowding down into you so you were both toe to toe. 

You hated it. 

You hated his brown eyes, the way they caught the sun. You hated the smattering of freckles he got every summer, the moles on his neck, the ones you knew dotted the rest of his skin. You hated his hair, how it fell into his eyes when he got mad at you, how he was too focused on you to push it back. 

“Maybe Max just likes me better.”

You gasped, entirely offended at his accusation and before you could hurl something sharp and quick back at him, the girl in question raised her hand from the middle of the crowd, face scrunched in uncertainty. 

“Hi, uh, yeah” You both turned to look at the redhead. “Yeah, no, that’s absolutely not true.”

You rounded back on the boy, a shit eating grin on your face as you raised your brows, your expression victorious. 

“Whatever,” he mumbled, almost nose to nose now and you could smell the spearmint gum he’d chewed, the clean smell of his cologne, whatever body wash he’d used that morning. “Good luck keeping mini Byers alive.”

“Hey!” Will piped up, louder than he’d been last summer and he was scowling at Steve. “I only have three inhalers now.”

Steve rolled his eyes, finally moving out of your space and rounding up his kids like some sort of rogue cowboy, sans horse. He waved the boy away, sounding somewhat placating when he congratulated him. 

“That’s great, Will, honestly buddy,” Steve offered a fist bump, one that the smaller boy happily accepted. “Just don’t let Hawkins here let you forget them yeah?”

Steve turned back to you once more, still smug, still infuriating. “We wouldn’t want her to get in trouble now, would we?”

——————

“Camp has been in session for five minutes.”

Murray was standing in front of you, hands open in a gesture that screamed ‘for the love of god, explain yourselves.’ Hopper was sitting at his desk, eyes closed, fingers running circles at his temples and he sighed heavily. 

Neither you nor Steve spoke, eyes trained on the old, worn floorboards, converse shuffling, shoulders shrugging, lips twisted to hide your matching smirks. 

“Does someone want to explain what happened this time? Because we can’t keep throwing kayaks in the trash like they’re broken cups, people! They're not cheap!”

“Well, you see, Steve has this real annoying habit of-”

“- just because the princess feels then need to win at everything-”

“I need to win at everything?! Me?! Are you fu-”

“Yes you! Always breathin’ down my back, waitin’ for me to fuck up so you can-”

“Enough!“ Hopper jumped up from his chair, hands slamming on his desk as he hunched over it, shoulders heaving, face too red. “Who. Broke. The Kayak?”

You and Steve sighed, shoulder slumped, heads tilted to the ceiling as if you could avoid the question, each other, the inevitable punishment that was coming your way. You sighed, Steve groaned and you both swore. 

Because, honestly? You weren’t sure who’s fault it was. Maybe yours, probably Harrington's. More than likely both. ‘Cause the kids had stumbled out of the lake, giddy and a little sunburnt, leaving you to haul the kayaks onto the shore on your own.

Steve had only watched you for a few minutes, smirk on his face as you struggled with the faded red boats, huffing as you attempted to lift them onto the racks, feet clumsy and damp hair sticking to your forehead, your cheeks. 

In fact, he looked entirely too amused as he leaned against the dock and by the time he’d come over, offering a rare display of help, you stubbornly told him to ‘fuck off.’

 He’d laughed at that, angering you more and you squeaked as he stretched out behind you, his chest still bare from helping his group in the water, and the solid warmth of it brushed against your back when his hands moved to help yours.

He jumped when you did, hands stuttering over your own, over the kayak and you had to push yourself up onto your toes when the boat slipped from the railing. You both caught it in time, Steve pressed into you, cedar and mint and boyish cologne as the curve of your ass settled into his hips. As soon as the kayak was in place, you spun, pushing at his shoulders.

“I can do it myself,” you mumbled, suddenly far too flustered to sound overly annoyed. “I don’t need your help.”

“Christ, princess, you sound like a five year old,” Steve scoffed, but you couldn’t help but notice the flush on his cheeks, looking like you felt. “Can’t admit when you need help, huh?”

“I don’t need help from you, wonder boy,” you tried to laugh, but it came out too pitchy, too forced. 

The camp was quiet now the kids had gone back to their cabins, the lake settling after the afternoon swim, the smell of churros and pizza rolls coming from the mess hall. The air fizzed with summer heat and something else and you weren’t sure why, but your chest was heaving, the straps of your swimsuit suddenly feeling too tight. 

“Stop calling me that,” Steve growled, eyes flashing and he moved into you again, the way he did when every argument started. “You know I fuckin’ hate that.”

“No shit,” you spat, meeting him in the middle, chin raised in a taunt, a dare, a challenge. “You think I’m here to make your life easier than it already is?” “You’re fucking infuriating,” Steve hissed, “you know fuck all about my life, princess, don’t act like you’re so hard done by.”

You pressed a hand to Steve’s stomach, ignoring the way the muscles there clenched under your touch and you pushed at him, something inside you crackling when he didn’t budge. 

You hated his stupid smile, the way his lips twisted when he made you mad enough to scrunch your nose at him. You hated the way he looked down at you when you were this close, through his lashes, like you were something to be studied. Like he liked the way got into his personal space.

“Well damn, why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Harrington?”

Steve pushed his tongue to the inside of his cheek to try and hide his grin, and he shrugged, trying to look entirely unbothered at your pushing. He took another step towards you, chasing you slowly when you stumbled back, body pressed to the stacked kayaks behind you. 

The old boats were warm from the sun, the cheap pvc hot on your skin, back bared down the low cut of your swimsuit, your shorts doing nothing to protect the backs of your thighs. You wondered if that’s why your chest felt flushed, if that’s why your face was heating up. 

“Can’t do that,” he said, tutting before taking his time letting his eyes drop down your body, before trailing back up again. He caught your gaze, held it, bolder than ever. “I’ll get in too much trouble.”

And then, he fucking winked. 

So really, it was Steve’s fault that you stumbled into the racks, the kayak that the boy had just helped you push into place rocking on the rails. Neither of you had the reflexes to do anything about it when it slipped backwards, landing on the hard ground, the dull thud ringing out across camp, the sound ending with a sharp crack, the pvc splitting across the bow of the boat. 

So that’s how you both ended your night in the mess hall, waving after Bob as he finished serving up sloppy joes and went to find the gaggle of kids that demanded that he needed to fix their broken Walkmans and waterlogged Mattel electronic games. 

Murray had stood in front of you both, grinning widely as he handed you mops and cleaning supplies, gleefully pointing out the mustard stains on the linoleum, the spattering of jello that had somehow painted one of the windows. 

It was times like these that you were almost sure you preferred Hopper’s red face and grumbled lectures. 

“I want this place spotless,” Murray told you both, waving a pair of yellow rubber gloves at Steve. The boy snatched them, face less than impressed when the man simply chuckled. “If you can flirt somewhere away from expensive camp property, you can work out some of this sexual tension by trying to get rid of that dried in chilli from last year.”

You would’ve gagged at the mention of the fossilised food if you hadn’t burned at the insinuation of flirting. And sexual tension. With Steve fucking Harrington. 

But the boy beat you to it, as always, his eyes widening and he brandished the mop like a weapon as he pointed at you. 

“We were not flirting,” he insisted, “we do not flirt.”

Murray chuckled, “alright Casanova, keep your hair on.” 

You snorted and Steve scowled, shooting you a look that clearly was meant to tell you to shut the fuck up, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

“Murray, I’d like to think in all the years that we’ve known each other, you’d think I had better taste than to pine after Harrington,” you turned to the boy, smiling as sweet as the summer outside. “Wonder boy has enough of the fifteen year olds twirling their pigtails for him.”

“Stop calling me that.”

You ignored him, splashing his trainers with your mop instead and he kicked your bucket in return. 

“Yeah, no, this?” Murray clicked his fingers at you both, pointing back and forth at you as if you were a science experiment. “This is ridiculous. Do something about it before you both implode. I’m not having you take the entire camp down just because you’re both too horny to come to terms with normal human emotions.”

Your jaw dropped, a small noise of indignation coming from you and Steve looked completely bewildered. 

He grinned once more, smug as he shook his head, like he was the only enjoying whatever inside joke was going on. He turned to leave, not before reaching into his pocket and flicking something at Steve. 

The boy caught it instinctively and he turned to the man with wide eyes. But Murray was already walking away, a stern hand raised in the air, finger pointed to the roof as if he was giving you both some sage words of wisdom as he called out:

“Keep it clean!”

You realised he wasn’t just referring to the mess hall when Steve held up the object, face aghast and cheeks positively on fire, the square, foil packet pinched between his fingers. 

You were burning, mouth open in surprise and you panicked, batting Steve’s hand and making the condom fall into the sudsy water you had both already spilled onto the floor. 

You definitely preferred Hopper’s way of punishment. 

“Put that in the trash, right fucking now,” you demanded, staring at the offending object like it was a ticking time bomb, waiting to blow. 

“Christ, settle down, princess priss,” Steve huffed, “it’s not gonna bite.”

But for once, he did what you asked, the highs of his cheeks still tinted pink as he snatched the silver packet from the floor, stuffing it deep into the trash bags you’d both been equipped with. He didn’t look at you. 

You both worked in silence as the late afternoon turned into dusk, the sky outside the window a pretty lavender, the clouds over the lake turning the water tangerine and it was so quiet. 

Most of the kids would be in their bunks by now, some excitedly making their way over to one of the older cabins where Eddie would organise a game of Dungeons and Dragons for them all. Nancy would be in Hop’s office, going through the next week's schedule and Jonathan would be hidden in his makeshift darkroom, a small shed that was once used for bikes. 

You were almost certain Billy would be skulking the woods, looking for a ritual sacrifice or some lone kid to blow his shrill whistle at. Either option seemed likely. 

Robin would probably already be back in your shared cabin, music on, one of Eddie’s free joints hanging from her lips and you wondered if Steve would normally spend his down time alone, or if he liked to wander the collection of bars the next town over had to offer. If he brought some girl back to his cabin, if he pressed her down onto his stupid bunk that probably smelled like sunscreen and his cologne. 

Your stomach twisted ugly at the thought and you slammed the soaking mop down onto the floor harder than you needed to. 

You were positively glowering at the streaks of leftover over pudding some kind had smeared across the floor, kicking the forgotten baseball cards and tiny action figures so they skittered under the stacked chairs. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” The boy called out. 

He was sitting on one of the long lunch tables, legs swinging with a smirk on his face. He’d hardly cleaned, you’d come to realise, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You had other reasons to be mad now. 

You stared at him from across the empty hall, chest heaving with an annoyance that only Steve Harrington could pull from you. You let mop clatter roll the floor, uncaring as you rounded on him. 

“You,” you spat, hands on your hips and hair messy from where the late night heat made it stick to your forehead. 

“Me?” Steve asked, all faux shock and innocence with a hand pressed to his chest. He grinned, wolfish and sharp edges. “Didn’t realise I had an effect on your underwear, princess, wanna elaborate?”

There it was again, you realised. That flirting lilt that weaved its way through his usual taunts and teases, Steve’s normal bite not quite cutting as deep. Not this year, not this time. 

It made you flustered, on edge, unable to formulate the kind of barbed reply you usually kept on the tip of your tongue, just for him, and oh my god, it infuriated you. 

“You have absolutely no reason to be thinking about what’s under my shorts, Harrington,” you told him, eyes narrowed as you went about moving the stacks of chairs against the wall. 

“Bold of you to assume I’d want to, Hawkins.”

The light was leaking from the day and what was left of the sun made the shadows on Steve’s face lilac and peach. You didn’t know you’d marched over to him until you were able to reach out and touch him. 

You didn’t. You couldn’t. 

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, “don’t call me that as if you don’t come from the same shitty, backwater town as me.”

Steve leaned forward, his hands curling around the edge of the table as he raised his brows, ready for another argument. You could feel the heat radiating from him, like he’d trapped the sun in his chest, like summer lived inside of him. 

“D’you prefer princess? The princess of Hawkins, is that it?” His voice was mocking, his eyes sarcastically soft. 

“Fuck off, Harrington,” you snarled, and you couldn’t help but lean in too, Steve’s knees pressing into the front of your thighs, your fists clenched by your sides. “At least I’m getting away from that place without my daddy paying my way out.”

“Watch your mouth, sweetheart,” Steve spoke lowly, more serious than you’d heard him before. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Ooh, did I hit a nerve, sweetheart?” You bit back. 

The boy stared at you, gaze heavy and hot in a way that made you squirm. The air was buzzing, popping and crackling like there had been a fire lit between you and suddenly, you didn’t know how you were supposed to end this fight. 

The tension was too thick to walk away from, sticky like honey, trapping you there. 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he whispered, staring at you like you were a puzzle piece that just didn’t fit. “You’re a pain in my ass, you have been since fucking freshman year.”

You scoffed, pinched and nipped by his words because you were just as aggravated by his presence as he was yours. Maybe more. And probably for longer. 

“Freshman year?” You said, surprise colouring your tone. “That’s real cute Harrington, but you’ve been getting on my last fucking nerve since seventh grade.”

“Seventh grade? What the fu-”

You sucked in a breath, preparing yourself. You’d been waiting for this moment for eight years. 

“Mrs Duncan’s science fair!” You burst out, “I worked my ass off making those vegetable batteries!”

Steve was staring at you blankly, lips parted. 

“I had my tables and all my charts, I even bought a metre to measure the voltage with just my pocket money!” You jabbed a finger to his chest, lips twisted into an almost pathetic pout but you felt twelve again and Steve Harrington still pushing your buttons. 

“And you! You waltzed in half an hour late, with a stupid bottle of coke and some mentos, claiming that you’d been the one to discover fucking CO2.”

Steve, unable to hide his amused smile, just shrugged. “I was barely thirteen, Jesus Christ princess…”

“And then your dad came in behind you,” you sniffed. “He walked right up to Mrs Duncan and handed her a piece of paper. And I remember it had a few zeros on it,” you laughed without much humour. 

The smile slipped from Steve’s face. 

“It was so weird, y’know? How that happened and then you won? And then the next week the library had been restocked and suddenly there were new bunsen burners in the science lab.”

You were genuinely surprised when Steve shoved past you, his hands a shocking heat on the dip of your waist as he grabbed at you to tug you out of his way. You didn’t know when you’d moved to stand between his legs, close enough to see the different shades of brown in his eyes, the way there was a small freckle just below his left brow. 

He was marching across the mess hall, mop and trash bag forgotten and you were so shocked that it took you a few seconds before you called out, weaker than you had previously been speaking. 

“What’s wrong, wonder boy? Don’t like it when you’re called out?”

You weren’t sure if you felt smug or concerned when he spun on his heel, stalking back towards you and moving into you, close enough that the mess of his hair brushed your forehead. But you stood your ground, your legs bumping into the back of the table he’d just left, and you watched through interested eyes as Steve’s chest heaved. 

He looked like he wanted to say something, to yell at you even. But you tilted your chin in one last act of defiance, the tip of your nose just, just brushing his and you swore on everything that was holy that you watched the fight leave him. 

He was still breathing heavily, like he’d run a mile, took a few hits in a boxing ring, got into a fight with a pretty girl and walked back in for more. You hated it when you realised your chest was moving the same, breaths leaving you in short bursts but you didn’t dare let your stare drop from the boy’s. 

You watched lips part, you watched his gaze drop to your mouth and suddenly the birds outside stopped chirping and you could’ve sworn that the world ceased spinning. It felt like the forest was waiting. 

Like it was holding its breath. 

But then the mop that Steve had left resting against the table he had crowded you against fell, clattering to the floor with a sharp echo. It startled you both, jumping apart as you shared one last breath together, eyes on the floor, cheeks burning. 

You didn’t try to stop him when he left a second time, managing to disappear out of the door and into the summer night. You watched the trees and the shadows swallow him, fireflies and leftover smoke in the air and fucking hell, you hated that you watched him walk away until his cabin door could be heard slamming shut.

Tell me what you’ve got in mind. 

By the end of the second week of camp, the staff was starting to show the stress of running after a bunch of kids twenty four hours a day. Some of the younger children in Robin's group had caught a bug, and between your friend, yourself and Joyce, you were all run ragged, hauling buckets across camp and dishing out cold compresses like sweets. 

So when Saturday rolled in, warmer than the last, you were all ready to let off some steam, meeting behind the gymnasium when the sun went down, greeted by a small fire that Eddie got going in an old trash can. He brought some pre-rolled joints, some stolen bags of chips from Bob’s secret stash and the gym was far away enough from the rest of the camp that no one heard the noise of the boombox Jonathan brought with him. 

You threw your own additions into the middle of the makeshift circle that the seven of you made, the newer counsellors still too scared to toe the line of what might get them fired. You stared at the pile of paraphernalia in the middle of the halved logs, makeshift sofas in the too long grass. 

A baggie of weed, a grinder and Eddie’s tin of joints, Billy’s favourite whisky, another bottle of vodka - loaded with cherry jolly ranchers that made it pretty and pink. A few cassettes, some homemade mixtapes, the stolen chips, some red vines and sour patch kids, the packet already open and sugar coating the grass.

You hadn’t really spoken to Steve since the mess hall incident. 

You’d rather immaturely begged Eddie to switch block sessions with you, allowing you to take your kids to the other side of camp, far from where Steve spent time with his group. You’d organised a massive arts and craft project with Nancy instead, avoiding her knowing looks and pointed questions, letting Dustin go crazy with googly eyes, glitter and neon felt tips instead. 

It didn’t matter if you’d asked the kids to make their favourite animal, you’d accept Henderson’s four eyed, sparkly green lizard looking thing over Nancy’s inquisition any day of week. You felt a little bad though, when you all discovered as a group that Will was most definitely allergic to the new type of glue sticks that Hopper had bought. 

But it meant that you’d only seen Steve during some meal times, a glance over breakfast, a small collision during one dinner, fries and a bottle of iced tea falling to the floor and everyone had stopped, stared, waited for the yells. 

They hadn’t come. 

You’d watched him argue with Max when she climbed a tree that he’d already warned her was too tall, you and your group stopping mid swim in the lake to bob around in the current, watching as the boy kicked a dead branch in frustration before scrambling up after her when Max inevitably got stuck. 

You knew he was listening in when Dustin started asking why you worked at the camp, a question he asked you every year. You always told the boy it was because you loved seeing him and the rest of the rugrats he called friends. And it always worked when he was younger, ‘cause he’d smile and let you muss up his curls, overjoyed with such an answer and a piece of bubblegum from your pocket. 

But he was older now and less believing and when you gave him the same adoring monologue, he simply raised his brows and asked again. 

“College,” you had told him simply. “Or money really. I need the cash to be able to leave Hawkins and go somewhere else.”

“Where?” Dustin had asked you, sincere in only the way kids could be. 

You were overly aware that Harrington was sitting behind you at the other table, back to back with you on the benches as he showed El how to tie her elastic just right, so that her slingshot would definitely beat Sinclairs. You didn’t have it in you to tell both of them that that kind of craft project definitely wasn’t allowed. 

You leaned into Dustin instead and shrugged, smiling softly despite the way you saw Steve in your peripheral, turning just enough so he could hear you say:

“Anywhere.”

So it was a little jarring when he arrived at your little staff get together, camp shirt replaced with one of his own, a sunshine yellow tee that made his eyes look like honey and his skin more tanned. You hated that you noticed, that you knew he looked good. 

He greeted everyone warmly, bar you, sending you a curt nod of his head over the burning fire that had Nancy rolling her eyes and Robin poking you in the ribs. Because there were no barbed wire words exchanged between either of you, no jabs, no bites, no smug smiles or sarcastic grins. 

“What is going on with you two?”

You ignored her question, giving her a warning glare that she also chose to ignore, ‘cause she went and sat next to Eddie and Jonathan instead, whispering to them behind the plumes of smoke they’d created. 

After a few drinks and several people telling Billy to shut up, the night turned darker, the sky navy and the air still stiflingly warm. The fire was more a source of light than heat at this point, or as Eddie liked to remind everyone, ‘it’s for the ambience,’ and everyone was doing their best to stay away from the flames, skin already tight and sore with fresh sunburn from that day. 

It only took the vodka bottle being emptied before Billy announced a game of truth or dare, to which everyone groaned and asked what age he was. But he tutted, unperturbed and dropped the empty glass bottle into the middle of the messy circle your bodies had made. 

“Don’t be so fuckin’ boring,” he intoned, “it’s either this or hitchhiking into Bloomington to find a chick that likes being on top-”

The girls groaned, faces pulled into disgust and Jonathan was shaking his head, a bemused look on his face. 

“-and quite frankly that seems like too much effort tonight.”

Steve scoffed, taking the joint Eddie offered him, pushing it between his lips for a hit before he turned to Billy, one eyebrow raised. 

“You mean finding a girl that doesn’t already know you’re a giant dickhead is gettin’ harder to find?”

Sometimes you wondered if Steve hated Billy more than he hated you. 

“There’s always your princess,” Billy grinned, eyeing you in a way that made you feel like you were under a microscope. “She’s gotta give into me sometime, right?”

“Keep dreaming, Hargrove,” you butted in, doing nothing to hide the disgust in your voice. You wanted to kick yourself when you realised you’d responded to being Steve’s princess, your name never even being mentioned. “I’d rather kiss Harrington.”

The wave of something washed over the group at your words, wide eyes and soft smirks, and you felt your stomach sink. Steve was staring at you, eyes lit up with something that looked akin to a challenge, a dare that you hadn’t yet been asked. 

Fuck. 

“Is that so?” Billy laughed, a harsh noise that let everyone know he wasn’t happy at your statement. But he grinned, sharp teeth and sharper blue eyes, steely on you. “You always pick dare, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“That’s not-”

“I dare you to give us all some entertainment and make out with Harrington,” Billy continued, talking over you without even blinking. “Maybe if both of your mouths are busy, we’ll get some fuckin’ peace and quiet around here.”

Nobody breathed. 

But someone must’ve picked your mixtape out of the pile, ‘cause the opening beat to ‘I Think We’re Alone Now,’ by Tiffany, started to play. You stared at Billy, shocked at his suggestion, his demand. The game suddenly felt less fun and the only sounds were the echo of your strangled scoff and the crackle of the fire. 

But then Nancy was pushing her foot into your ankle from where she sat on her boyfriend's lap, eyes glittering. 

“On you go,” she told you, and you think she was trying to be encouraging. 

“What?”

“What?” Nancy repeated, doe eyes innocent and wide, like she didn’t know what she was doing. “You picked dare!”

“I didn’t say shit!” You exclaimed, looking around at your friends for help. Robin and Eddie were cackling, faces pressed into each others shoulders, and being absolutely no fucking help to you. “Guys!”

“C’mon, Hawkins, you don’t like to lose now, do you?” Billy was grinning from where he lazed across some old crash mats, his voice a slow drawl as he chewed some gum obnoxiously. “Give Harrington a little lovin’.”

‘Children, behave… that’s what they say when we’re together.’

You turned to Steve, who was still leaning against the gym wall, his eyes finding yours even in the dim evening light. He looked unsure, nervous even, like he was ready to tell the rest of them to shut up, to pack it in. But then he watched the way you brought the bottle of wine to your lips, letting the rest of the sweet drink trickle past your lips and god, he looked at you like he was ready to fight. 

Dark brown eyes, smirk on his lips, cocky tilt of his head like he was waiting for you. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth as he watched you stand there, thinking, weighing up your options. 

“What’s my forfeit?” You asked cautiously. 

You turned when Billy chuckled, blue eyes looking as navy as the sky. He let his head tip back, smoke slipping from his lips and into the trees before he grinned at you, far, far too happily. 

“Me,” he told you. 

So Steve sighed, overly dramatic before he spoke to the group, voice full of that easy confidence you hated so much. 

“Don’t worry princess, you can give it your best shot and I promise I won’t feel a damn thing.”

Your friends cackled and hollered around you; always thoroughly amused by the show you and Steve put on. Robin shook her head from where she sat beside Eddie, a shit eating grinning pulling at her lips and she spilled some beer as she leaned forward and called out:

“What’s that they say? It’s a fine line between love and hate?”

More laughs, whispers and knowing nudges, dollar bills exchanging hands as the group placed their bets on what would happen next. 

“I bet your dick says otherwise.”

You don’t know what made you mention Steve Harrington’s dick, but it made the boy’s jaw go slack and the rest of the circle lost it. More whistles, jeering and catcalls broke the quiet of the night, loud over the music, louder because of the vodka and you couldn’t help but set Steve with a smile and a shrug. 

This felt like a game you wanted to win. 

So you walked over to where he stood, leaning lazy against the gym wall, watching you move towards him like a predator stalking its prey. He was looking at you the same way he did when you ended up on opposite teams for a game of capture the flag, all red hot intensity, pride and confidence bubbling over. 

You were surprised when Steve’s hands settled on the dip of your waist, holding you there as you pushed up on your toes to find his lips. Your hand grabbed at his shirt, fisted at the collar to pull him down to you and something in your stomach tumbled when he obeyed.  

He didn’t make any more moves though, eyes almost closed as he looked at you through his lashes, watching, waiting, seeing if you fulfilled your dare. 

It was awfully quiet now, your friends silent, the radio and the fire both crackling and you could hear how you and Steve’s harsh breaths fell over each other’s faces. 

You’d never been this close before. And then it all happened a little too fast. 

His fingers flexed at your sides, digging into the soft there and you weren’t sure if it was out of anticipation, impatience or annoyance. There is as something screaming inside of you to move away, to take the loss, that kissing Steve fucking Harrington wouldn’t be worth the five second glory of completing a dare behind the gym hall. 

But then Steve was whispering and it fell across your lips, his breath sweet like raspberry sour patch kids and rosè wine. 

“If you’re too scared, princess, I totally understa-“

One more push was all you needed. A poke, a pinch, from him, the one person who knew how to rile you up the best. 

You kissed him with a surprising softness. Your mouths clashed rough at first, like you did it just to shut him up, to prove a point. And that was true. But your lips gave way to him with surprising ease, a push and pull that felt less like a fight than you thought it would. 

It was easy to pretend it wasn’t a dare when Steve let out the prettiest sound, a half sigh, half groan that came from the back of his throat and when he tried to move into you, to take a little more control, your hand that was still curled into his shirt pushed him back into the wall he was leaning on. 

He seemed to like that though, ‘cause you felt the curve of his lips on yours, smiling into the kiss and his grip on your waist got almost too tight, like he was planning on leaving marks on you. 

Maybe he was. 

But then it was a fight, like always, the most dizzying kind. His lips were hot and he tasted sweet, like summer and candy and too cheap alcohol. It felt nice to be kissed, it was all very nice until you remembered it was Harrington and you pushed into him a little harder, nipped at his lip and tugged on his hair. He gave it back just as good, nails scraping against your back, just catching bare skin as he lifted the shirt from your sides. 

No one said a word when you parted. Not you, not Steve, not your friends. Not even Billy. You left Steve with a small gasp, a soft noise as you finally parted, so entirely unaware of how long you’d been caught up in his kiss. You felt bruised, on fire, like you’d just stumbled away from your most heated argument yet. 

The only saving grace was that he looked as dizzy as you felt. 

—————

When a team meeting was called early the next morning, you walked into Hopper's cabin last, only to find everyone in different stages of a hangover, but all equally happy to see you. 

They were all grinning, wide, knowing smiles that set your own teeth on edge, your headache worsening when you caught sight of Steve slouched low on the sofa. 

He had a pair of Ray Bans perched on his nose and he didn’t look at you when you walked in, eyes on the floor and wincing. 

Why the fuck did you kiss Steve fucking Harrington?

“Good morning to you, darlin’,” Billy drawled from where he was leaning against Murray’s desk, smirking with tired eyes. “Sleep well? You didn’t come knockin’ on my cabin so I assume Harrington took real good care of you.”

Oh, you remembered. That’s why. 

“Fuck off, Hargrove.”

It was all you could muster when your mouth still tasted like bourbon and Steve, and Murray looked thoroughly interested when he took to the middle of the floor, clipboard in hand. 

“I don’t know what went on last night,” he chuckled, “but I’m sure your hungover asses will be pleased to know that it’s hike day.”

Please for the love of god, no. 

Everyone groaned, faces dropping in upset and Robin, who had already been sitting on the floor, her back to Nancy’s legs, slumped over, cheek pressed to the old carpet and she made a noise that was akin to a wail. 

“Lucky for most of you, we already have sign ups,” Murray crowed gleefully. “Harrington, Hawkins número dos, have a great day.”

Your mouth fell open in protest - hypocritical, you knew, considering you went through the training for hiking safety last summer, but you weren’t on the schedule until next week. 

You stared at Nancy who was flicking through the rota with confusion knitted into her features and when she caught your eye, she just shrugged. 

“No, no, no,” you told Murray, a strange laugh bubbling in your throat that sounded like panic, “I’m not taking my kids out until next weekend, with Robin!”

Murray shrugged, not looking like he really cared and he crossed his arms, nodding his head towards Eddie. 

“No, I know,” he told you in a voice he probably thought was soothing. “But Eddie Munster here-”

“Um, it’s Munson actually.”

“Whatever - your idiot colleague here decided that the road less travelled was the best way home last night.” Murray grinned and pointed down to where Eddie’s foot sat on a small stool, his ankle wrapped tightly in a haphazard bandage. “He’s sprained it.”

You gaped at the boy and Eddie had the right to look sorry, his teeth bared in an apologetic grimace and he mouthed “sorry” at you from beside Steve. His bunk mate hardly stirred. 

“Can’t someone else go?” You asked, spinning back to Murray and you didn’t even care that you sounded desperate. “Like, literally anyone else?”

But Murray kept smiling, his clipboard clasped to his chest like a schoolgirl with a secret diary and he sighed dramatically at you before shaking his head. 

“No.”

“But Hopper specifically said  that we’re not allowed to group together anymore!” You tried, gesturing wildly to Steve who barely answered with a groan. “Not after summer eighty three when he almost drowned me.” 

“Okay that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

You rounded on the boy, hands still flapping around yourself. “Oh, he speaks! Don’t you have anything to say about this?”

Steve peered at you from over the top of his sunglasses, brown eyes weary behind them. He groaned, frowned and pushed his head onto Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, no, I’m too tired to argue right now, princess.”

Murray looked entirely too amused and he crooked his finger in air quotes when he snorted and said, “sure, tired, gotcha.” He turned back to you, still grinning obnoxiously. “Anyway, chief isn’t here today and I figured there isn’t any boating equipment for either of you to break out in the mountains.”

The group tittered. 

“So hop to it,” he clapped his hands, board tucked under his arm and everyone leapt to their feet when the older man made a move to grab the whistle that hung around his neck. “The kids are finishing breakfast and I want both your groups at the meeting point for a safety debrief before nine.”

—————

You were busy smearing another layer of sunscreen on Will’s nose when Dustin appeared at your side. 

The two groups had made it halfway up the trail, the sun lazy and warm, the way it could only be on an early morning hike. The sky was still hazy, a soft blue lavender that made the clouds in the sky seem dreamlike. The kids were still quiet with sleep, trailing happily behind each other, trading secrets and sips of water with their assigned hike buddies. 

It was nice. Apart from Steve leading the way with a scowl on his face. 

“Are you and Steve fighting?” Dustin asked, curls stuffed messily under a Camp Upside Down hat. 

You finished patting at Will’s forehead as you turned to the other boy with a soft frown. But the two kids stared up at you expectantly, as if waiting for some sort of answer. 

“Uh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Henderson,” you laughed softly, “but Harrington and I fight all the time. Argue, I mean. Hitting is bad.” 

Will rolled his eyes as he fell back into step beside you, the three of you continuing up the path a little behind the rest of the group. But Dustin tugged at your shirt sleeve, clearly not finished with the conversation, nor satisfied with your answer. 

“But that’s the point,” he proclaimed and you huffed as you pulled him out of the way of a fallen branch, his attention focused too much on you to notice it in his way. “You haven’t been mean to each other all morning.”

“Or called each other names,” Will pointed out from the other side of you. 

“That’s because name calling isn’t nice,” you tried to protest, but your voice sounded weak even to your own ears. 

“You call each other names all the time.”

For the love of god. 

Suzie Bingham had appeared beside Dustin, coke bottle glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she set you with a knowing look. Dustin grinned at the girl's appearance, cheeks pink as their shoulders brushed together on the narrow path. 

“That’s not the point,” you told her, grappling for an explanation. You glanced up ahead, over the crowd of children’s heads to see Steve bickering with Lucas and Mike, Max poking him in the back with a long stick as she trudged behind them. “We’re adults.”

All three kids stared at you, expressionless and less than impressed. 

“Have you and Steve ever kissed?” Will suddenly asked, letting the words burst out from his chest like he knew he shouldn’t have asked. 

You tripped over a branch, the same fallen sticks that scattered the trail that you’d pulled Dustin away from. You turned to look at the boy so fast that your neck protested, your eyes wide. 

“Because Steve looks at you like he wants to kiss you all the time.” 

And then you were on the ground, gravel stuck to your bare knees and dirt on your hands and shins, swearing at the forest floor because all you could think about was the press of Harrington’s lips on yours, the way he dug his fingers into your sides like he couldn’t let go. 

Fuck. 

“Shit!” You cried out, hot, frustrated tears brimming at your lash line and you winced when you tried to stand back up. 

Suzie dropped to the trail beside you, eyes worried as she took note of the blood that slipped down your leg, a nasty gash on your knee that looked like it came from the jagged piece of bark that lay beside you. 

“Someone get Steve,” she started to say, a small hand on your shoulder that brought a little comfort. 

But Dustin was already cupping his hands over his mouth and positively hollering over the line of kids that were oblivious to what was going on behind them. 

“STEVE!” 

You groaned, “Dustin, no, I’m fine, honest.” 

“You’re bleeding!” Will protested, looking rather sickly at the sight of the red line that was quickly seeking into the white of your sock. 

“STEEEVE!”

“Kill me,” you whispered to the ground, “just kill me.”

You saw Steve’s trainers before anything else, the soft thud, thud, thud of his soles on the dirt as he pushed his way through to you. You managed to shove yourself back, your knees protesting before dropping to your ass, inspecting your bloodied leg, wincing. 

“Shit, are you okay?”

No comment about your clumsiness, or how you were dumb, or how your dirty, cut up knee looked gross. No, Steve’s voice was shockingly soft with concern as he dropped down on his haunches to inspect your injury. 

“M’fine,” you muttered, cheeks warm because he was almost as close as he had been last night, smelling like leftover cologne and sunscreen, the strawberry smoothie you’d watched him grab at breakfast. 

“Really?” He mused, his tone disbelieving. “‘Cause that looks pretty nasty, princess.”

His hand moved to cup the back of your sore knee, fingers tucked into the sensitive skin there as he went to inspect the scrape. You jolted at his touch, body electric underneath him and you watched the way Steve’s eyes widened at your reaction. 

“Shit, did that hurt?”

“What? No, yes, fuck,” you were panicking, you could hear it in your voice and from somewhere behind you, you heard the distinctive sound of Max Mayfield’s laugh. “Just, Christ, don’t touch me.”

“I’m trying to help, idiot,” Steve snarked but he backed off scowling. You watched how he flexed his hand after he let go of your leg, like his skin was burning the same way yours was, like he’d been scalded. “You need to go get that cleaned.”

You hated that the boy was right but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing out loud. Instead, you wrestled to your feet, grunting as you did so, wiggling your ankle to make sure you hadn’t suffered the same fate as Eddie. It seemed fine, nothing crunched at least, but the sting around your split skin screamed at you. 

Another slide of red rushed from your cut and down your leg as you moved it and beside you, Will groaned, quickly moving into the crowd to find Mike, his head pushed into his friend's shoulder and his hands clutched at his own stomach. 

A chorus of “eww’s” came from the kids and you weren’t fairing much better, your expression pitiful as you watched your white converse turn crimson. You held your leg out awkwardly, hardly balancing on your good one and every time you pushed your foot to the ground, you hissed. 

It stung like a bitch. 

But then Steve was clapping his hands, well into camp mother mode as he demanded the kids attention. To his credit, everyone looked at him, waiting for further instruction. Well, everyone except Max, who’d found a larger, longer stick and was holding it, javelin style. 

“Okay, let’s go,” he announced, his eyes still on you, and you were still surprised to see worry knitted in the space between his brows. “Turn it around gremlins, everyone in front of us and take your time going back down, okay? Stick with your buddy.”

The kids obeyed, muttering between themselves about how much blood was on your leg and would Hopper let them go to the lake now instead? But they trailed back down the path, two by two, and you and Steve waited for the last pair to pass you before he turned, grimacing.

“Put your arm ‘round me.”

You baulked, staring at the boy as if he’d suddenly grown another head. 

“What? No,” you hated that you sounded so nervous, and you wondered if he could tell.

“Christ, woman,” Steve rolled his eyes, offering a hand out to you, the warmth of it hovering close to the small of your back. “Can you swallow your fucking pride for a second and let me help you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sniffed, but you wobbled on your one good leg and Steve didn’t try to hide his smile.

“Stubbornness, then,” he mused, eyes on you and his hand still hovering over your back as you started down the hill, an uneven step that had you swearing and muttering to yourself. “Spite, maybe?”

“Fuck you, Harrington,” you told him plainly, hardly any heat behind it for once due to all your attention focused on the pain you were in. Your poor sock was ruined.

Steve’s shoulder bumped yours, his body too close, acting like a buffer in case you fell again. You huffed every time you touched, bare arms brushing, hips grazing and his damn hand still an almost touch on your spine. You could feel the warmth radiate from him. 

“Is that dare, princess?” He was smirking. 

You stumbled, swearing profusely as you had no choice but to reach out and grab the boy. Steve was already halfway to you, his arm resting at your waist, his other hand catching yours as it grappled for purchase on something. His fingers curled around yours and you were surprised to realise, that aside from the night before, this was the most you had touched the boy in all the years you had known him. 

It was dizzying. But maybe that was the blood loss. His palm was even warmer where it was pressed against your back, the dip where the band of your shorts sat, fitting into the curve rather nicely. Steve guided you down the trail, taking more of your weight when the ground became rockier, the gravel under your soles making you slip, your side falling into Steve’s.

“We’re not talking about that,” you told him, teeth clenched as your knee bent at a funny angle, a new kind of pain nipping at you. 

“Oh, we’re not?” Steve asked, voice annoyingly light. You could feel his grin without having to look, like you knew the way the air changed when he smiled, everything warm and dizzying around you.

“Nope!” You declared, your tone leaving hardly any room for argument. Luckily for Steve, he always liked a challenge. “In fact,” you crowed, “it didn’t even happen.”

The boy snorted, a soft sound that you felt through your body, half of your back pressed into his chest as you both toed your way down the steepest part of the mountain. He held you to him, careful not to let you drop your weight onto your leg, one hand still curled large around your own, the other holding your waist now.

You swallowed, throat tight.

“It didn’t happen, huh?” Steve asked, voice low in your ear as you approached the back of the kids, Lucas and Suzie’s ears pricking up at the idea of eavesdropping. “That’s what we’re doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeated again, voice airy, nails digging into the back of Steve’s hand, a warning, another fight blooming in your chest. 

Another snort, a tighter grip at your waist, as if he was trying to remind you of the way he held you last night, calloused fingertips pushing at the cotton of your t-shirt, barely touching the skin underneath. 

You were so much warmer than when you were climbing up the mountain.

This waiting ‘rounds killing me. 

The third week went by in a blur, your incident on the hike leaving you with a nasty cut on your knee that Joyce had to dig gravel and dirt out of, and a sudden overwhelming awareness of where Steve Harrington was at all times. 

Your body lit up like a warning light every time he was near, a new agitation at the sight of his stupid hair and his stupid sunglasses and his stupid, stupid smirk. 

He didn’t try to talk about the kiss again, he wasn’t that idiotic. But the energy between you both was a little different than before. It was still fiery, buzzing with tension and an electrical current that kept you on your toes, but it was different. 

You weren’t sure if you liked it. 

The week led up to the annual game of hide and seek, the entire camp split into two teams, the cabins turned into bases, the inside of the old gym a ghost town. No one was surprised when Murray declared you and Steve team leaders - one seeking, the other hiding - the camp cheering and whistling as you both took your new shirts, both with ‘captain’ printed on the back. 

You’d barely led your team away from the middle of the camp before you heard Steve declare:

“Okay listen up, we need to win.”

You appraised your own squad with the same focused stare that Steve had, your gaze settling over Eddie and Nancy, the gaggle of kids that were all smearing face paint over their friends. War stripes on their cheeks, bandana’s wrapped around their foreheads and Dustin had even gone as far as to don a green ski mask.

You squinted at him, wondering if you should ask where he got such a thing but you decided against it, voice endearing as you said, “Dustin, sweetie, I don’t think you’re going to be able to see very well out of that.”

And before he could argue his case, Eddie pinched the top of it, whipping the fabric from his head, curls spilling out messily. The boy pouted, but he didn’t argue, instead standing still enough to let Lucas smear blue lines over his face.

“You gonna force me into the smallest corner you can find?” Eddie had turned to you whilst Nancy handed out some bottles of water, hushing the trash talk that was starting to get out of hand between Lucas and Suzie. 

You grinned, looking at Eddie with an easy smile, shrugging, “maybe. You’re pretty flexible, right Munson?”

The boy snorted, shoulder nudging into yours, “like a fucking gymnast, sweetheart.”

You fell into a soft conversation with Eddie, a rare occurrence in the craziness of the camp, all gentle laughs and hands pushed to arms, cracked jokes and the promise of a joint after the game was over. And then Steve was there, almost too close, brows knitted together as he watched the way his bunkmate pressed teasing fingers into your ribs, making you squeak.

“Are we flirting or are we playing?” He snapped, shoulder brushing yours. But Steve wasn’t looking at you, his stare heavy and trained on Eddie. “Hey dude, didn’t Joyce tell you you’ve got to stick with Will?”

Eddie could read his friend like a book. He smirked, unable to help himself when Steve was making it so obvious, but he nodded, moving away from you to tussle at Will’s hair. 

“Sure am, Harrington,” the longer-haired boy smiled good naturedly, “little Byers and I are gonna find the best spot, right kid?”

Will nodded enthusiastically, inhaler in hand and Mike at his side. But Steve was still scowling, eyes finally meeting yours before he turned suddenly, marching back to his team as if he couldn’t bear to be around you for any longer. 

And that was fine with you. Totally fine. 

From then, it was chaos, carnage across the camp with kids running riot, wrestling for the best hiding spot as Hopper and Murray watched from the office window, cups of coffee in hand. 

It went the way it always did, with Mike and Will caught first, the latter giving away their hiding spot way too soon because his allergies made him sneeze, the other boy refusing to split from his friend. 

Eddie trailed behind them, lazy and unbothered about being out of the game so early, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, waiting for Murray to stop watching. 

The kids spread around the camp in clusters, hiding in beached kayaks, under the dock, squeezed between the crash mats in the gym. Max was caught out in the open - after being refused sanctuary in Hopper’s office -  scowl on her face, El dragged behind her, grinning as you laughed.

“Hit the benches,” Steve had told them both, watching as they took their consolation s’mores from Joyce and sat with the rest of the captured kids around the fire. 

Steve’s team took out the other kids one by one, screams and laughter heard across the forest, campers crawling out from underneath decking and out of trees, covered in mud and nettle stings, but so, so happy. 

And then there were hardly any players left. 

But Steve bypassed Dustin and Lucas, the two boys snickering underneath an overturned canoe, and he headed to the gym instead. The old building was empty, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum and the lights were off, the sun that was starting to set just barely shining in the high set windows. 

It painted stripes of light and shadows on the floor and the air seemed golden. Steve kicked at the crash mats that were stacked and  

pushed against a wall, his movements playful and throwing dust mites into the air. They caught the light, floating, glittering and Steve saw a pair of shoes sticking out from behind the ball cage and he grinned. 

If you heard him walking over, you didn’t show it, stubbornly standing your ground until Steve rounded the corner, eyes bright on yours. 

“You’re losing your edge, princess, that was far too easy.”

You were scowling at him and you pushed yourself away from the cage, the wheels squeaking as you rounded the other side, eyes on the boy. It was familiar, that feeling, that push and pull, a chase, a challenge, a dare. 

“Don’t kid yourself Harrington, I’ve been waiting here for about an hour now.”

Steve followed, eyes trailing over your bare legs, the swell of your ass in your shorts, freckle on your thigh, the silver scar on your knee from the hike. You noticed, brows raised and you snorted when he shrugged, unapologetic in a way you hadn’t seen before. 

He didn’t care if you caught him staring. Steve Harrington had always been the first to call you annoying, stubborn, a thorn in his side. But he’d never tried to deny that you were good to look at. 

“That’s only ‘cause I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” Steve shot back and you smiled at him, eyes narrowed, overly fake. “But it looks like I win, who would’ve thought?”

But you were still moving, stepping around the pile of mats, the cold material brushing against your shins and the light from the window made you glow, eyes too bright, smile sharp. 

You stared at the boy from across the crash pads, voice sticky sweet when you asked, “don’t you have to tag the other opponent before they’re out?”

Steve stopped, level with you across the hall and he grinned. And fuck, he looked pretty like that, standing in a sunbeam, freckles on his nose, hands on hips and eyes burning on you. 

You weren’t arguing, not quite, not yet. But it still felt fun. 

Steve looked around, eyes conspiring, and he smirked. “There’s no one here to say I didn’t, princess.”

And then you were moving again, circling each other, smiling a different kind of playfulness and you tutted, pushing your hands into the back pockets of your shorts and you smirked when Steve followed the movement of it. 

“Cheating? C’mon now, wonder boy, you’re above that. Daddy’s not here.”

Steve twisted his lips, ran a hand through his already messy hair and made it flop into his eyes and he pretended to think, just for a second or two, as if he didn’t already know what he was gonna throw back at you. 

“Usually,” he told you, voice low, a little rougher than before. “But I think you owe me one, princess.”

You quirked a brow at him, standing still, one knee lifted and pressed to the mats to steady yourself. 

“Is that so?”

There was a fizz in the air that hadn’t been there before. 

“You got to win your little dare ‘cause of me,” he told you and god, something shifted. Maybe the sun dropped, maybe the shadows got darker, maybe the air got heavier. “I saved you from the clutches of Hargrove.”

You scoffed, turning and going back to walking around the mat, hiding the way your cheeks burned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, remember?”

But Steve just grinned, that wide, bright kinda smile that showed off the dimples you almost forgot he had. He looked boyish like this, handsome in a pretty way, soft and full of sun. Maybe it was because he was looking at you without the lines between his brows, the downturn of his lips. 

“Oh but you do, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

‘Sweetheart’ was starting to sound less like an insult, less like a jab, when Steve said it. His voice was softer, a teasing pitch to it, that sounded so much different than you’d heard and you decided that you didn’t hate it. 

Not at all. 

But the boy was talking about the kiss and he was looking at you like you both shared a secret, despite the very public location it happened in. He was acting as if he liked it, as if he wanted you to admit that you did too. 

You stopped, converse digging into the wall the mats made, eyes wary on the boy because Steve kept walking. He found one side, then the other, only pausing when you were a foot away from him. He mirrored you, hands shoved into his own pockets as he watched you through messy hair. 

“What d’you want me to say, Harrington? Huh?” you smiled, sardonic, lips twisted to the side and gaze careful. You didn’t want to give anything away. “You want me to tell you that I liked it, is that it?”

Steve smirked, enjoying your tone, the teasing, the push of the taunt, the bite to your voice. He knew it so well. 

“You want me to tell you that you’re a good kisser? Does wonder boy need a little ego boost?”

“Oh princess, I don’t need anyone to tell me that.“

Steve’s voice was a drawl. Heavy, warm, sticking to you like the summer heat, all low, hot sun and sweetness. 

You were too warm, a tumble low in your stomach, a flush across your chest. 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” Steve continued,voice far too casual, as if he wasn't making you think about the dirtiest things imaginable. 

“You’re a pig.”

“You love it.”

“You fucking wish, Harrington.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, princess.”

You weren’t sure when you’d moved closer. Neither was Steve, really. But you were once again in your favourite position with the boy, toe to toe and your chin tilted up defiantly to stare at him. He looked too happy, excited even. 

“I’m not playing your games,” you narrowed your eyes at him, hands on your hips in an arrogant display, trying your best to prove that you weren’t as affected by the boy as you actually were. 

The toes of his shoes brushed yours and you could smell his cologne, the forest on him, campfire smoke and pine, leftover rain and something minty. 

“No?” Steve asked and his eyes were tracing the features of your face, the length of your lashes, the dip of your Cupid’s bow, the curve of your lip. “Not even if I pick dare?“

You swallowed, hard. 

You weren’t sure what this was. Not anymore. Because it didn’t feel like the arguments you usually had, the poking and pushing and pulling at each other until something snapped and the yelling started. In fact, you were sure this was the quietest you’d ever been around Steve Harrington. 

Except for the thundering of your heart. It beat against your ribs, a drumming sound that you wondered if Steve would hear. It made your body vibrate, it made your chest feel fit to burst and you couldn’t help but part your lips under his stare, sucking in a breath that you suddenly so desperately needed. 

Steve did the same, an instinctual response to watching you, his tongue wetting at his bottom lip, his eyes heavy and hooded. You didn’t remember taking another step towards him, but you don’t recall Steve moving either. It was all a slow lean, a curl into each other’s bodies, slower and softer than the first time. 

Your hand was on his chest again, fingers splayed across his shirt rather than fisting it in your palm and god, you still really weren’t sure if it was to encourage him closer or shove him away. 

But then his touch was at your waist and the sun finally dipped below the windows and the hall went dark. The shadows sparkled as you got used to the lack of light, Steve’s face a pretty palette of lilacs and navy, the rosy tint of his lips looking deeper and closer to you than ever. 

The slide of your nose against his, stuttering and a little clumsy, unsure and nervous. Everything in your body was screaming at you. To push him away, to pull him towards you, to chew him out, to devour him. 

Steve fucking Harrington made you want to yell, to fight, to roll your eyes and rant for an hour and a half. Steve fucking Harrington made you want to be slammed against a wall, pushed down onto a bed, lips on your neck and kisses that were all tongue and teeth. 

His breath huffed against your cheek, slow and careful like he was still deciding what to do too. Steve was cherry cola and the heat of an argument, cedar and spice and bad decisions. Steve was a hot touch on your waist, a white hot burn through your shirt and a tight grip that was sending you to another level of frustration. 

Then light flooded the gym, a bright burst of it coming from the main doors as the very last of the low setting sun leaked through as they slammed open.

The noise of them hitting the wall made you both jump, the angry squeak of the hinges bringing both back to the harsh reality of who you were about to kiss. You stumbled and Steve tripped, falling backwards onto the crash mats with a soft “fuck” as you turned to see Nancy and Robin standing in the doorway. 

No one spoke, not for a few seconds and the quiet was painful. 

But then Nancy cleared her throat, a smirk on her face that she covered with her hand and Robin grinned. 

“Um, all the kids have been found,” she told you both, glee in her voice that she couldn’t cover and god, you were burning with a new kind of heat. “We’re doing story time.”

“And uh, one of you needs to take over,” Nancy explained, still smothering a laugh under what she thought was a serious expression. “Billy started talking about demogorgons and made Will cry, so…”

“Again?” Steve muttered from his seat on the mat. “I thought Eddie told him that it was all made up.”

You didn’t dare look down at him, your body still overly aware of his, his shoulder brushing against your thigh as he moved and when he clambered to his feet, you were spurned into motion, your legs carrying you quickly across the gym. 

Your shoes squeaked on the floor and your heart was still racing, leaving you feeling like a hormonal teenager who was out of control and unable to handle some stupid boy being too close. Grabbing Robin’s hand, you mumbled some sort of thanks to Nancy and then made up a lie about feeling sick, and how you needed to go back to your cabin now. 

Looking at your flushed skin and glassy eyes, no one could really argue with that. So you left Steve with the responsibility of the nightly campfire story and ignored Robin’s husky laughter as you pulled her through the trees and the dark until you got back to your shared bunk. 

You flew into the cabin like a bat out of hell, doing everything in your power to get away from the boy as quickly as you could. Robin was close behind you, still cackling before she slammed the door, just as you dumped yourself onto your bed, groaning. 

The other girl braced herself, back against the wood, facial expression scandalised as she stared at you wide eyed and through messy bangs. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it looked like you and Harrington were about to rail each other on those fucking crash mats.”

You spluttered, the sound of protest getting caught in your throat as you tried to sit up, pushing yourself onto your elbows so you could glare at Robin, trying your best to look appalled. 

“What?!” You choked out, and you knew you were beetroot, you could feel the heat in your cheeks, the flush over your chest. “No we weren’t!”

“You know,” Robin mused, head tilted to the side as she looked at you, “your summer could be a lot more fun if you just admitted you don’t hate him as much as you claim to.”

Another noise came from your throat in response, strangled and panicked as you paced the cabin, old floorboards creaking under your feet. 

“I do hate him,” you insisted, turning your back to the girl to fuss over a pile of clothes you’d left on your dresser after laundry day. You wondered if she’d be able to see the lie on your face, if she could hear it in your voice. “Harrington is a pain in my ass, he has been since-”

“Seventh grade, yeah, yeah,” Robin interrupted, her voice bored and impatient, and she waved a dismissive hand at you. “Science fair, vegetables, Steve and mentos and his dad, I know.”

You glared at her, clothes abandoned, clean shorts dropping to the floor, your arms now crossed. You hated that you were pouting. 

“He didn’t look like he was causing you too much grief when you had him up against the gym wall the other week…”

“That was a dare!” 

“And now - in the gym again actually - do you have some sort of kink?”

“Robin…” you were groaning, pleading. 

“Is it a competitive thing? It gets you both going?”

“Nothing happened! We were- we were arguing!”

The other girl smirked, eyebrows raised and her back still pushed against the doorway. “Yeah, but babe, that’s foreplay for you.”

“I hate you,” you lied and there was no heat behind it, in fact, it only made your friend grin wider. 

“As much as Steve?” She asked, voice sweet. “Should I light some candles? Pop a mint?”

“You’re a dick,” your voice was mulish but you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

“You’re in denial,” Robin shot back, still sounding far too happy about the discussion. “Don’t you think all that pent up frustration could be easily solved?”

You rolled your eyes, knowing where this was going. The girl was moving towards you, eyebrows wiggling as she ran her hands over her chest in what you assumed was supposed to be a suggestive manner. 

“Y’know, there’s other things your mouths could do instead of arguing.”

You pretended to gag, face scrunched up at the thought of it and you went back to sorting through your laundry. “You sound like Murray.”

“I knew he was a sensible man,” she told you and you scoffed because you’d watched Murray Bauman light a firework with the end of Billy’s cigarette last summer. 

“But seriously, you’ve got to be attracted to him, right?”

“Murray?” You asked, all faux innocence, “he’s a bit old, no? Hopper, however-”

“You’re disgusting,” Robin snorted, grabbing at the pile of clothes you were hoarding, taking some of her own shirts to fold as she levelled you with a stare. “And you’re not fooling anyone. I’m very much gay - like, with a capital ‘G’ - and even I can say Steve is easy on the eyes.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” you tutted, “his head will get bigger.”

“Oh absolutely not.”

You fell into an easy silence then, clothes folded and sorted on your beds and you were surprised when Robin - perpetually messy - even went as far as to make her bed from that morning. 

It gave you too much time to think. About how the boy had been almost nice to you at some points this summer, helping you when you fell, teasing instead of scathing, always too close, always nearby. It made you notice him too much, made you far too aware of him. 

Like how his skin tanned so easily, new freckles every other day, how blue and yellow looked good on him, how when he got too close you noticed he had some green in his eyes. You knew he liked a smoothie for breakfast, he turned softer and quieter when speaking to Will, he encouraged Max to run faster, jump higher, swim deeper, that it was okay to be a little scared sometimes. 

You stopped, a choked breath of complete indignation leaving your lips and dropped the pyjamas you’d been folding and marched to the door. 

“Uh, where are you going?”

“To tell fucking Harrington that I know his game,” you seethed, “and that it’s not fucking working.”

Robin looked startled. “What?!”

You flung the door open and cringed when it hit the wooden wall behind it but you barely paid it any mind. The woods were dark, the sky inky and it smelled like rain was coming. 

“His game!” You urged, and god, you sounded a little manic, didn’t you? “He’s trying to get me to like him. And it’s not happening, he’s not winning!”

“Winning what?” Robin was almost yelling, confusion colouring her tone and she squinted at you. 

“I don’t know!” You told her, mouth agape because Jesus Christ, you really didn’t know, but you’d be damned if you let the boy think he had some kind of one up on you. 

“Babe, curfew is in like, ten minutes.”

 One glance at the clock on the wall told you that Robin was right, but stubbornness won out over sensibility so you made a strangled sound and shrugged, closing the door behind you a little too loudly and you made your way over the carpet of pine needles, heading towards the other cabins. 

—————

Eddie answered when you knocked, wearing an old, Metallica hoodie that was too big, his long curls pulled messily back into a bun and he grinned, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. 

“Now, I’m pretty certain you’re not here for me,” he told you, voice all light and full of a humour that you didn’t appreciate, “but there’s absolutely no fucking way you’re here for Harrington.”

You scowled.

“Is he in?”

Eddie cackled, pushing himself away from the door as he called out over his shoulder, looking thoroughly entertained. 

“Hey, big boy, you’ve got a lady caller.”

This was starting to seem like an incredibly bad idea. Your irritation had waned slightly as you’d marched across the dark forest, the fresh air soothing your anger just a touch. But before you could change your mind, Steve appeared at the door, barefoot and shirtless, his hair messy and wearing nothing but a pair of low slung grey sweats. 

For the love of fucking god. 

He had a towel thrown over his shoulder, like he’d planned on taking a shower, but he seemed content to stay and talk to you, his body leaning lazy on the door frame like Eddie had. 

“Princess,” Steve greeted, sounding bemused, “is this a booty call?”

From inside the cabin, Eddie snorted and you both made a point of ignoring him. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” you told him, outraged at the idea of it. But you were warm again, tongue feeling clumsy and too thick in your mouth and you started to wondered when the fuck Steve Harrington made you feel nervous. “And that’s the reason I’m here, actually.”

Steve simply raised his brows, crossing his arms over his chest. He tilted his head, a small smile on his lips. 

“Oh?”

“Mhmm, yeah,” you were stalling, trying to remember why you were actually standing outside with Steve at nine o’clock at night. His arms were entirely too distracting, the muscles there tensing and flexing as he moved. “I know what you're up to, Harrington.”

“You do?” Steve smirked, entirely entertained the way your gaze landed on his shoulders, his bare chest. “What am I up to, exactly?”

“This shit, that you keep pulling,” you told him, gesturing between the two of you. The space there crackled, it popped and buzzed with something unseen and electric, and you swore Steve felt it too. He had to, right? “This flirty, ‘lemme help you walk down the mountain’ crap.”

Steve was staring. And from inside, on his bed, Eddie was cackling again. 

“Would you rather I’d left you to hobble down by yourself?” Steve asked, lips twisted to hide his amusement. Your eyes were flashing with annoyance, and you’d leant against the porch fence for support, back to the wood and hands curled around the ledge. “Let a mountain lion get you?”

“There aren’t any mountain lions in Indiana,” you replied scathingly. 

“A bear then,” Steve shrugged, and Christ, he was grinning again, dimple and all. “Anyway, you think I’m flirting with you, princess?”

You stared, suddenly speechless. 

“I’d have more luck getting Munson into bed with me than managing to have a pleasant conversation with you, sweetheart.”

But then Eddie was yelling from inside the cabin, a pillow hitting Steve’s back as he called out, “ready when you are, honey.”

Steve ignored him, eyes still on you. “If you think that I’m flirting with you, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He oozed too much confidence, sarcasm and charm. 

It pissed you off. 

“Well then stop it!” you growled, pushing yourself off of the porch fence and moving towards Steve. You stared up at him, stubborn, face tilted up to him, eyes defiant. You couldn’t help but push a finger into his bare chest. God, he was warm. “Stop doing-”

“Stop doing what? Huh?” Steve was smiling. Why was he smiling?

You stumbled over your breath, it hitched in your throat and honestly it only caused more anger to bubble in your chest. Was it anger? Annoyance? Frustration?

“Stop - stop, getting all close to me all the time, stop calling me princess and stop doing this thing where you’re clearly trying to distract me.”

Steve raised his brows, looking down at the small space between the two of you. He tilted his head, smirk dripping with amusement and you knew you could argue anymore. You’d moved to him, chests almost brushing, warmth radiating off of him to you, sharing the same air. 

Fuck. 

“Do I distract you?”

The facade dropped. The game, the challenge, the fight - whatever it was - it stopped. Genuine surprise coloured the boy's tone and he uncrossed his arms, leaving his chest open and more space between you both. He was so warm, you could feel it from his skin, like the sun lived in his chest and he swallowed the summer. 

Steve looked shy, all of a sudden. Face flushed, eyes bright and wide and his lips dropped into a pretty ‘o’. Even in the dark, you could make out the pink of his cheeks, the tips of his ears and he was looking at you like an entirely different kind of challenge. A puzzle maybe, a new type of game. 

“What?” you were panicking inside. That white hot flash of embarrassment ran up your spine, blooming over your chest until blood rushed loud in your ears. “What? No, I didn’t say that.”

“You definitely just said that.” There it was, that smile again. 

“I didn’t,” you scoffed, eyes searching anywhere but his. You stared at the door behind him, groaning when Eddie waved from his bed, grin wider than Steve’s. 

“You did,” Eddie added to the conversation, all soft smiles and messy curls. “I heard you.”  

Suddenly you had had enough of boys. 

“Oh for fuck sake.”

You stormed away from Steve with more swears mixing in with the night air, your frustration taken out on the stairs as you stomped back down them, trainers kicking up pine needles and fallen acorns as you made your way back to your own cabin, completely done with Steve fucking Harrington.

PART TWO

-----

Ko-Fi ♡

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #steve ar

[mrs-steve-harrington]

Steve and Dustin Bodyswap!!

I love your brain, anon! Let's see what I can do. Wrote this in one sitting, apologies for any typos! Hope you enjoy <3

(for @julybreakbingo)

--

Dustin would be the first to say that he's wondered it might be like to be Steve Harrington for a day. To live in a big house on Loch Nora and be the person everyone says hi to when they see him walking down the halls at school. To be popular.

Be careful what you wish for.

It could be worse, but he's been stuck in Steve's body— and Steve has been stuck in his— for days now. There's no denying it's cool. He's gotten a sneak peek into the kinds of things he can expect for high school classes and he's had a blast sinking his teeth into all the books collecting dust in Steve's locker. There's no reason his grades should suffer just because they haven't figured out how to get back to themselves yet.

And nobody picks on him. Tommy and Carol and Billy are loud and obnoxious in their taunting of Steve while Dustin is between classes, but it's clear that Billy has been keeping his distance, too. Doesn't hurt that Dustin can't help but remember what he'd looked like when Max threatened him with Steve's bat and smiles or even outright laughs when Billy tries to act like an asshole.

They're nothing compared to the Troys of the world. He never goes home with so much as a scrape.

But after a few days of being Steve Harrington, Dustin Henderson is missing his own room and his friends and his mom. He hopes whatever is happening to them wears off soon; he'll only be able to act the part for so long before he slips up in some irreparable way. The only reason Steve can get away with acting weird is because, well. Dustin's weird. He knows it and doesn't really care.

Today, though, Steve's got him on a mission that helps to distract him from some of the things he's missing. Mostly because it makes him nervous as hell. Yes he is Steve Harrington right now and yes that does mean that, in theory, he should have no trouble talking to a girl. Flirting with a girl. Steve said that it's as easy as walking up to one and saying, "Hey," because he... has the hair and the face and everything else that Dustin most definitely does not.

Except that right now, he does, and Steve seems to think it will help boost his confidence if he practices while they're swapped. The amount of confidence Steve is placing in him not to completely shatter his reputation is touching and also completely insane.

But he doesn't want to meet up back at his house with Steve after school and have to lie in order to keep from disappointing him. Which means he's going to have to actually approach a girl. And say, "Hey," like it's something he does every day with girls who aren't Max or Eleven.

Dustin is at least eighty percent sure Steve's never had palms as sweaty as they are now. It doesn't help that the last time he approached a girl, she looked at him like he was insane for even considering it. If Nancy hadn't—

Now there's a thought.

A blind person could see that Steve misses her. Dustin still doesn't understand everything that happened— one second they were together, the next they weren't— but Steve's been depressed ever since. Dustin is sure that he can't fix things for Steve, but maybe he can help give his life a little... push... in the right direction.

And maybe Dustin's had a crush on Nancy for as long as he can remember and would like to feel like he's got a chance, even if none of it really means anything.

When he finds her, she's standing at her locker and gathering her things after the last bell of the day. Butterflies line the inside of the door and Dustin grins. It's nice to know the girl who used to dress up and play with them is still in there somewhere, even if she's too cool for them nowadays.

With all the grace that comes to Steve's body naturally, Dustin sidles up next to Nancy's locker and leans against the cold metal of the one beside hers.

"Hey, Nance," he says, grin tampered down to something a little less Dustin. Or he tries to, at least. It's hard not to smile as wide as his lips will move when he looks at Mike's older sister. Not even because she's pretty, but because up until last year she's always been super nice and this year, she saw him sitting alone and near tears and offered to dance with him just to make him feel better.

She even told him that he was her favorite. How can he not smile when he looks at her after that?

"Steve?" Nancy asks, looking up at him in surprise. Her head swivels left and right before landing back in his direction. A crinkle formed between her eyebrows when they scrunch together in confusion. Dustin doesn't blame her; as far as he can tell, Steve's been avoiding even being in the same hall as Nancy if he can help it. "What are... is everything... okay?"

"Great now," he says, feeling more confident than he has any right to. Steve was right, though. There's something so much easier about doing this when you look like, well. Like Steve.

Plus, Dustin knows Nancy. He can't help but feel comfortable around her, even if she doesn't know who she's actually talking to.

"Can I walk you out?" he asks, nodding his head towards the doors. Jonathan won't be around— today's the day he gets Will straight after school, clearly a sign that Dustin chose the right girl to approach. If she says yes, that means Steve has a chance; at least, more than a no would. And if she says no, at least Steve won't be around to hear it.

Nancy looks him up and down slowly, trying to piece together the puzzle that is Steve Harrington standing next to her locker after avoiding her for weeks. But Dustin has known Nancy since he was in Kindergarten. The look in her eyes isn't one he's seen directed at him before, not even when she'd danced with him at the Snow Ball.

She looks at him and suddenly Dustin understands what Steve meant about electricity. He's kind of surprised his the hairs on his arms aren't standing straight up from static cling.

"Sure," she says, softly closing her locker and holding her bag against her side.

They don't get a chance to do more than make small talk because the second they walk out of the doors, Dustin hears his own voice calling Steve's name. He barely even has time to say goodbye when Steve stomps up and grabs his arm to drag him away, making loud excuses about a "project" Steve had promised to help him with right after school, sorry Nancy.

"You're dead meat, Henderson," Steve mutters, looking even more annoyed when he remembers he has to look and point up instead of down.

"I was just doing what you told me to."

Steve stops in his tracks, hands on his hips in a move that's so Steve, Dustin could almost forget he's staring at himself.

"I did not—"

"Nancy's a girl, isn't she?"

Mouth falling open, Steve stares at him for a long few seconds before he throws both hands into the air.

"That is not what I meant and you know it, you little—" he stops himself to take a deep breath. That's good. Dustin's pretty sure he's never seen his face look that red before. It can't be good for either of them.

"Just... let's go home. We'll figure this out later."

"Sure," Dustin says with an easy shrug. He follows Steve, making the familiar walk to his house— because Steve hid the keys to the BMW the first chance he got— and gives Steve the time he needs to calm down.

He'll explain about the electricity later.

#stranger things #dustin henderson #steve harrington #steve and dustin #july break bingo #july break bingo 2023 #my fic #my writing #thanks for the ask! #anonymous

[shortfeather]

BTW, if you follow me for fic reasons, you should check out the MCYT Recursive Exchange Collection on AO3! It was an absolute blast of an event to participate in and about eighty people (!!) came together to create over 150 works (!!!!!) based on MCYT fan creations.

Go check it out and have fun! It’s deliberately anonymous authors until Sunday, at which point the anon curtain will come up and creators will be revealed. See if you can guess anyone; I will say that six of the fics in there are mine!

Also, my gift was based on Scott’s POV of Hesperides and it’s SO GOOD, go give it some love

#about the author #I’d tag the names of the fics I wrote but that defeats the anon curtain #I’m really happy w all the fics I wrote so I hope you like them if you find them :D #the hesperides series #trafficfic #hermitfic

[kneelesssharks]

Ramble On

Content: Eddie Munson x fem!punk!Reader

Named after the Led Zeppelin song that has the same name, but not necessarily inspired by the lyrics or anything.

Warnings: some swearing, reader gets knocked over and goes to the nurse but nothing graphic, over all pretty fluffy

A/N: i’ve been reading so much eddie munson fanfic recently because i l o v e men with that eighties hair rock hair with a punk style who has a thing for rock and roll, is a little stupid and an asshole, but is also a huge nerd, because that’s me. and while i love everyone who’s pumping out these fics for him i keep seeing people wanting to see him with a shy type or a really hyper femme type and i appreciate that and that those people are being represented with a character that they want to be paired with. but as someone who very much dresses in the punk style and listens to a fair amount of eighties and earlier classic rock who has a tattoo and dyed hair and piercings i thought ‘hey i’d like to see him with like me, i think we’d really like each other’ and instead of bothering someone else with it i thought i might as well give it a go. again i’m really not a super experienced fic writer and i have thus far only written harry potter but i wanted to dip my toe into the stranger things world. NO SPOILERS IN THIS.

Eddie Munson and you seemed like you were bound to be together, right? I mean you had the punk rock look, wore the leather jacket and the sturdy leather boots. If you weren’t wearing a pair of ripped patch jeans you would no doubt be sporting a pair of fishnets that maybe had one too many holes in them. You’d given yourself a couple stick and pokes before you turned eighteen and could finally get something more serious, and you’d put at least one too many holes in your body than most people around town deemed fit.

But somehow you went unnoticed by the leader of the Hellfire Club. Sure you didn’t feel the need to go walking around on top of the cafeteria tables at lunch, but you’d gotten enough stares just walking down the hallway.

Sure, maybe you and Eddie only had like one class together this year, and before he had been above you in grade so you couldn’t share a class. You thought he probably just saw you as an underling. Just someone else who went to this stupid school that would move out of town for good or be stuck here like the rest of them.

You weren’t shy, at least that’s what you told yourself. You could talk to anyone who approached you, give a compliment to a stranger, help someone in class, and besides some brief name calling no one really tried to fuck with you. You weren’t a pushover that’s for sure, but something about Eddie fucking Munson made your heart speed up.

Now Eddie had an entirely different perspective on you. He thought you were the most badass chick he’d ever seen. You walked down the hall with your headphones on blasting whatever cool ass music you had picked out that morning. He knew you had a major collection because of how often he’d seen you in and out of the only record shop in town.

You’d often worn the t-shirts from the band you enjoyed the most, able to hunt them down through some family in the city. Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Quiet Riot, and Eddie’s personal favorite Black Sabbath.

He thought the pins through your ears were badass, and the small tattoos he could see were the sexiest thing on the planet. You were his punk goddess and he could only worship you from a distance.

Walking down the hall with your music a little too loud you’d been searching through your stack of papers to grab the one you needed to hand into your teacher when you’d run into something. Or someone, or multiple someone’s.

“Shit I’m so sorry,” Dustin exclaimed as he and Mike scrambled to pick up some of the papers you dropped.

You were laying on the tile in the hall blinking slowly up at the ceiling. With your headphones knocked off your ears and the back of your skull lightly throbbing you were slightly dazed. Dustin entered your line of sight waving a hand in front of your face. He looks up when you don’t make a move to get up and before you can register anything you see the man of your dreams lean over you. His hair falling around his face, his brows knitted together with concern.

“Y/n,” you hear asked, almost through a haze. Part of you can’t believe he knows your name, the other part of you is realizing you’ve probably been on the floor for a concerning amount of time. You move to sit up in order to save yourself from further embarrassment. “Hey,” Eddie lightly smiled as you slowly push yourself up, “don’t rush, you got knocked down by a couple natural disasters,” he joked.

You let out a soft laugh as you took Dustin’s outstretched hand to help you stand up. You’re a little wobbly on your feet but Eddie’s right there behind you, wrapping his arm around your waist as you lean a little bit too far to one side.

You laugh, “What had you two in such a rush,” you look between an embarrassed Mike and Dustin, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach for the fact that Eddie has yet to let go of your waist.

Mike rubs the back of his neck, “We were on our way to a Hellfire meeting before lunch.”

Well that explains why Eddie was so close by.

“Go tell the others the meeting can wait until after school, I’m taking y/n to the nurses office to get this bump on her head checked,” Eddie instructs the two freshmen who just nod their heads and hand Eddie the stack of papers you’d been carrying, before scurrying off behind you.

“You don’t have to take me to the nurse Eddie,” you turn your head to finally look up at the man, who’s currently laser focused on getting you to the nurses office. “It wasn’t that bad of a fall, I was just listening to Sabbath a little too loudly and not paying attention when Dustin and Mike ran into me. Really I’m fine, plus I need to get that paper to O’Donnell’s before lunch or she said it’ll be late.”

Really you just didn’t want to spend any more time feeling your legs turn into jelly because of your proximity to the long haired man, whose silver rings you could feel through your shirt. You didn’t want to spend anymore time thinking about how his hand fits so comfortably on your waist, his arm sitting against the small of your back and how he smelled just ever so lightly of weed. You’d found it funny really, how it just engrained itself into his very being. Around him you didn’t think you’d ever need to smoke, you felt higher than you could have imagined.

“We’ll we’re already here,” Eddie huffs finally looking down at you. You’d already been staring at him, and he had definitely caught you.

You quickly turned your head and pushed open the door to the nurses office, Eddie still supporting you as you walked in. The nurse just motioned to the bed for you to sit on it. You reluctantly leave Eddie’s hold to sit on the knock off hospital bed.

“What happened,” the nurse asked barely looking up from her paperwork.

“I-,” you started before getting cut off.

“She got knocked on the ground and hit her head, has a bump on the back of her head,” Eddie informed the nurse.

Setting her pen down the nurse stood up and made her way over to you. She used the small light to gauge your pupils to decide whether you had a concussion.

“Doesn’t seem like you have a concussion at all, your eyes look fine.” She pulls a glove on before gently pressing at the back of your skull, you wince as she puts pressure on the aforementioned bump. “You do have a bit of swelling here but it should go down by tomorrow, there’s no blood and doesn’t appear to be any scrapes.” Tossing the glove in the trash she tells you, “Make sure you eat and stay hydrated in case you have a minor concussion, but you should be fine.”

“Thank you,” you tell her, scratching the back of your neck. “Um,” she turns back to you with a questioning look, “could you write me a note for Ms. O’Donnell? I need to turn in a paper before lunch and,” right on cue the bell releasing classes for lunch chimes through the halls.

She gives you a soft smile before turning and writing the note. As she hands it to you you’re standing from the bed. Before you can really say any further thanks to her you’re being dragged out of the room by your hand by the boy you had forgotten was in the room with you.

“To O’Donnell’s room,” you say catching up to Eddie, who was still holding your backpack, with the mess of stuff you’d been carrying in your arms when you’d been knocked over, stuffed in. You were still holding hands and you could feel the heat in your face from the action.

“You know you’re kind of surprising,” Eddie says looking down at you. Your brows furrowed and you tilt your head. “What I mean is, you’re a lot more responsible than I would have guessed.”

You snort out a laugh. “Hey, just because I listen to heavy metal and rock music doesn’t mean I can’t still be smart. I just want to graduate man, I mean, I can’t stand most of the people around here.”

You stop in front of the now empty classroom of the teacher who’s class you dreaded the most.

“I’m the exception right,” he smirked, trying to play it cool but internally his heart was beating wildly like an animal in a cage. Your hands were still locked together, becoming a little sweaty from both of your nerves, and now you were standing face to face, just looking into each other’s eyes.

“Yeah,” you quietly breathed. You cleared your throat, looking down at your boots that were a little worn out. “You are.” When you looked back up to meet his gaze his eyes were shining and his smile grew from a teasing smirk into his beautiful genuine smile.

Feeling the buzzing in your face from the excitement and nerves, you grabbed your bag from him, letting go of his hand in the process. You felt a little disappointed but turned to go into the classroom anyways, one hand still gripping the not you got from the nurse.

“I’ll wait for you out here,” Eddie called out to you. You turned back to him with a small smile you were trying to stop from growing. You just nodded your head with confirmation.

Eddie had never felt better as he leaned against the lockers smiling to himself and staring off into the ceiling.

“What’s up with you,” Gareth asked, shoving Eddie’s shoulder.

“I just got an opening to hang out with the coolest, hottest, most badass chick in the whole fucking school that’s what,” Eddie boasted. “All thanks to those Dustin and Mike not watching where they were going.”

Gareth was about to question who Eddie was referring to when you quietly walked out of the classroom and stood next to Eddie, picking your flaking nail polish from your fingernails. With a nod to Eddie he just walked off laughing to himself.

“You want to sit with the Hellfire Club at our lunch table,” Eddie opened, after a beat of silence.

You nodded your head, adjusting your backpack strap on your shoulder.

He’d decided against initiating physical contact again, figuring that he’d already been holding your waist before he’d grabbed you hand. If you wanted to hold his hand though, he would not stop you.

Instead you’d elected to just walk at an easy pace right next to him, your shoulders brushing every couple steps.

“Thanks for taking me to the nurse’s office by the way,” your head turned to see him already looking you, “and for grabbing my stuff. It would have been a pain in the ass to have to go grab my stuff after everyone had walked through the halls and shit. Who knows if someone would have taken it, you know being one of the outcasts.”

He just smiled and knocked your shoulders together. “I think being an outcast is cool. I mean,” he gestured to himself, “look at me. I’m like the king of the freaks, I think they’re much more interesting people. Plus you’re like a total badass, no one would fuck with your stuff.”

You laughed, “You think much higher of me than most. I mean, yeah I definitely intimidate people but that’s because I walk around looking like I hate the world,” you laugh at yourself. “They think because you wear black and listen to heavy metal and like tattoos and piercings and shit that you’re possessed or some shit.”

“That’s a fact, but if it helps, I think you’re the second coolest person in this school.” You’re about to ask him who’s the first when you look up to see him smirking.

You laugh and he joins you, throwing his arm around your shoulder as you’re rounding the corner into the cafeteria.

Part of you feels like no one cares and no one’s looking at the two punks walking into the cafeteria cackling holding each other, and the other part, the part that can actually see people, knows you two are the biggest spectacle currently taking place. Following Eddie’s lead you just ignore them, letting him guide you to his club’s table.

All the other kids are staring at the two of you when you reach the edge of the table.

“Everyone, this is y/n,” Eddie present you to the table.

You just smile and wave. “I only know Dustin and Mike,” you state looking over the faces.

Eddie chuckles next you you, “Yeah your own personal natural disasters.” The two younger boys look embarrassed as they wave at you. Eddie goes around the table and introduces everyone else to you before pulling you down to sit next to him at the end of the bench. It’s a little bit of a squeeze so you lift your leg to put it over his to make you both more comfortable.

You can feel him tense up at your position so you lean over to him, “Is this okay? I just figured it would help with space.” When he turns you’re just a couple inches away, he swears you looking into his eyes like that was his new favorite thing on the planet.

He leaned down to your ear, “It’s more than okay,” his hand slid around your waist and your eyes widened a fraction.

Lunch with the club had been more fun than you’d expected. You’d normally eat lunch out by your car listening to music and working on homework if you needed to. You’d never pictured you’d enjoy a group’s company as much as you did with the Hellfires.

As lunch was coming to an end and you’d have to head to class soon, one you didn’t have with Eddie much to his dismay.

“Hey,” he grabbed your arm as you stood up with everyone else when the bell rang. Everyone else was waking away from the table with their stuff and whatever lunch trash they’d had, while you and Eddie stayed back. “Would you maybe want to go out sometime? Like go get food or go to the record store together or something,” his eyes were darting around you and his fingers were drumming a little beat against the table.

You smiled at how nervous he seemed to be. Like, how could the coolest most confident guy in school, the one who literally waltzed around on tables in front of everyone, be scared to ask you out. You felt like just a plebeian in his presence.

“Or you know you don’t have to or anything,” Eddie started standing up still avoiding eye contact.

Your eyes widened as you realized you’d taken way too long to answer him. Your hand grabbed his arm, gripping his wrist to stop him from walking away. “Yes,” you say quickly. You cleared your throat, “I mean, yeah, I’d love to go out with you.”

He let out the biggest most dramatic sigh of relief you think you’ve ever seen. “Oh thank god,” he sat down, draping himself over the table and the attached bench.

You laughed, rolling your eyes. You started walking away, needing to go to class. He jumped up and grabbed your wrist this time. “Wait, I need your number so I can call you,” he smiled. Your head felt fuzzy and your stomach was full of butterflies. You nodded you head before grabbing a pen from the side pocket of your backpack. You rolled up his sleeve and gripped the wrist of the arm that was still holding yours before writing down your number, drawing a little heart next to it.

“Don’t mess it up,” you wink as you walk back through the cafeteria to get to your class, passing period almost up.

Eddie smiled stupidly at the number on his arm, right before pumping fist fist in the air letting out a whoop in the practically empty cafeteria. He planned to call you that very night.

This was the start of something epic.

#stranger things #stranger things fluff #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie stranger things #stranger things fic #eddie x punk reader

[joficeandwind]

"...Is it over?"

Fires, screaming and blood covered every wall and every floor in the City of Pride: More so than usual, that is. In a dark and dingy alleyway, a trash can's lid was removed, a single, large, eye shining out of it. It didn't seem like an organic eye, rather, it seemed a projection or simplified drawing of one come to life. The eye looked around, and saw Exorcists flying up to the sky. He waited for what he believed to be the last one to leave, before speaking up.

"I believe so."

The Trash Can shook and rattled, before all of it's contents were blasted out of it, two figures rising higher than any of the profane, inanimate contents. They continued rising, seeming to fly, until they reached the top of a rather tall building. The two men let go of each other, both shaking off all the trash covering them.

"Woohoo! That's 19 Exterminations survived, and not a single scratch from any of them! Take that, ya bitches!" The smaller one spoke first, raising his fists in the air and flipping off the already departed Exorcists. He seemed rather small, with claws and talons, his red skin singed and burnt all over, especially his torso. His hair was a jet black, and seemed to jut out from his head all the way to his back, like spines or quills.

"If we're counting, this should be One Thousand, Seven Hundred, Eighty... something, for me, if I am counting correctly. The Cyclops who was at least 3 times the other's size tilted his head in thought, trying to remember how many years it had been exactly. his body was proportioned to that of your average male, but extremely emaciated, it was is limbs that made him so large. The were long and stretched out, seemingly made of a jet black tar like substance, and without a proper bone structure to support them. His head was caved into empty void, where his glowing white eye resided.

"Despite going through so few, you are still rather unafraid of exterminations, Viktor. Do you, ahem, ride the funky thrills of life and death?"

"No, and you still need to work on your slang." The small one, Viktor, lightly punched the Cyclop's leg, smiling as he looked up. "It's cuz I trust your lanky ass to protect and hide me, duh. Now, let's assess damages..." Viktor walked to the edge of the building, looking far into the distance. "...Shit, Alex, you might wanna take a look at this." Alexander, the Lanky Cyclops, walked over in a few steps, leaning down and placing his own head upon Viktor's. "...Oh dear, it seems my keep may have been hit. I hope they didn't destroy too much, I had just bought some of the more expensive items in Valentino's Must See Collection."

"Eh, it's no big deal. I'll have one of the goons buy more copies if they did get destroyed. Wanna go loot a buffet?"

Alexander grabbed Viktor, placing him on his back before jumping off of the building. "I don't why not."

"Fuck yeah! Make sure to keep all the sugar buns in a baggie, I wanna keep that shit for later!"

@selfshipping-shapeshifter Cuz I know you'd wanna read somethin' with these two :3

#j rambles #j writes #oc stuff

[malewifemanhunter]

Heyyy gang :) 

You’re all still hard at it, two weeks into the D Blast of a lifetime. Stand-alone 100 word fics (roughly), anyone can enter: we’ve had total newbies and Big Name Veteran Fic Writers. We started on August 9th, open ‘til 9th Sept, and guess. what. …..so far you little rascals have written EIGHTY-ONE FICS. 

EIGHTY-ONE.

This beefy collection’s got something for everyone. We’ve got poetry, fluff, angst, catholic guilt, homophobia, biting, fruit, recreational drug use, and of course - self-flagellation :)

And yet? We still crave more??

So here’s some quickfire prompts for you all - we’ll be hand-picking some immediate winners for each prompt if people get fics in by this Friday (26th August)… so get ready, set, GO!

PROMPTS:

Charlie’s Artistic Process

Dee Performing

First Time at the Gay Bar

Make-Up 

A Bike Race

Quarantine/Lockdown

Brokeback Mountain themed

Cats vs. Dogs

Erotic Water Fight

Don’t forget you’re welcome to ask any of us (@malewifemanhunter, @headgehug, @officialbillhader, @stglennfucker, @lets-dont-this) if you have any questions, and credit to @stglennfucker especially for the beautiful banners <3

#iasip #it's always sunny in philadelphia #charlie kelly #dennis reynolds #mac mcdonald #dee reynolds #frank reynolds #it's always sunny in philly #always sunny #sunny #man i'm sorry for all these tags #sunny d blast #but yk the drill #gotta do it #hmmm i wonder if i should do ship tags #anyone got an opinion on that? #i'll just put them #macdennis #chardennis #charmac #charmacdennis #chardee #the gang #drabbles #drabbles contest #ok i think this is it

[carrieminor804]

From The Place The Name JEEP?

Doctor of Criminal Justice: General Report this text Shipping time: round 10-14 enterprise days. Local Stock transport time: 3-four enterprise days Nerf Pro Gelfire Mythic High-torque motors Removed Willis management panel overlay

Soon after its introduction, the water gun took its place amongst the most well-liked summer season toys of all time, and it is simple to see why: When you're a kid, or a child at heart, what higher approach to cool off on a hot afternoon than waging an epic water battle towards your pals and family? Thirty years in the past, a typical water warrior was armed solely with a small squirt pistol, which had a reasonably brief vary and an much more limited ammunition reservoir. These days, you will find a whole arsenal of water weapons at most toy shops, full with water machine guns, water bazookas and even water grenade launchers. In this article, we'll learn the way these summertime staples produce their drenching blasts. We'll trace the path of water guns from conventional squirt pistols to motorized water Uzis and finally to the pump-action water blasters that dominate th­e market at the moment.

On the upstroke of the pump cycle, whenever you pull the pump handle out, the receding piston pulls in water from the big reservoir above. The second one-manner valve (G) retains water from flowing up from the smaller reservoir (B). On the downstroke of the pump cycle, once you push the pump handle in, the plunging piston drives the water out of the cylinder, by way of the second-way valve (G) and into the small reservoir (B). The first one-method valve (F) keeps the pressurized water from flowing again up into the massive reservoir (A). But what's all this accomplishing? In the next part, we'll put the items collectively to see how the Super Soaker builds such a strong blast. Each time you drive water from the massive reservoir into the small reservoir, it pushes up against the entire air inside. Air is a compressible fluid -- you possibly can lower its quantity by squeezing it -- but water shouldn't be.

Americans bought 19 million toy guns worth $64.2 million last yr, down 43% from 33.4 million toy guns price $eighty million in 1980, in line with MPD Group, a Port Washington, N.Y.-based market analysis firm. LJN, in particular, goes after the toy gun business aggressively. The brand new York-based company’s Entertech division sells water guns which might be scale fashions of real submachine guns and different weapons. "The Entertech arsenal features the best assortment of realistically detailed and authentic-sounding guns, life-sized for enhanced fantasy motion play," in line with the company’s promotional materials. Leo Hoffman, director of selling for LJN toys, said: "The motorized water machine gun category is one which we think goes to develop. It hits actually a broad age vary. The product has actually common enchantment. "The play worth is large, really. The product is actually harmless. The toys’ realism has prompted occasional problems, however. Police in a number of cities have been summoned by people who thought that the toy guns being carried by children or younger adults have been the true factor.

With this passageway open, the pressurized air can push all of the water out of the gun, reestablishing a strain equilibrium with the air exterior. When you construct up enough strain, the water is expelled at a very high velocity. At a excessive-sufficient pressure level, the outward power of the compressed air and pressurized water may exceed the structural integrity of the plumbing in the gun, causing it to leak. To prevent this from happening, the set off mechanism is designed to let some water via when the pressure reaches a sure degree. This "leak degree" is decided by the strength of the metallic that holds the trigger down. Essentially, this piece of metallic is like an ordinary spring, and its springiness is decided by its composition. If the metallic is extra rigid, it is going to take the next water-pressure level to push it out of the way. If in case you have a more versatile piece, the Orbi gun will let some water leak at a lower stress.

It is not possible to produce a high-stress stream because it will imply applying a substantial amount of force in a brief period of time. In 1982, a nuclear scientist named Lonnie Johnson got here up with an ingenious answer to this drawback. In his spare time, he was engaged on a new heat-pump system that will use shifting water to regulate temperature. Late one evening, he attached a model of the pumping mechanism to the bathroom sink, and was startled by the highly effective water blast that shot throughout the room. In that immediate, he was struck by the idea for a water gun that would use compressed air to offer stress for a water blast. Together, D'Andrade and Johnson came up with the basic design that may change into the Super Soaker. Super Soakers are built round a pump mechanism, however shifting the pump would not truly drive water out of the gun; it serves to build up water pressure before the blast.

[the-letter-horror-lover]

night."

Chapter 11

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter, a dark night of the soul, transformation, shenanigans, a loss, and a strange way to wake up.

Notes:

With thanks to my betas, commentators, readers, and everyone who lets me know what they think of the story. You are all utterly awesome.

Chapter Text

Ron came back to an epic cooking jam. There was music blasting, all six burners on the stove going, four ovens with timers counting, bread just out of the stone-lined oven, assorted slow-cookers and roasters lined up like soldiers on the long steel prep table, and the fading scents of charcoal and applewood smoke. Eric needed to get laid a lot more often if this was the result.

Sneaking upstairs with Eric in Full Metal Chef mode was easy, and Ron wanted to show some of the new swag and style. Grungy - gone. Sharp - arriving. And sharp enough to cut, baby.

The black-under-blond undercut mirrored the dark/light of Eric's fauxhawk, and his new black wayfarer glasses replaced the seveties aviators. All his skinnies, his belts, jackets, his Uggs, his shirt collection, and every pair of his vintage Frye boots were gone - dispersed judiciously among the coterie of used clothing boutiques that paid sweet cash.

And with that cash, Ron made a run on a specialized tier of used clothing stores.

Mad Men was mainstream. The fifties and sixties were over, and the seventies were fading into the eighties, making the nineties resurgence inevitable. He had a better idea, and had put it into play. He'd bought abandoned garments from dry-cleaners, old samples from multiple sources, returned clothing from discounters, and costumes from costumiers, stuff from thrift stores off the hipster maps. Hock-shops turned up accoutrements like cuff links, collar stays, and a vintage repousse gilt-over-silver pocket watch. There was a while-you-wait tailor in Chinatown, and some sharp trades there brought the price of altering his new wardrobe down considerably.

Running his knuckles over his smooth jawline, Ron smiled. Eric was going to keel over.

Everything was smooth and sharp from trousers and layered waistcoats to the tailored frock coat. The blacks and greys set off the white of the hidden-placket shirts, as well as the patterns and deep gem-colors in the under-waistcoats and on the reverse of French cuffs. It was twenty-first century Victorian down to the buttoning boots, and sharp as hell.

Oh, he looked good. Ron turned and took a look at the rear view. Nice ass. "Yeah. I'd fuck me."

Wait. Was he gay for his own ass? Or if he was a girl, would he fuck him? Or a guy?

Wait, if I were a guy... no, I am a guy… but hypothetically… if I were another guy checking me out...

Confused. So confused.

Still, he had to show off to Eric.

Making a last check in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door, he adjusted the fall of the watch chain against the jaquard of his waistcoat and the set of the scarlet square in the pocket of his frock coat. The short-crowned tophat gave him a rather raffish look, Ron thought. He could hear the music being dialed down in the kitchen, and the sound of Eric's voice, probably talking to someone on his headset. Perfect timing, he'd just go down the stairs and wait for Eric to notice.

"Yeah, I put in the red pepper and eggplant soup, too," Eric said as Ron came down and posed on the landing, turning to acknowledge his presence and then stopping cold.

"Well, big bro? What do you think of this sharp shit right here?" Sweeping the frock coat open, Ron strutted into the kitchen as Eric stared with jaw hanging. "Smooth as silk, I tell you. Come on, butthead, say something."

Eric smiled then turned his head and gleefully shouted, "Rox! Lunch!"

No. Noooo. FUCK.

"Honestly, Eric. I'm right up front - there's no need to shout." High heels tap-tapped on the linoleum behind the shop counter. "Do you need an extra hand?"

An utterly inhuman noise worked its way up from Ron's chest, followed by a strangled falsetto, "-going to kill you."

The fucker blew him a kiss. "Come and check out this fine stuff, Rox."

And ze came into the kitchen, wearing something that looked as if it had walked out of a Bergdorf's window, swiveling on a stiletto-heel to follow Eric's gaze. Then ze looked over the rims of zir tortoise-shell sunglasses and made a thorough job of it.

"My, my. A young gentleman with a new spin on the classics. How avant-garde."

Eric leaned back against the counter, folded his arms and looked content. Ron gave him a smile that he hoped screamed, 'YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.' Then he smiled at Rox - was that a corset under the jacket? - and said, "Good afternoon."

And stopped cold, literally too tongue tied to continue. Rox blew his line of patter to bits.

Eric took pity - sometimes a good thing. "Ronnie, you've got to show Rox that artwork for your brew."

"Wh- Oh. Um. Wait a minute - I left it in my room."

Now that the cat was out of the bag, there was no getting it back in. He just hoped that Rox wouldn't take offense.

Ronald pelted back up the stairs, though the living room, down the hall to his bedroom and grabbed the print copy off his desk.

What if she… ze didn't like it? The finals were tomorrow!

Funny how the thing you were the most certain was awesome suddenly seemed full of flaws when it got down to the wire.

"Quit dithering!" came the bellow up the stairs. "It's great!"

Fuuuuuck.

Okay. Since he was already in the water, he might as well swim.

Ron came downstairs and handed the poster tube to Rox, then was snagged by the boutonniere and held still as ze opened and unrolled it. He broke a sweat as Rox pursed zir lips and examined the work - zir smirk breaking into a smile at the sight of the flattened fire hose at Fire Engine Red's feet.

"You sweet, naughty dear." Truthfully, Ronald had never experienced having one cheek pinched while the other one was kissed. Man. If he thought he was confused before... "It's very flattering, Ronald. And ze is an excellent likeness."

"You… you could come with me and Eric to the Beer Bash. If you wanted. It would be fun."

Smooth. Real smooth, you dork.

With a slightly dimmed smile, Rox fixed his hair and his tie. "Ronald, it's a lovely thought, but I am what I am - and people don't like their comfort zones pushed."

"You are who you are, or I wouldn't have asked," Ron said bluntly. You didn't have the kind of family and upbringing that he and Eric had, then step back and give bigots a pass. "You're Fire Engine Red."

"Rox? You'd blow their doors off." Eric nodded, "And fuck comfort zones. I'll even wear a Sharps shirt."

His brother was awesome - still an asshole, but awesome. Rox kissed them both, and then scolded them for making zir mascara run.

Rox, as crushy-hearts as Ron was for zir, did Good Things for Eric. And he'd wanted Eric to Find Someone who loved him, so even if it was an Arrangement instead of a Thing, Ron was just going to step back and let stuff happen.

They made plans. Saturday night at eight, they'd be with Ronnie at the South Street Brewery to support him at the finals. Rox was going to wear Valentino, and it cheered Ron immensely. It would be to be great to show up with the two people who were genuinely happy for him. It was too bad that Alan thought he couldn't come, but Ron would brace him again when he came to get his card in the morning.

Rox left with zir goodies to go back to the shop, Eric promising he'd be over not long after closing.

"Sorry, bro." Eric hung up his jacket and looked over the results of the cooking binge. "You were just so asking for it with that strut."

"I'm still planning revenge in some as yet unspecific way. I mean it's like you have a Ph.D. in Assholery sometimes." Ron punched Eric's arm. "But oh fuck did I ever give you the opening…"

"Yeah, it was just too good to resist with 'Look at this fine shit!' and all," Eric snickered. "Oh, your Wall Street Twink called. He figured out he'd left his card here and I told him it would be in the cash drawer tomorrow morning."

Ron widened his eyes. "You spoke with him? Like, real words?"

"I said he called, didn't I?" Eric's ears went a touch pink. "So that implies I spoke to him, Beer Brat."

"Were any of the words more than one syllable and did any of them involve fennel? Hey! Put that pie down! Not on the new clothes!"

~

Alan came home to a spotless apartment, packages from Amazon, and rapidly worsening nausea. While he'd been able to maintain in the car, by the time he reached his foyer he was pale, sweating, and shaking. His cleaning service had happily eaten the cookies Alan left out for them, brought in his clean laundry, and taken out the stuff to be washed.

It was worse than last week, but not the unmitigated hell of the first week.

Alan took another dose of his anti-nausea medicines, changed into sweats, and curled up in a blanket on two couch cushions placed on the bathroom floor. Friday evening and Saturday were the worst of his week.

Tuesday was pretty bad, too. Wednesday was tolerable and-

Oh. Oh, no. Fuck. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

His guts tightened into a hard little ball, and Alan cried out in sheer misery - glad only that there was nobody here to see this. He could get through this on his own. It was going to be fine.

At around four on Saturday morning, Alan stripped off his soaked sweats, crawled into the shower and turned it on. The worst had passed, and he felt wrung out both physically and mentally. How could he do this for another twenty-one weeks? No. Not this. Worse than this? How could he keep his weight up? How could he function enough to remain on his own and retain some modest handful of dignity and privacy?

Alan leaned against the marble tiles and let the pulses of water hammer at his neck and shoulders. "I just want it to be over."

It startled him, because he couldn't specify what he actually wanted to be over - chemotherapy, the disease, or… him. He'd never felt so… useless, worthless. Never so alone… no, not alone. Isolated.

Temporarily warm, Alan turned off the water and wrapped himself in a terrycloth robe. It was six hours until he could go claim his debit card from Ronald. He'd have some of the clam chowder, then get some sleep. God, it was good. He thought Mr. Hot Butch Honey was using half-and-half to get that kind of creamy finish. It was nice of Eric to make things not on the regular menu for him.

Alan rinsed the dish and put it in the dishwasher. "I'm just tired. I'll feel better after I sleep."

He'd learned the hard way to spare the bed and pajamas until after the worst passed, so the bed was clean and soft for him, the flannel pyjamas fresh and dry. Once he got in, it was as if he was sinking into the softness and into sleep. He fumbled off his glasses and set them on the nightstand, and just before he fell asleep, Alan thought he saw a pigeon on the windowsill looking in at him.

~

Eric slept in the red satin of zir bed, well and truly tapped out at just a quarter after midnight. What a lovely display he made sprawled on his belly with that perfect rump just asking for a wake-up call. The dog collar around his neck was a plain black nylon - sweaty leather chafed - and Eric slept the sleep reserved for those who gave their all. Rox relished the top-high, indulging in a glass of vintage champagne as ze watched him sleep.

Eric was a service bottom - in the kitchen, serving dinner, scrubbing zir back in the tub, or on the bed. Sensation play was a big yes to bondage, cock and ball games, ass play, hot wax, suspension, and five licks with Rox's belt. Head games fed into sensation play; chastity play was lovely, and washing him down in the shower before putting collar and cage on him apparently scratched all the right kink spots. As a top Eric was powerful, tactile, would not come until you had your goodie, and he spanked hard enough to make zir lip wobble. Rox stretched, spine loose and arse warmed.

Granted, he was a mortal and ze a god, but he was still as randy and happy-cocked as Grell's Eric had been.

Now to undo as much of the mess Buckland had left as possible. Alan was out there somewhere, the red thread of She Who Spins still connecting them, and ze was not going to hand him a dog's dinner of trauma and neuroses. Especially with Eric so afraid of the disease he carried that he'd have an panic attack when he was about to come - even when there was no chance of fluid exchange.

It was tempting to… keep him. Ze could. Ze had his trust, and a hard-won thing it was with being three years in the forging. How simple it would be to evoke that devotion and love that could take root so easily. And how hard to watch this mortal Eric age or sicken and die; his life ending, all their lives ending, leaving Rox with three souls to hold next to zir heart.

Ah, melancholia. What was ze thinking, getting involved with mortals - much less trying to fix one so broken? Who, exactly, was ze trying to fix, trying to save and redeem? Tipping the glass back, Rox drank the rest of the champagne and considered opening another bottle. Mortal intoxicants lacked the punch of Reaper-brewed, but tasted nice nonetheless. Now, Rox mused, if ze really wanted an adventure, entering the Reaper realm to steal a bottle of Skulle & Bownes Centennial whiskey would be a bloody scene-

Flapflapflapflap.

Speaking of bloody scenes.

"I'm thinking of taking up falconry, William. Some archery, perhaps." Rox shut the bedroom door and turned to face him with zir teeth going to points. "Possibly skeet shooting, too. And if you crap on my carpet, I'll feed you to a cat."

Will shifted form and looked at the closed door, making no comment.

"If I'd only known you were a voyeur, sweet old soul, I'd have been happy to play along." Oh, yes, zir edge was still sharp. "Me fucking Eric, or Eric fucking me - tell me, William, which do you like better?"

"I must ask what it is you intend, Grell. You're meddling with mortals." Will lifted an eyebrow. "That never turns out well."

"You should talk, using Mnemosyne and Lethe on a mortal. Forbidden by the Code, and punishable by exile." As Will knew well. "They're mortal now, but they should never have been. One of us should have found their souls and returned them to be reborn as Reapers - that didn't happen and so here they are."

"There was no way to foresee-"

"They died. All three of them. On your watch, though it seems to have troubled you little." When it cost her everything - including William, when ze counted that as a loss. "Now, after better than a third of my life lived without you, what the hell do you want?"

Will was silent, then swallowed. "To fix it. If I can."

So. That's what 'gobsmacked' felt like. Hm.

"You. You have the nerve. You absolute fucking brass-bound bastard." No yelling. Don't wake Eric. Don't summon your weapons. "Who do you think you are? After a century? Out. Get out. Or find out just how much Reapers' steel there is on the black market. OUT."

The last word came on an exhalation of pure rage.

William, showing that he still had an instinct for self-preservation somewhere under that immaculate suit, went into the ether so fast that there was a popping sound as from a large balloon.

Rox crossed zir arms. Clenched zir jaw. Sniffed deep and hard. Blinked until zir eyes stopped watering. Ze would sunder William's heart for the pain he'd given zirs. Checking on Eric ze found that the darling was undisturbed and still deeply asleep. Ze crawled in with him, bare skin sliding on the satin until ze was next to him. Eric, just like former Eric, immediately curled his warm mortal body around zir.

"Mf Rox? Y'r freezing." Eric woke up enough to wrap them both in the quilts.

Bloody hell, ze'd forgotten to breathe again. "I'm fine, pretty man. Just had a bit of a distraction pop up that needed binning." He felt lovely against her and smelled delicious with a whiff of rutty musk under the scent of zir rose-and-ginger soap. "All taken care of."

Sleep or play? The way Eric nuzzled the back of zir neck, it could go either way. Rox wriggled back against him, rousing as his hand caressed zir thigh. Even with his prick in a silicone cage, Eric was game and eager.

"I have a lovely way to warm up, Eric." Play it was, then. "It's called 'fuck Eric silly.'"

Eric nibbled zir earlobe and tugged on one of the gauges with his teeth. "I like that one."

Rox turned in his arms and rolled Eric onto his back. "Do you now?" Ze reached down and gave a wicked caress. Ze hoped Will got a burning eyeful.

~

Saturday mornings were slow, and traffic light. Ron kept an eye out for Alan while handling the shop, worried when noon came and went with no sign of him. He went so far as to look at the caller ID on the phone and write down A. Humphries' number just in case. They closed at four and were to leave at seven-thirty for the Beer Bust finals.

"Has he come in yet?" Eric called from Rox's. "And how are we getting there - going in the Snot Rocket?"

"It's a pearled mint-green, butthead. God, sometimes you're just... nine, or something." Ron picked a Cubano sandwich for himself. "I'm thinking of getting it another paint job, though. You know, something less mainstream."

"Oh, man. Not again. That poor car's been through more colors than Sherwin Williams has paint chips." Ron could hear the eyeroll. "How's business so far?"

"Super light. I think I might shut it down after Alan picks up his card." A drink - one with no caffeine. He was jittery enough. "I want to be there at eight on the dot."

"Nervous?"

"Yeah. Scared. I mean, what if I did all this and I don't win anything? Not the distribution deal, or the equipment, or even a free dinner?" Ron's guts actually quaked at the thought. "So many people I thought were my friends have just been such shits about this-"

"Ronnie? If they were shits about it, then they were never your friends," Eric said flatly. "Your friends would be straight out happy for you, they'd have your back. That's what friends do."

"But what if everything I've learned is for nothing? If I don't win-"

"If you don't win, you're still a brewer. If you don't win… fuck. Okay, I applied for the grocery-beer off-license to go with the microbrewery permit." Eric sighed. "So Knoxhouse Brews LLC can sell beer to The Pearl Street Kitchen and Grocery LLC for sale to the general public."

Ron's jaw unhinged. "You're still a butthead, but I love you." Even if he didn't win, Eric had his back. "And you're one hell of a friend, too."

"Yeah, yeah. See you in a while. Rox is throwing me out while ze gets ready for the big night. Call that number if Humphries doesn't show up in the next thirty minutes. Maybe we can drop it off or something."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Hey, where did you put the extra Bubblehead sodas?" Ron looked for the cherry-vanilla cream - not there.

"There should be some in the reach-in."

"No, just a dozen of that blue shit that tastes like floor cleaner. They're taking it back, right?"

"Yeah, do me a favor and put that in a milk crate at the back door, they're supposed to pick it up on Monday." Eric hummed for a moment. "There's a mixed case in the small walk-in in the kitchen. Don't know if your favorite's there."

"Thanks, man."

"Welcome. Rox calls, gotta go."

"Have fun."

"Oh, yeah. Not even a question. See ya."

Ron smiled as he hung up. He might have a crush on Rox, but Eric… it was like watching a bare-bones sketch become fleshed out and colored in. Ron looked around the store, then went down the hall and into the walk-in. There was no cherry-vanilla cream soda, but there was a chocolate-cherry. Good enough.

The shop door opened and closed with a jingle of bells. "Be there in a second!"

"It's all right, Ronald. It's just me."

Alan's voice, but Alan did not sound… right. Ronald came out of the back and stopped in his tracks, staring. Alan. clad in a hoodie and knit cap, held himself up with his bicycle smiled wanly. "That bad?"

"Yeah. Sorry, but Alan-" You look like death. How did you even say that to someone?

"I'm okay. It looks worse than it is right now." He leaned the bike against the wainscotting and came to the counter. "I'm just a little rocky after my treatment."

"Look, I'm going to close early. Let me give you a ride back home." Ringing up a no-sale on the register, Ron fished out the card and handed it over. "I've got a station wagon and can fit your bike in the back."

"I'm fine," Alan insisted, pulling his wallet out and slipping the card inside. "It's just that after my treatment-"

A hank of brown hair came loose from under the knit cap and floated down to land on the counter. He and Alan both watched it fall. Alan did not look up, standing there as if frozen with his wallet in his hand. A drop of water splashed next to the hair, and then another drop fell next to it and Alan's shoulders shook.

"Alan." Ron reached out and took hold of Alan's shoulder as more drops spattered silently on the counter. Nobody should cry like that. "Alan."

Nothing. Ron went around the counter and to the front of the store, flipped the sign to 'Closed,' turned off the neon, then pulled the shades. He locked up, and when he turned back, Alan had not moved. Poor bastard. Oh, the poor guy. Cancer. Not an ulcer, not a stomach bug, not 'gastro-intestinal' anything. Cancer.

Ron put an arm around Alan's shoulder. "Come on. Come in the back." And without really waiting for an answer, he herded Alan behind the counter and down the hallway.

"Sorry. Sorry. Oh, fuck. Ronald-"

"It's all right. It's okay." This was going to be a category five bad-brain-day event. "Come on."

"I just- my hair- fucking stupid-" And the sob that followed was somehow even worse than the silent tears had been.

Recliner. Brownie. Eric had made a fresh batch that was in their fridge, waiting to be cut and wrapped. It was easier to ask forgiveness than to obtain permission and even easier to pretend that Eric didn't grow marijuana in his bedroom closet, but this was a… a… humanitarian emergency! That. Exactly. Ron fairly herded Alan into one of the big brown recliners.

"Wait here. Okay. Give me a second."

Alan just buried his face in his hands and nodded through wracking sobs.

Fuck.

Ron shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then ran down the hall to their kitchen. Fridge. Brownies. Cut a palm-sized slab of inch-thick brownie with two edges. Plate. Milk. Wait. Kleenex. Downstairs to where Alan was visibly trying to pull himself together.

"Man. I'm sorry, Alan. But it's cool - okay? Here." Alan took the Kleenex first. "I know, you're a private kind of guy and oh my god I am such an asshole for trying to set you up with my brother-"

Alan blew his nose. "Leukemia. I started chemotherapy at Sloan-Kettering three weeks ago. Ronald. I'm so sorry. but oh my god i'm losing my mind-"

Fresh tears welled and spilled, and this time Alan just… crumpled. There was no other way to describe it.

"It's okay. Eat the brownie. You'll feel better - I promise." He'd seen it work on Eric's worst bad-brain days. "Eric makes them special."

The somewhat incoherent reply was that brownies couldn't fix this. He couldn't do this. It wasn't working. He was losing… something.

"No. Shh. No. Come on, just a bite and a little milk and it'll feel better." And this time it was hysterics - wordless weeping that was terrifying to watch because you knew you were seeing a soul in agony. "Trust me - okay? It will help. That's right, come on wash it back with this. Yeah, it's good. Come on, a little more."

It took some coaxing, but half of the brownie went down and a second milk was needed. Alan calmed slowly, cradling the box of Kleenex. "I'm-"

"Look, don't be sorry. Man, that's as serious as it gets."

"It was just… that was just the last thing, you know?" Alan took another bite of brownie. "I'm not at my best on Saturdays."

"It's okay. It's cool. Don't worry about it."

"This brownie's very good." Alan took another bite. "It's your brother's special recipe?"

"Yeah, a personal reserve."

"Chocolate is a kind of antidepressant, I'm told." Alan blinked slowly and took another bite. "It's very tasty, but I can't place the difference. Nice and chocolatey, but not gooey."

"Yeah." Ron was suddenly very conscious of having given Alan a rather hefty dose. "It's okay. Relax. Take a deep breath."

Another bite, and Alan blinked when Ron reclined his chair. "Why do you have recliners in a kitchen?"

"Eric spends hours cooking, and when he's tired he just kicks back. Sometimes he even naps down here, listening for timers to go off."

Alan reclined. "It's nice."

"Look, just stay here and have the rest of that brownie. I have to close up… no, just rest, okay?" Alan showed signs of getting up, apologizing for his meltdown. "Just hang out. I'll come back and we'll talk about getting you home."

"Tonight's your big night, you should-"

"It's not a problem." Be firm. Be confident. "You relax and I'll be right back."

Alan reluctantly sat back, nodding.

Holy shit. It worked.

He did have to close up - cash out the register, get a deposit bag ready, roll down the gate and make sure the Bilco was firmly locked. The unsold items that were about to expire went upstairs to their personal fridge, and Ron marked them down as a discounted sale, moving funds from the cookie jar into the day's cash receipts. As he went upstairs with a dozen sandwiches, a few cups of soup, and a mushroom-barley turkey-thigh dinner that someone hadn't picked up, Ron saw that Alan lay in the recliner, curled on his left side and fast asleep.

Ron stopped, carefully removed Alan's glasses, and set them on the table next to the empty brownie plate.

~

Eric did bath-boy duty before being shooed off around three.

"But I want to see you put your bike gear on," Rox insisted, pushing his armored jacket and chaps at him. "It's such a post-apocalyptic techno-dystopian look."

So he did, then the bike gear came mostly off again. Shenanigans ensued with Rox as a Bad Cop, followed by assorted naughtiness with handcuffs and nightstick in the stairwell. By the time Eric finally got on his Ducati, just starting up the engine gave him a goofy smile in his helmet. Yeah. Rox was fucking merciless and Eric was fucking grateful.

He'd go home and get ready for the big night. Rox banned him from wearing a Sharps shirt or anything red, so maybe he ought to get out his black suit. It make him look - in Ronnie's words - like a better class of hitman. The traffic in Lower Manhattan was Saturday light, and in a very short time he was easing the black-and-blue bike into the parking spot next to the Snot Rocket.

And walked in to find Ron sitting on his prep table, brow furrowed. "Hey, bro. 'Sup?"

Ronnie pointed into the alcove, so Eric turned to look - and stopped in his tracks.

What?

Mr. Snippy Undersalt VanTwinkbait III was out like a light in one of his recliners.

There was also a plate with some very telltale crumbs.

Eric frowned and gestured at the alcove. Just what the fuck is this? Then pointed at the plate with the brownie crumbs. And that better not be what I think it is. Then he slapped his forehead. What were you thinking?

Ronnie grabbed the front of his jacket and towed him to the front, shutting the door between kitchen and shop. He cued the security camera footage and hit play.

"Say nothing. Just watch."

He opened his mouth to give Ronnie a piece of his mind, and then the security camera footage made Eric snap his jaw shut. Nobody in good shape had to hold himself up on a bicycle in the first place. It hardly looked like the same guy, really.

The hair. And Eric really didn't want to watch. It was an offense to the guy's dignity to see him break down like that, though Eric knew from his own experience that it felt more like a meltdown.

The news just kept getting worse and worse, hitting you until the person you thought you were was chipped away. "It's cancer, Ronnie?"

"Leukemia. He's been in treatment for three weeks."

Eric knew what those drugs did. Bradley Duncan had used small doses of cytotoxins to simulate some of the symptoms of AIDS. He rubbed his forehead. "Ronnie, go get cleaned up and dressed. Rox is going to be here soon and you don't want to be late."

"Wh-"

"It's your big night, you're going to beat those other guys like their mamas don't know them, and you're going to go with someone who's happy for you." Eric got him by the shoulders and turned him around. "I'll stay with this guy until he wakes up."

Ronnie stuck his hands in his pockets and looked woeful. "How long will he sleep?"

"Depends. How big was the brownie?" Though Eric knew from experience that sometimes it didn't take much. It depended how tired and wired you were in the first place.

"About the size of my palm." Holding up his hand Ronnie marked it out. "And milk."

"Wow. He's out for a while. Those were made with Purple Afghani Kush butter. It's a serious indica strain - the nighty-night stuff." Whooboy. This was going to take some explaining. "It couchlocks me for a full eight. I can only imagine how it hit him - he's a little guy. Good thing you didn't give him anything with a sativa strain or he'd be flying around the room like a toy airplane."

"Fuck. I am so sorry-"

"No, Ronnie. You likely did him a favor - I can say that from having been in a similar place." Eric smiled tightly, opening the door to the kitchen. "Go on. Get your shit together. I'll explain things."

"You're sure?"

"Go upstairs, eat something - not a brownie - then clean up, shave, and dress. I'll talk to Rox."

Ronnie went upstairs and Eric took out his phone, shutting the door again as he called Rox.

"I'm leaving in a few minutes-" ze answered. "Wait, what's wrong?"

"I didn't even say anything."

"Sometimes not saying anything says more than saying anything."

"Wh-? Okay. News first - and this is going to sound bizarre, but one of Ronnie's friends-" Eric explained the whole thing. "So this guy Alan is passed out in one of my recliners and considering he's a little twerp, he's not waking up before the wee small hours."

"Well. Gobsmacked twice in twenty-four hours. Goodness me." Rox sounded utterly flat-footed. "Alan, you say?"

"Yeah. And Rox, it's so fucking important for Ronnie to have someone there with him who really gives a- I mean who's happy for him." Eric rested his forehead on the plate glass window, looking out at the street. "His so-called friends have just been jerks about it."

"Of course, I'll go with him if he wants me to."

"Rox, he has the biggest crush on you."

"He's a puppy, Eric, and I'll be delighted to escort him."

"Wearing red?"

"Valentino from head to toe."

"Rox. It's a brewery," Eric groaned. "You're going Michelin five-star when this hipster pose-off would have to class up to be allowed into Hooters."

"MEOW," Rox laughed. "Who says that butch boys can't be catty?"

"I am not catty."

"A tomcat, and I do like to make you purr and claw-"

Eric could hear zir putting on zir coat, and imagined her getting dressed. "No fair giving me another boner. I couldn't come one more time."

"Behave. Now, what's Ronnie wearing? And which perfume for me?"

"The sandalwoody one with the spice notes. Ronnie's going with this whole neo-Victorian look - why? Do you want me to police the wardrobe?"

"No, I can do that when I get there." The sound of car keys and the freight elevator. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

Eric checked the roll-down gate, locked up the rest of the way, and hesitated for a second before firmly turning off the store lights. "Yeah. I'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on him and cook something that takes a lot of prep work."

Mr. VanTwinkbait was still out like a light, curled up in the recliner. Eric pulled one of the thick throws from the arm and covered him up. "See you when you get here, I'm going to go change."

An engine started. "Where's Ronnie?"

"He's in the shower, and I'm not letting him out of the bathroom until he shaves." Eric went up the stairs. "He's new to it, and needs supervision. Just park in the back and come on up."

"I'm on the way."

Eric hung up, and rummaged the fridge - picking a gazpacho and a linguica roll for his own dinner, then bolting both. In his room, he checked on his plants, stripped, and took out fresh chef's whites, a tank top, and his Dansko clogs. Then he took a very hedonistic stretch. Goddamn, Rox rode it like she stole it and it felt better than Eric had remembered.

Dressed, he tied on a bandana, then sneaked into Ronnie's room to slip a c-note into his wallet. The kid ought to have some cash for dinner and drinks.

In their kitchen, he cut up and labeled the two different brownies so Ronnie wouldn't get them mixed up, then looked over his wall of cookbooks. What to make…

He had a First Edition Mastering the Art of French Cooking. There were the Robert Carrier Cookery Cards - vintage 1966, and his first 'real' recipes. The Marcella Hazan classic Italian cookbooks were great any time, but not what he was in the mood for either making or eating. When you absolutely needed a recipe that worked, you couldn't do better than the Cooks' Illustrated collection. The Smithsonian Folklife book was good, but still not… hm.

The red potato and kale colcannon with garlic. A very simple roasted chicken with classic pan gravy. A soothing tomato and basil soup with a grating of asiago. Then ricotta-honey cakes in a not-too-sweet red berry sauce. While he was at it, he'd get some stocks done and start some new breads. There was a bunch of stuff he wanted to use up before he did the ordering and marketing Sunday and Monday, too.

A buzzing from the bathroom made Eric smile. No more face-weeds! He was a little quieter than usual going down the stairs, though he would bet that Sleeping Twinkie wouldn't stir if the A train went clattering through. In the basement walk-ins, he loaded up the prep cart with fodder. There was nothing he loved more than to get in the kitchen and just jam.

Well. Sex. But it was a neck-and-neck tie.

He sent a stuffed prep cart up in the dumbwaiter, and then went up to the kitchen. Rox was standing next to the prep table, resplendent in red-and-black, zir hair in a cascade of curls, and zir expression solemn as ze looked at Humphries.

"Hey," Eric greeted zir and Rox glanced at him.

"It hardly seems fair, Eric. He's so young." Rox slid an arm around his waist. "It just isn't right, and though I see it all the time-"

"It isn't fair, and it isn't right," Eric slid an arm around zir in return. "It's a horrible thing to say, but shit happens and keeps on happening."

"I just wish I could make it happen to those who've done something to merit shit happening."

"Yeah, but that would make you God, and who would want the job?" Eric tugged a curl. "Come on, before Ronnie tries to get dressed by himself."

They went upstairs and found themselves too late, but Rox walked right into Ronnie's room and picked his outfit. "Too much damask, Pup. Plain cuffs. Where are your cufflinks? No red ties. No blue ones, either. This one. Have you ever heard of Trinity knot? You have now. Come here. Hold still."

Rox was not only a force of nature, but apparently of menswear. Ronnie came out of his bedroom looking his age for the first time since he was in high school. Rox had put him in a dark charcoal grey wool three-piece accented with touches of light purple in tie and pocket square, with bloodstone cufflinks and tie.

"Hot damn, little bro." Eric slow-clapped. "You're going to be peeling them off you."

Ronnie straightened up, put on his hat and offered his arm to Rox. The Beer Brat could charm when he tried.

"Text me when you win. I'm going to cook and wait for Sleeping Twinkie to wake up. Wait." Eric took out his phone and activated the camera. "Right. Defeat your enemies!"

And he had to admit that Rox handled the sight of the 1974 Snot Rocket-green landwhale with grace, however Ronnie cast a covetous eye at the 1928 Packard Roadster.

"You guys are already making an entrance-"

And off they went into the night.

They were going to have a blast together. Eric turned and went back into the kitchen where Humphries was still out cold. He'd really wanted to go and cheer Ronnie on, but you couldn't begrudge someone a trainwreck. Not once you'd been there yourself.

He pulled the cart out of the dumbwaiter and started his prepwork for dinner.

~

Alan became slowly aware of waking, and the first thought was that he was warm. There was softness under him, softness on top of him, and it was wonderfully warm. Cradled in softness and warm to the bones in a way that made his toes and fingers knead at the thick duvet in primitive delight. It was blissfully good to be warm.

Other things gradually seeped in, such as the lack of pain. Alan marvelled at the absence, that he could have become so inured to hurt that the lack of it was remarkable. The nausea, too, was gone. There was no tightness in the guts, the feeling of being slightly seasick and off-balance. In short, he felt good and even at at peace.

And then he remembered what happened and where he was and what...?

What was in that brownie in the first place? It bore the same resemblance to the 'magic brownies' he'd eaten in college that tap water had to Ketel One. He must have frightened the hell out of poor Ronald. But they were 'Eric's special brownies' - and what did Mr. Hot Butch Honey need with serious cannabis?

And then Alan dozed off again.

It was nice to feel good when you woke up. Despite the humiliation he knew he ought to feel, that he had felt, at the moment all he could feel was warm and safe and good. Slowly Alan opened his eyes, finding himself still in the recliner and tucked into a warm duvet. It was dark in the alcove, and he had to feel for his glasses - then looked around in astonishment. How Alan had slept through all that was beyond him. Massive pots steamed on the stove, and all along the steel prep table doughs rose in stoneware bowls. Task after task on the whiteboard was marked with a big red DONE. And Alan's mouth began to water as his nose picked up the scent of roast chicken and something garlicky. Something berry-scented hovered to one side, and he was aware that someone else was here. A timer beeped and Eric strode across the kitchen to one of the ovens, crouching to remove a pan of something giving off the scent of honey.

"Mhm, that's the ticket…" He stood and froze - staring wide-eyed at Alan who was staring at him. "Hello."

"Hello." Alan reminded his lungs to work, please. Oh, he had it right when he speculated that neither of them were good at meeting new people. If Eric were a tomcat, his tail would be bushed out as wide as his head.

Eric set the pan - filled with little golden cakes - on the prep table, then seemed not to know what to do with his hands. "You've been asleep for a while."

Alan nodded. "I… it was… a bad day."

This was accepted with a nod. "So. Um. Can you eat?"

And that was the last thing Alan expected to hear. "Yes, I can eat… thanks."

Eric seemed to need breathing reminders as well. "Okay."

"Okay."

Chapter 12

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter - William does not operate in a vacuum, as much as he sometimes wishes that were the case. Someone has to keep him grounded. Eric and Alan have a lot to chew on.

Notes:

With adoration to everyone who tells me, in whatever way, what they think of the story.

Chapter Text

It had gone as well as one might expect, Will thought, and perhaps even slightly better. Grell had not tried to kill him, unless one counted the verbal barbs as the Death of One Thousand Cuts. In his office, with the door shut while the staff changed shifts, Will allowed himself to order and evaluate the facts on a purely emotional basis.

He had misread, and disastrously so, Grell's state of mind following the events of a century back. Possibly his own shock at the deaths of both Slingby and Humphries, and his own involvement in the debacle, had caused Grell to become utterly unhinged. Had it not been for the demon…

Well. No. Will could not entirely place the blame there.

The motivations of his younger self had been perhaps tainted by youthful passions, as well as a desire to rid himself of a highly problematic reaper. Grell's involvement in the Ripper murders was too fresh to have upper management tolerate another rogue field agent. Moreover Grell had never allied with an effete occultist to incept a wholesale massacre. Though in terms of body count, Slingby's toll was a paltry thing next to the works of the demon known as Sebastian Michaelis and the Ancient known as Pytheas. Sometimes done separately, at times in partnership, the pair left a bloodied trail through history on scales as grand as war and plague, or as petty as smothering infants in their swaddling.

It was the idea that Grell had loved Slingby that was what burned now. Not a fling, as Grell was prone to during their frequent partings, but a meeting of hearts. At the time he'd berated Grell that he gave him (her… whatever… just Grell) a trainee, not a plaything. Grell had responded saucily, and at the time Will simply dismissed it out of hand as more of Grell's theatrical personality.

Humphries dying of the Thorns… only he hadn't, had he? Slingby's scythe ended his life and freed his soul before the parasite could anesthetize and consume it. Slingby was killed by the demon - who had been ordered to kill and not to feed. Both souls, lacking a Reaper to collect and return them to the Origin, had simply… wandered off. Neither he, nor Grell, nor Ronald had arrived in time to gather them up.

And none of this was resolving the problem at hand, or all the other problems that problem spawned.

"Director Spears?" London Dispatch Manager Midford sounded tetchy as she knocked at his inner office door. "Director? If you've finished kicking yourself-"

William rubbed the permanently sore spot over his right eyebrow. "Come in, Cordelia."

When his second-in-command was tetchy, William's life became difficult. If being Supervisor, Manager, and now Director had been an expansion of rank, it came along with with the herding of ever more cats.

And Cordelia came in, giving him a look over the tops of her pink spectacles. "Done kicking yourself?"

"I am not kicking myself." William composed himself behind his desk.

"Well, you should be." His sweets dish was flagrantly burgled of the wrapped toffees. "You're the most organized, detail-oriented, intelligent, bone-headed, arsebackwards idiot I've never met."

"Insubordinate."

"But generally correct."

"On certain things." The problem was that Cordelia - as she prefered to be called - was rather insightful about matters of the heart as Reapers in general (and he in particular)were not. "I am a mortis, not a mortal."

"You went to New York, again. Visited Grell, again. Possibly contacted one or more of the reincarnates. Then had a big fluffy snit because Grell has a lover." As she said this, Cordelia helped herself to his whisky. "And this makes you a hypocrite."

"Trust you to get to the point - and give it." William huffed. "It is beside the point-"

"Isn't."

"-that a rogue and exile-"

"-coincidentally your former lover-

"-should conduct themselves with respect to mortals-"

"-and the emotionally constipated-

"-again beside the point-"

"-not to mention a green-eyed jealous little beastie-"

"-I am not, Cordelia, and as I was saying-"

"-and a stubborn one-"

"At some point this evening I should like to finish a sentence!" Will exploded, the flat of his hand connecting with the desk.

"You just did. Happy now?"

"No." Will crossed his arms on his chest.

"Grell has changed, William, and not only from the passage of time She was sentenced to exile, a life without any others of her kind - no companionship, no protection, no contact. Could anyone expect her to be grateful and forgiving?"

"I had no idea that Grell could become more disordered than previously." He had left it alone. Grell had touchy pride, and maybe - no, not maybe - he should have spoken more forcibly on Grell's behalf. "It would seem that I was in error when I thought it best to let it lie."

"Meaning you had no idea how to approach the situation and flailed."

What was it with him and the sharp-tongued? "I did not flail, Cordelia."

"Fled."

"And I am not 'emotionally constipated' - this coming from a being who persisted in speaking of 'limbs' and 'bosoms' well into her fourth decade despite marriage to Phantomhive, intercourse, conception, and parturition-"

"No changing the subject - which is not me, but you."

"And toffee and whisky is an execrable combination." It was. One or the other, but Threads bind him, not both!

"William, you read Rachel her bedtime stories from the Codex."

Oh, not this again. "Reading your daughter her bedtime stories from accurately recorded and sourced Akashic Records was intellectually sound since her mother became a Reaper-"

"Not hearing from you must have hurt Grell terribly, William."

Could she not go in a linear direction? Here to there and this to that. It was a brilliant strategy, but there were times that Will wanted to hammer his head on the desk.

"I thought Grell would come back. Grell always came back." Will rubbed at the sore spot, trying to urge the overstimulated muscle to unknot. "And when that didn't happen, I couldn't find him. Her. Whatever Grell is now."

"Wounds fester, left untreated." Cordelia nudged his untouched glass of whisky a little closer. "It's paining again, isn't it?"

This time Will simply rested his forehead in one hand and picked up the glass with the other, sipping at the Skulle & Bownes. "Cordelia-"

How did one ask a former junior, current executive officer, occasional inamorata, and steadfast friend to grant you the anodyne of her company and her bed?

Without sounding like an idiot.

Or, worse, a lech.

"Tch. Will." Setting her glass on the desk, she came around to his left side. "I've been saying for years that you need to let the medics look at it." Cordelia shooed his hand away and began to rub. "Hush."

It was annoying that when she rubbed, it stopped hurting. "I didn't say anything," he protested mildly.

"And I said hush."

William decided that he didn't understand any of it. "I told Grell that I wanted to fix it."

"You're very fortunate to have made it back alive," Cordelia scolded him, fingers combing through his hair. "There are times, my old fellow, when things cannot be fixed, but must be mended."

Will simply leaned his head on her belly. Cordelia was always warm, since her heart beat and lungs worked from the habits of her mortal life. For the life of him William could not remember if he took Cordelia to bed or she took him to bed, only that she was warm and sweet. Being freed from the mortal consequences of disease and pregnancy allowed her passion to bloom.

Other things he had left unattended brought themselves to his attention now. "I do not think I understand grief, as mortals feel it. I, too, deeply miss Rachel's presence. I have been remiss if I did not make that clear."

Reapers did not procreate, a mercy granted to those who must archive the Akashic Record and take each soul to the Origin to be spun out again. Reapers had no kin aside from each other - no parent, no child. Though Rachel had lived more than a century, mortal flesh gave way, and Cordelia had attended the Passage of her offspring herself.

"If you thought me to be… unaffected by her Passage or your grief-"

"William. Hush." Her fingers carded through his hair and he wrapped an arm around her hips, sitting in silence Cordelia rubbed the pain right out of his head.

When she stopped rubbing, Cordelia stayed in his arms and stroked his hair. While she bore him a tender affection and friendship along with her puzzling passion, William was unsure that he had earned such. As remiss as he might be in the appropriate placement of emotions and their application, perhaps Cordelia was a better friend to him than he to her.

"Come, dear fellow. Get your coat and we'll be off. Mustn't give the juniors ideas about overtime."

~

There was chicken and gravy on top of mashed potatoes and kale, and Sleeping Twinkie turned into Eating Twinkie - no doubt with an assist from the brownies. Eric was bemused, both with Humphries and with himself. Had he really become that much of a social hermit?

Apparently so, if his first question was, "Can you eat?"

This was only marginally mitigated by Humphries consuming a pile of chicken and gravy and so forth. Eric dug into his own portion with a solid appetite. Sometimes there was nothing more satisfying than the basics. He almost wanted to twit the guy about the salt, but after a meltdown like that Eric couldn't be much of an asshole.

"The gravy's really good." Humphries spoke softly, and Eric almost jumped out of his skin.

"Thanks. It's a reduction added to a brown roux."

He took another spoonful, tasting instead of just filling up. "Dripping? Not butter. It's richer than butter."

Eric eyed him. "Dripping. What are you, a food critic?"

"I'm a forensic accountant and risk consultant at a capital management firm." The spoon scraped the bowl. "I've been enjoying the food since I moved in down the block. I really thought that there were three or four chefs working out of one kitchen. You're really versatile."

"I like to cook. It's my version of music, or painting." And it was. Since he was a kid, Eric wanted to make good food. Mom had been a grilled-cheese and Campbell's soup kind of cook. Eight-year-old Eric got his hands on a cookbook for the kiddies and was out of the gate from then on. "I've been doing it since I was a kid."

"How did you get started?"

"Mom loved used bookstores." Some of his best memories came perfumed with the scents of old books. "Ronnie and I would each get ten bucks to spend on books of our own. One day I bought this book because it had brownies on the cover, and Mom sat down with me to pick out something to make."

"Ronald told me that she'd passed. My condolences." Then Humphries' eyes opened wide. "The Brew Bash! Oh, FUCK. You were supposed to go-"

Okay. This guy actually seemed nice and not like some Wall Street BSD.

"It's cool. A friend of ours went with him and-" Eric pulled out his phone and showed him the selfie of Ronnie and Rox. "He took second, but that's fifty grand in brewing equipment. With what he has going in the basement, that's about doubling his capacity to 500 barrels a year."

Eyebrows raised at the sight of Rox, but he only said, "But that's just brewing - what about bottling, storage, and distribution costs?"

"Wholesale bottles, used four-bottle filler, hand-crank labeling machine, and a printer. Huge basement. And he's going to be exclusive to Pearl Street for a while." Eric nodded at the empty bowl. "Want seconds on that?"

"Please." He looked embarrassed and a little self-conscious. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose it like that-"

"It's okay. I understand it."

Mortality punching you repeatedly in the face - yeah. Something to lose it over. Humphries gave him a somewhat skeptical look, but was smart enough not to pick a fight with a cook in his kitchen. Well, Eric was just in what Ronnie would call 'That Kind of Mood.'

Setting the bowls on the table, Eric shrugged down one shoulder of his jacket and pulled aside the strap of the tank top, showing the biohazard trefoil, then shrugged back into his jacket. "Believe me, I did."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I had no idea." Humphries stared and Eric waited for the questions, the revulsion, even a freak-out at eating food prepared by a person with HIV. "You're waiting for me to lose it, aren't you?"

"Yeah. A lot of people do, even other fags."

"Well, a lot of people are ignorant, bigoted assholes - including other fags." Pointedly looked at the empty bowl, he asked, "And what do you use to get the texture on the red potatoes when you mash them?"

Eric tamped down the smile that wanted to come. "Steam. You have to steam them until they fall apart on the fork, then mash with garlic and a little olive oil. The butter doesn't go in until the kale's drained and evenly beaten in."

He picked up both bowls and refilled them, adding a drench of gravy. Humphries reached eagerly for his bowl, and looked blissful when he put a spoonful into his mouth. "It's not just the after-effects of the brownie. About twenty-four hours after chemotherapy, all I can do is eat and sleep."

"How do you feel now? Ronnie gave you one hell of a dose." It was an opening, and the guy didn't seem to be upset. "That was also some pretty heavy stuff. I use it for my PTSD - I'm not symptomatic."

That made for some wide eyes. "Wow. Iran? Afghanistan?"

Eric laughed without humor. "No. My ex. I'm just a little bundle of fucking sunshine, huh?"

"I can see why it would be good for that. I'm very calm for someone who's just lost his mind. And his hair." He took another bite. "And there's no pain. I noticed that right away. No nausea at all. And I'm warm."

Goddamn, that was hard. The only way you knew you felt good was when you didn't feel like absolute shit? "They're not giving you anything for all that?"

"Well, vicodin and ativan. And it doesn't so much make the pain go away as it makes me not care that I'm miserable." He frowned. "How long was I asleep?"

"A little over eight hours."

And Twinkie burst out laughing. "That's great! That's amazing! I haven't done that in over a month."

As loath as Eric was to part with his medicinal brownies, he'd have to be a hard-hearted son of a bitch not to. "I can hook you up. Can't charge you for them, because that's a no-no, but I can make sure you're good."

"I can't ask you to do that. It's your medicine."

"I can always make more." Because he had a big closet, LED grow lights, and a commercial-grade vent with layers of charcoal filters. "It's cool."

"It's tempting. I haven't felt good, normal, in weeks. And I still have almost two years to go, if everything goes by the book."

"Okay, chemotherapy takes it right out of you. You've lost weight, you can't get good rest, you're anxious, you're nauseated and hurting. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"The stuff they're giving you doesn't make you feel good, it just knocks you out. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"So when you get something that not only lets you eat, knocks out the pain, and puts you in dreamland for a full eight, that's a good thing. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"But?" Eric prompted.

"I'm not sure, I was waiting for you to interrupt again."

"Okay! Happy to help. So, if you find something that works, you should go with it because you're not an abstract - you're sick, you need to eat and sleep. So be practical - what works? Cannabis. What doesn't work? Ativan and vicodin - both addictive. Ah-ah-ah - sit back and relax." He wagged his spoon at Huffy Humphries. "I'm interrupting, here. So, you need a pan of brownies and I do not under-salt though it is possible you're depleting a lot of minerals such as magnesium, calcium, potassium, and iodine provided by high quality unrefined salt and perceived as a salty taste-"

"You just had to go there, didn't you? And I do not eat crappy Chinese food-"

"- as proven by the fact that you've eaten two bowls of chicken and etceteras without commenting on the salt."

"It's the reduction."

"My ass, 'reduction.'"

"Mr. Slingby?" Humphries deadpanned, "Mental image not good. Please enunciate the comma."

Eric cracked up. "Oh, man!"

"I mean, I know that Ronald claimed you were a stickler about your seasoning." He was grinning and had a wild gleam in his eye. "But I had no idea about that particular personal touch."

It was weird and on some level Eric knew that it was Humphries being brownied to the the eyeballs and him being… himself, but it felt good. Like something missed for so long that you forgot how good it had been, and that you'd really missed it that much.

"Look, eat some dessert, have another brownie, and you can crash upstairs until Ronnie gets in. I'll run you and your bike home in Ronnie's car." Eric offered. "It's pouring rain again, and this time of night, on a weekend, in the Financial District you're going to wait forever for a cab."

He considered. "I'm not bumping anyone out of bed or getting in the way?"

"Nope. I'll fix you up a spot on the couch. It's warmer than it is down here after I put the kitchen to bed for the night."

Warm and comfortable were powerful persuaders, so after dishing out the ricotta cakes and berry coulis, that's just what Eric did. The Purple Passion Pit made a nice nest when it was miserable outside, so Eric just loaded it with extra bedding and an electric blanket. And this time, a smaller brownie would do.

It was nice, when Eric thought about it, to have an appreciative eater. Humphries might not be a chef, but knew his shit nonetheless.

Eric came back down to find empty bowls and a Sleeping Twinkie. It was hard work digesting all that food. Poor squirt must feel like a python with more ambition than room. "Wakey-wakes, sunshine. Let's get you upstairs."

They didn't even have to part Sleeping Twinkie from his comforter, and the second brownie was not needed. Humphries was asleep before his head met the pillow. Eric turned on the electric blanket, took off Humphries' glasses and put them out of harm's way, then spent a few minutes in the kitchen cutting and wrapping brownies. It was a little after three in the morning when he turned out the lights and pulled the covers up, thinking that he might not get to sleep.

He woke up, slightly confused, at around noon on Sunday. Ronnie was home, passed out in his room, and there was a note from Rox on the fridge that ze had a marvellous time and Eric's benjamin was back in his wallet.

I took Ronnie for a treat at Jack's Oyster Bar. We smoked pipes and drank port - both of which made him queasy - and then I brought him home. Alan was sleeping soundly. I helped myself to two roast beef sandwiches and apple mini pies. Call me when you're up and about.

XXX,

Rox

Chapter 13

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter - new courses.

Notes:

I am very sorry to be so late with this chapter, but have tried to make it worth the wait. With thanks to Kitty and Poppy for their endless patience and to my readers for theirs. And especially than all of you who let me know in whatever way, what you think of the story.

Chapter Text

Alan woke to kitchen sounds. Eyes closed and warm in his guest-nest, he listened as someone rummaged the fridge and started coffee. Still no pain and no nausea, though the real test would be injecting the Filgrastim this evening. Part of his mind clung to the state of feeling good and wailed for those brownies. Though Alan did not want to deprive Eric of his medicine - that was some ex - he did not want to feel miserable long enough to become accustomed to it.

A peek out of the quilt-cocoon provided him with a view of his host in a pair of tartan-pattern flannel pyjama bottoms and a pair of… bear-paw slippers?

Nicely toned back, though. Complete with gravy train.

Hush, Alan.

His host stumbled down the hall and into the bath - which Alan had found well enough at some point when it was still dark - and turned on the shower. Ronald came down the hall a few minutes later and peered blearily at the coffee pot.

"Aw, fuck. Hurry uuuup."

Alan made 'waking up noises' to let Ronald know he was here, then lifted his head out of the blankets as he adjusted his glasses. He must have scared Ronald horribly, breaking down like that.

"Um. Good morning, and congratulations."

"Hey, Alan! How're you doing?" Ronald, hung-over and steampunky ensemble nowhere in sight, took three mugs down from the hooks under the cabinet. "About the brownie…"

"Ronald, your brother explained things. It's fine, and I am honestly grateful." He still felt pretty good, too. "I haven't slept so much or so well in a month."

A wave of coffee scent rolled from the kitchen and Alan breathed deep.

"Good. You look better, too. I mean, that's a lot of sleep."

"And food," Alan added.

Ronald grinned. "He stuffed you, didn't he? That's Eric - if it holds still, feed it."

"Wiped out again after two bowls of chicken and gravy, plus ricotta cakes and coulis."

"Yeah, I ended up not liking oysters and port so much."

"But you took one hell of a prize - one I think might be better than first place."

"I was bummed for about five minutes until I figured that out." Coffee was forthcoming, and Ronald brought Alan a cup with cream. "I mean, I'll be exclusive to Pearl Street for a while, but I have my brand to build." The shower shut off and Ronald held up a finger to Alan, signaling for silence, then shouted, "I'm making breakfast!"

"Touch that stove and I break your fingers, Beer Brat!" came the bellow. "And we've got a guest, so keep your fucking voice down!"

"That's a poor thing to do to someone before coffee," Alan reproached, trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, but it's fun." Ronald raised his voice again. "And lend Alan some sweats!"

"Be reasonable. Your brother's clothing would fit me like a lawn bag."

"Quit jerking my chain before I have my coffee, you ass," Eric growled. "I can do things to your food that would fuck you up for life."

"He's under the impression that I can't feed or dress myself," Ronald confided.

"You do look more mature without the face foliage and with the the new glasses," Alan ventured. "Very Millennial Alternative Entrepreneur."

Ronald absolutely preened. "You think? I thought my look was getting too mainstream."

"The Trinity knot is very distinctive." Good Lord. It wasn't just Eric who was the peacock. Ronald was fanning his tail and having a strut, too.

"He buys a shirt without someone else's name on it and all of a sudden he's Joe Fashion Forward." Eric came grumping down the hall in a bathrobe that looked to be a concession to Alan's presence and made straight for the coffee maker. "You probably blew the competition away last night, though."

"It was Rox that made the scene, man. When I grow up, I want to give that few fucks." He laughed. "The guy from the Village Voice interviewed her first, then the Hot Sheet, and the Daily Smoke blog."

"I told Rox ze'd class up the joint too much." Eric poured an extravagant amount of cream into his coffee and drank deeply. "Oh, coffee. How I love you. Hey, Humphries, how're you feeling?"

"Really… good. Rested. Hungry again. Good. After sixteen hours plus of sleep, it's like getting my body back." And it was. How could he be this relaxed? It was amazing.

"You want to grab a shower, go ahead. I'll make pancakes and then run you and your bike back home in the…"

Ronald growled with unexpected ferocity. "Don't you dare."

"Moby Melon," Eric finished with Ronald glaring at him.

Alan hid his smile in a long sip of coffee. Brothers.

"And then I'm drafting you to bring back the new equipment with me, Eric."

"What, second place doesn't include delivery? What a fucking rip. Do we need a U-Haul?"

"Yeah, and it's in Brooklyn."

"Of course it is." Eric sighed.

"Alan, Eric's a total Manhattanite." Ronald proclaimed, "He just won't budge out of the borough. He's like Dracula with sunlight."

"Nuh-uh. Not getting in that one." Alan made the time-out sign. "I'm in no condition to duck flying pies."

"Keep it up, Ronnie. Keep messing with me. I'm the one who makes the pancakes."

"Eric makes beer pancakes, Alan." Then he turned to his brother. "I want blueberries."

"It's good to want things, butthead." Eric grumped and hooked a thumb at his brother, bringing Alan back into play. "This guy, Humphries. Big brass balls."

"Beer pancakes?" Alan steered for the neutral course, trying to stave off laughter. "How does that work?"

The two of them launched into a whipsaw explanation of the art and science of brewing and the exacting nature of pancake making, and Alan went along for the ride. Yes, he and Eric might be awful at new people, but they had their enthusiasms. Nothing would do but to make a batch of pancakes with pumpkin, spice, and a rich brown porter ale. And Eric was right. Most pumpkin pancakes were soggy mess, but the addition of beer lightened the dough, and made for spongy, airy cakes that sopped up butter and blackstrap molasses.

Alan, as guest, was given dibs on the bath next. Ronald was detailed to the dishes and Eric went downstairs to sign for and put away a delivery of eggs and dairy. A pair of sweats from Ronald replaced his slept-in clothing, and Alan bundled them into his backpack. The moment of truth was looking in the mirror, then running his fingers through what hair had not washed down the drain. It felt like a punch in the chest.

That was him.

This was real.

He came out of the bath to find Ronald with a rather smaller brownie on a plate and a glass of milk.

"Eric says." Ronald held them out.

"It's a bit hard to deal with." Alan pointed at his head and the patchy brown hair remaining before taking the brownie. "I don't think I'm handling it too well."

"It's not like stubbing your toe on the sofa, man."

The brownie went down with a swallow of milk. Extra chocolatey. No 'herby' taste at all, just a rich and buttery undertone. "Eric offered me a share of his brownies, but I don't want to take his medicine from him."

"If they did you that much good, I'd take him up on it, Alan." Ronald leaned in and confided, "That, and he can be an enormous pain in the ass."

"You tease him, Ronald." This time Alan did laugh - the image of competing peacocks was just too strong.

"It's my job!" Ronald asserted. "It keeps him on his toes."

"Beer Brat. Pie. With your name on it." Ronald jumped a foot in the air and then turned, coming down facing his brother. "You have a delivery. Cayuga Farms bundled your oats and barley with mine. Go check yours in."

Ronald looked around for imminent flying pies, and seeing none but perhaps not wishing to push his luck, scooted down the hallway.

Awkward was really awful. Hands. What did you do with them? Alan stuffed his in the pocket of the sweatshirt as Eric tried not to look at his patchy head. "Um. Chemotherapy's catching up with me, I guess. It looks awful."

"I have clippers. Can lend them to you." Eric took a good look - his eyes were such a piercing blue-green that the effect was unsettling. "It's not even that bad. You could even get away with kind of a low fade."

"Probably, but for how long? At least it wouldn't be as bad when it fell out, though." Alan ran his fingers through and came away with more hair. "I'll make an appointment with my barber tomorrow."

The thought was dispiriting, but it probably would feel better to be sheared short. At least then it wouldn't fall off in hanks. Perhaps not especially in front of Mr. Hot Butch Honey, but his pride simply could not get any lower than this.

Eric seemed to be having hands issues as well, stuffing them in the pockets of his jeans and giving Alan another of those unsettlingly keen looks. "I can give you a fade. I do my own 'hawk and clean up Ronnie's undercut when he's tight on cash."

And in a few minutes, Alan was sitting on a stool in the middle of the bathroom floor, towel around his neck, and the clippers humming along his scalp behind the combing of Eric's fingers. There was a quibble over a fade or just an overall buzz, and excellent care taken around his ears. And it might make him a big wuss, but Alan had closed his eyes when the clippers started.

Eric had very gentle hands for such a brusque presentation. Though since he was a chef, perhaps Alan should not be surprised. There was a hint of a citrusy aftershave and a warm, almost spiced scent that Alan could not put a name to.

The clippers clicked off. "Okay. You can look."

As if it was Eric's idea to have Alan close his eyes. But okay. Alan opened them and regarded his reflection in the mirror. It was a fade, but with the thinning of his hair at least he didn't look so pathetic. "Thank you."

"S'all right." Eric unplugged the clippers and removed the blade.

Objectively, it wasn't so bad. Alan ran a hand over the scant quarter-inch fuzz left him. "It's a good job. Looks good."

Eric shot him a look of disbelief, but said nothing.

"I need to jolly myself along sometimes, so just let me do it, okay?" Right now, Alan couldn't bear to have that taken away. It might have to go at some point, but not yet. "I'm trying, you know."

"Yeah. I know."

"Thanks."

"You can roll over here any time, you know," Eric blurted. "I'm shit for company, but Ronnie thinks the world of you."

Simple presentation, Alan reminded himself, but complex seasonings. "That means a lot, but I don't want to… you know… be a Debbie Downer."

"You're not bad company. You don't tell me how to cook."

Alan was not going to mention the fennel. "I promise to at least check in."

"And if you feel like shit, we can bring stuff to you."

Alan parsed for a hint of pity or condescension, and found only the blunt pragmatism of someone who isn't interested in theory, just results. "I'd appreciate that. But I really like coming down here. It feels less like I'm living in a fishbowl."

Eric nodded. "Just so you know."

Alan pulled his knit cap over his new fade. "All I need is a goatee and I'll look like a hipster."

"Facial hair is so mainstream." Eric smirked. "Next thing you know they're going to cultivate their ear hair."

"Fuck, but that's gross." Alan laughed out loud, carefully taking off the towel so that the hair didn't go everywhere. "But you know, someone's probably already thought of just that?"

"If they haven't, there has to be a way to plant the idea somehow. It would be a good laugh." The towel went in the hamper, hair and all, quite neatly. The clipper took a spray of Clippercide and Eric glanced at him. "Okay?"

"Yeah. As okay as I'm getting. I appreciate… everything. You and Ronald have been wonderfully kind over this." Andrea was kind, but he took care not to let her know how bad it could get in his head. "The brownies have really helped. More than I thought they would."

"Good. Because you've got a pan waiting downstairs."

Well. 'Eric says' indeed.

"I am not going to take your medicine away from you."

"I have a steady and reliable supply."

"I don't know how that works but I know that if you need it for yourself, I don't want you running short-"

"Which is not going to happen-"

"People do not normally talk when I am talking-"

"New things happen every day." Eric took his arm. "Come and see."

Somehow Alan managed to argue down the hall and into Eric's room - a rather monastic space with a daybed, desk, armoire, reading chair, bookshelves, and dresser. No carpet, bare walls, and a… capacious closet full of… stuff. Lights and little tubs filled with squat, bushy plants, a pump humming quietly from under the tables and a vent that sounded like a 747 taking off from LaGuardia.

And a rather… sweet funky smell.

"I'm not sure when I'm looking at, here. The stuff I had in undergrad was green and smelled like skunky corn chips."

"This is a hybrid - about 40 percent indica and 60 percent ruderalis. I wanted something lower in THC and higher in CBD." Alan must have looked blank at that, as Eric continued. "Cannabidiol - it's the 'second cannabinoid' behind delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol."

"THC being the stuff that gets you stoned?" Alan hazarded, hoping he didn't sound like a total idiot. "The munchies and all?"

"Yeah, it does that, but a lot of other things, too. I have some research." Eric took a binder out of a desk drawer and held it out. "Most of it's related to PTSD and HIV, but there's a lot of other stuff in there. There's even evidence that THC is cytotoxic to certain cancer cell lines."

Alan took it, looked in at the plants, and thought of all the time put into growing and learning about them. "If I'm not putting you out by taking your medicine and your research, then thank you. Yes, I will take the brownies."

They drove back to Alan's in Ronald's station wagon - and there was a discussion about Ronald's color aesthetics. Eric mentioned that he called the car the Snot Rocket, and Alan dubbed the sofa the Grape Grope Grotto. "Still, he did look well in his outfit."

"Rox dressed him. Alan, you should have seen it before. He looked like Scarlett O'Hara coming down the stairs in that dress made out of her drapes-" Eric peered at Alan's building and whistled. "Nice."

"Thanks. I bought my co-op here about the time that you and Ronald opened up." Eric eased Alan's bike out of the wagon, visibly impressed with the light titanium frame and the fat urban wheels. The brownie pan Alan strapped to the cargo deck. "I'll run Ronald's sweats back tomorrow when I come to pick up my supplies. Thanks for everything."

"Welcome. No problem." The awkward came back and Eric stuffed his hands in his pockets again. "See you Monday?"

Alan smiled. "See you Monday."

Upstairs he hung his bike on the stand and put the brownies in the refrigerator. The place felt quiet and empty, as if it hadn't missed him at all. As it he was not really home.

"Come on, asshole. Do not brain, do yoga."

Unzipping the hoodie, Alan went to change and then set up the Wii.

~

Eric drove Humphries home in the Snot Rocket, that fancy-ass titanium hardtail bike in the back of the station wagon. Alan held the pan of brownies on his lap like precious cargo. Eric watched him wheel the bike in the lobby door, waving awkwardly when the squirt looked back at him. So he was just making sure that he made it home.

And then Alan waved back.

#black butler fanfiction

[sandstream48]

Is definitely Megagame the Greatest Game For Free of charge of the 12 months 2021?

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#ทดลองเล่นสล็อต

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

I once described Billy Hargrove as, quote, 'poasesed shirtless white boy with a mullet running around and kidnapping people' and I'm ready to do it again.

#billy hargrove #billy hargorve stranger things #stranger things netflix #stranger things #eighties blasts collection

[harley-sunday]

Fight for Your Right (to a party shirt)

Daniel Ricciardo once said: “Alright, so, you know it when you see it. You know, some people will wear, they call it, "Party Shirt," but it's not, it's like an old, Hawaiian dad shirt or something. Whether the buttons are too big, or the flowers just aren't the right flower, I don't know. So, you just know it when you see it. But when you see a good party shirt, it's magical. I’ve always got a party shirt. You gotta be merry, they could be an occasion. They don’t have to be as crazy as this one. They come in all shapes, sizes, colours, creations, but yeah, I uh, I certainly do have a collection of party shirts. I’m guilty for that.” 

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x reader (F)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 3.3k

AN: No thoughts, head empty, just Dan and his party shirt. Enjoy.

“I’m gonna go grab another beer,” you tell your best friend, who just shakes her head and points to her ear to let you know she hasn’t heard you over the loud music that has been playing all night. Maybe if you weren’t four beers in already you’d worry about someone filing a noise complaint but then again, you don’t live here and so it’s really not your problem if they do. You’re on the other side of the city, somewhere in the outskirts of Wooroloo, although in all honesty all of Wooroloo is nothing more but an outskirt of Perth, and despite the closest neighbour living at least one k away you’re sure they’re able to enjoy the thumping bass as far as inside their living room it’s so loud.

The reason you’re here, in the middle of nowhere, is a party hosted by your best friend’s brother’s girlfriend’s brother. Or something like that, anyway. Not that it matters. What matters is that your beer is empty and so you try again, a little louder this time, “Gonna go grab a beer!”

Jess, still dancing, shakes her head.

You can’t help but laugh and hold up your empty beer bottle, pointing at it as you mouth, “Right back.”

Finally she nods in understanding and dismisses you with a wave of her hand before she turns around and starts jumping up and down to the chorus of Chumbawamba’s ‘Tubthumping’ with some people you’ve been introduced to earlier but you don’t remember the names of anymore. Dodging other groups of laughing and dancing people you make your way towards the house, to where a drinking station has been set up. There’s a variety of liquor and mixers on the kitchen counter and the fridge is filled to the brim with bottles of beer. You’re not sure who’s on restocking duty, but whoever it is they’re doing a terrific job because not once during your previous four beer-runs have you seen the fridge even halfway empty. 

Taking two beers, one for Jess just in case she wants a refill, you turn around and head back outside, finding your best friend exactly where you left her. You hand her the beer and it’s then the guy behind what is supposed to be the DJ booth, but instead is just a garden table with a laptop connected to some speakers on top, announces that he’s gonna start the eighties hour of power, which is met by loud cheers from pretty much everyone. You have to hand it to him, the guy, Jocko you think he’s called, knows his classics and knows how to crowd-please, Joan Jett’s ‘I Love Rock and Roll’ now blasting through the speakers and, like so many times before this night, you can’t help but sing along at the top of your lungs. 

=X=X=

It’s when you and Jess are in the middle of a very aggressive rendition of the Beastie Boys’ ‘Fight For Your Right’ that you feel someone tapping your shoulder and so you turn around even though you don’t stop whatever it is you’re doing. ‘Cause it sure isn’t singing or rapping. Screaming, most likely. You’re a little surprised to find a guy you don’t recognize standing behind you and become even more confused when you see the way he’s absolutely beaming at you. 

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps smiling at you, and so you raise an eyebrow at him, not sure what it is he wants from you until he steps aside and, like a magician, holds out his arms to reveal what, you’re not exactly sure. But then, then, another guy steps into view, his smile even brighter than the first guy, and you can feel your eyes grow wide when you see what he’s wearing.

As if on cue the song fades out and so they can actually hear you when you blurt out, “No way!”

Guy number two just nods, “I know, right? What are the fuckin’ odds?”  

You just stare at him in disbelief, shaking your head and trying not to smile when finally you say, “Well, one of us is gonna have to go change.”

He lets out a honking laugh, drawing the attention of the people around you and slowly more and more heads turn your way. “I’m not taking this off, babe,” he says with a grin, a defiant look in his eyes, “this is my party shirt.”

“No. No, no, this is my party shirt,” you challenge, folding your arms in front of your chest in a way that you hope will let him know you won’t back down that easily and to emphasise your point you throw him a wink, “babe.” 

The staredown that follows lasts at least a few seconds, with you biting your lip to keep from laughing and him still looking at you with a spark in his eyes as if this is the best thing that has happened all night. It allows you to really look at him and you’d be lying if you say he wasn’t attractive. He looks like a cheeky schoolboy, standing there with that stupid, shit-eating grin, but there’s something about the way he’s built that makes you think he might be an athlete, his tan arms and legs muscular but slim and you sort of want to know what he looks like underneath all those clothes. Rock hard abs probably, you muse, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. He has a good head of hair too, you realise once you’ve let your eyes wander over his face, and, blame it on the almost five beers you’ve had, but you can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have him on top of you, your hands running through his curls and-

It’s then the music is cut off completely and Jocko’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, “Looks like we got ourselves a standoff, people.” He nods towards where the two of you are standing, everyone now turning your way and you think you hear Jess whisper a quiet, “Oh, shit.”

“One of them is gonna have to take it off,” Jocko says and there are a few loud cheers coming from people who seem to agree with him. 

“There’s only one way to settle this,” an unfamiliar voice pipes up from next to Jocko and when you look over to your right you see the guy who introduced you to your party shirt twin a few moments earlier has now found his way behind the DJ booth as well. He scans the crowd with that same beaming smile he had when he came up to you and screams, “Beer pong!”

The crowd whoops and cheers in response and before you even have time to protest two guys carrying another garden table make their way to the front and start to set up a game of beer pong with an efficiency that’s almost scary. 

Jocko waves you over then and you shake your head to let him know this isn’t really a good idea, but all around you people are starting to cheer you on and then Jess pushes you forward and you mutter a quiet, “Fine, fuck it,” not bothering to see if the guy is following you or not.

He is.

Jocko motions for you two to stand on either side of him and then brings his finger to his lips to silence the crowd who are all watching intently. He points to your opponent then, “Tell the people who you are, what you do, and why you deserve to win, my friend.”

“I’m Daniel, thirty-three years of age” the guy says without missing a beat, “I drive fast cars for a living, and I deserve to win because-” he leans forward then and throws you a wink, “-I’m not wearing anything underneath this shirt.”

The crowd roars but you just laugh back at him, “And what makes you think I am?”

Daniel’s eyes widen in shock just a little but enough to let you know you’ve thrown him off ever so slightly, which you plan to use to your full advantage. 

Jocko turns to you then and nods to let you know it’s your turn. You clear your throat and introduce yourself before you tell them, “I fly planes for a living-” you risk a quick glance to your right and see Daniel’s eyes widen even further before he nods appreciatively, “- and I deserve to win because I didn’t come here to fuck around.”

“Alright, rules are simple,” Jocko says, more to the crowd than to you. “You hit your shot, your oponent drinks and-” he draws out before he hushes the crowd with a finger to his lips, waiting before they’ve settled down before he continues, “has to undo a button!”

=X=X=

“Jesus, you suck at this,” you tell Daniel from across the table when he misses yet another throw, leaving your six cups untouched while you’ve already made him empty three of his. 

“Just need some warming up, babe,” he counters with a grin, laughing then when you miss your shot too. “Was I too distracting?”

“Nah, babe,” you tell him, the banter between you flowing effortlessly ever since this whole thing started. You roll your shoulders in an effort to loosen up your muscles some more, “Just trying to not make you look like too much of a loser.” 

Something changes in his demeanour then and he plants his feet a little wider apart, looking more determined than ever to get a ball in, even closing one eye to get his aim right. Still he misses and you can hear him mutter a quiet, “Fuck.” 

“Oh no,” you pout, teasing him as you line up your next shot, “it’s ok, baby. I’m sure you have other talents.”

“Make your next shot and maybe I’ll show you,” he says with a wink.

You laugh at his innuendo and throw the ping pong ball, landing it into his fourth cup with ease, “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep, Daniel.” 

The crowd surrounding the table cheers him on as he shots his beer, laughing when he makes a face once he’s emptied the cup. He runs the back of his hand over his mouth and looks at you as he opens the fourth button of his shirt, only two remaining now. You can’t help but stare at his tanned chest and he snaps his fingers to get your attention, shaking his head as he points two fingers at you before he turns them at his face, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” 

You grin and take a step back, simply holding out your hands in front of you to show him the six still full cups on the table and watch him as he once again lines up for his next shot. This time he does make it and the crowd around you goes wild, a few guys slapping his back and shoulders. You shrug and take the cup, fishing out the ping pong ball before you down the drink in one go, throwing him a wink when you toss the cup aside and you undo the first button of your shirt. When you arrived at the party, Jess tied the lower part of the shirt around your waist in an attempt to make it appear a little less baggy and so you only have three more buttons to go before it gets critical but still you’re confident you’ll have beaten him before that happens. 

=X=X=

Of course you spoke entirely too soon because you missed the next three shots in rapid succession while Daniel nailed his, giving you a taste of your own medicine when he tells you it’s ok and not to worry about it. And so here you are, a few minutes later, three drinks in, and only one button away from where it’s tied, silently thanking whatever god there may be that you decided to wear your new lacy black bra tonight and not the skin-coloured one you usually have on under your uniform. 

“Come on, babe,” Daniel teases, his eyes locking on yours even though you’ve already seen him glance down your shirt a couple of times already, “show me what you got.”

Taking a deep breath you raise your arm and aim at the cup on the right, which is a bit closer to you than the one in the far left corner of the table. When you throw the ball you are certain you’ve missed completely but by some sort of miracle it lands in the other cup and so Daniel has to take another shot and undo another button. You raise your eyebrows at him, “You were saying?”

“Nothing,” he says once he finishes his drink. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.” 

He must have finally found his groove because he makes the next shot as well and so you finish your second-to-last beer, now tied with him in what the crowd thinks is the most epic game of beer pong they’ve ever seen. They’re quiet now, watching the both of you intently, and you can’t help but feel the pressure as you undo the final button.   

“You got this,” your best friend says from somewhere beside you  just as you get ready to release the ball from your hand and it throws you off just enough that you miss your next shot. 

“Fuck yeah!” Daniel pumps one fist in the air as if he’s already won and blows you a kiss, “You are so going down.” 

You just look at him and watch as he picks up another ping pong ball, lines up his shot, and moves his arm back, ready to throw. It’s at that exact moment you undo the knot that ties your shirt together and let it fall open while you lean forward ever so slightly, giving him a perfect view of the swell of your breasts inside your bra. As if in slow motion you see Daniel’s mouth fall open just as he makes his throw, too shocked by what you just did to properly throw the ball and so it lands somewhere in the middle of the table before it rolls off into the grass rather unceremoniously. 

“Ha! Sucker!” You stick out your tongue at him and high five some of the people on your left. 

“That is so not fair,” Daniel exclaims, looking around him to see if anyone will back him up, “right?” He looks at Jocko then, “Tell me that wasn’t an unfair advantage, mate. I should get a do over.”

Jocko just shrugs, “I don’t see the problem, bud.”

“Oh, come on!” Daniel throws his hands in the air and turns his back at you to see if maybe anyone behind him will agree with him. 

No one does and so you try to make the most of this temporary distraction by taking a few deep breaths, knowing that it’s now or never. Not in the least because all the beer you’ve drank so far is starting to go to your head and you can feel yourself on the tipping point between tipsy and drunk, knowing that once you’ve tipped over to the drunk side you’ll never make another shot again. You wait until Daniel turns back around again so you can continue the game but he’s arguing with someone over the rules of beer pong and whether distracting your opponent is or isn’t allowed and so you snap your fingers to get his attention.

When he doesn’t hear you, or pretends he doesn’t, you retort to calling his name, over and over again, each time a little louder than before, “Daniel. Dan? Dan! Daniel! Oi!” Still he doesn’t listen and you turn to the crowd on your right, “Anyone know his full name?” 

Some guy nods and when he’s told you he looks at you expectantly, no doubt wanting to find out what’s going to happen next.  

You take another deep breath and then use what your friends like to call your ‘mom-voice’ even though you are definitely not a mom and only ever use it when they’re drunk and you try to get them all home safe. “Daniel Joseph Ricciardo!”

He turns around instantly, looking absolutely horrified, muttering a quiet, “Jesus Christ, you’re scary when you do that.”  

“Stop whining and let’s get on with it,” you tell him as you show him the ball you’re holding. “We’ve got a game to finish.”

He stares at you for a few seconds but then seems to regroup and waves his hand at you, “You’re already half-naked, babe. I think we can safely say I’ve won, nah?”

You don’t say anything and instead just throw the ball you were holding while you keep looking at him, blowing him a kiss for good measure. It’s a bold move and you know it and so time seems to actually slow down, each tenth of a second that passes feeling like a minute, but then you hear the sweet sound of a ping pong ball landing in a red solo cup that’s filled with beer. The crowd all around you goes absolutely crazy and even though you try to play it cool, as if you knew you were going to make the shot all along, you can’t help but join the celebrations, hugging Jess as both of you jump up and down to celebrate your win. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jocko says then, grabbing a hold of you and lifting your right arm in the air just as MGMT’s ‘Kids’ starts playing. “We have a winner!”

=X=X=

Daniel finds you in the crowd not much later, his shirt now hanging wide open, and holds out his arms to you for a hug, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you say as you step closer to him, letting him throw his arms around you as you sneak yours under his shirt and around his waist, because fuck it. He’s all muscle you find out then, his abs as rock hard as you thought they’d be and yet there’s a softness to him that makes you want to never let go. Instead you simply say, “Told you I didn’t come to fuck around.”

He chuckles as his cheek brushes against yours, his warm breath hitting just below your ear when he whispers, “I think it’s only fair if I show you some of my other talents now.”

“Don’t make any promises you can’t keep, Ricciardo,” you remind him. 

“Not if you’ll let me kiss you.”

You smile even though he can’t see you, “How could I resist?”

He pulls back a little, his hands now cupping your face and so you slide your hands from his back to his sides and over his abs to his chest, where you rest your fingertips against his pecs. When he looks at you he raises one eyebrow, silently asking for permission, before he looks at the crowd that’s still around you.

You shrug as if to say, fuck ‘em, because most of them have gone back to dancing and drinking anyway. You don’t miss the way his eyes light up when you do. 

He lowers his head and finds your mouth with ease, his nose bumping against your cheek as he lets his lips brush against yours, his kiss soft and gentle at first. His lips are surprisingly soft and you swear you taste a hint of Australian Gold’s kiwi lime lipbalm when you run your tongue over them. 

He opens his mouth then and Jesus, you’re gonna need something to hold onto because you can feel your knees starting to go a little weak. You find the collar of his shirt and pull him closer to you just in time, because your tongue finds his then and it’s all teeth and tongue from there on out. When, after a while,  he takes your lower lips between his teeth and gently pulls on it you let out an involuntary moan, chasing his mouth with yours when he lets go. 

You think you hear someone shouting something about getting a room then and it makes Daniel pull back a little, a mischievous look in his eyes, “Maybe we should, eh?” 

He’s panting, trying to catch his breath, his voice’s a little rough and God, does it make you feel good, knowing you’re the one responsible for all that. 

You grin at him, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods and gives you a quick kiss before he puts his mouth to your ear again, his voice low and full of promises, “You didn’t come to fuck around and well,” he drops his voice even further, “-kissing isn’t the only thing I’m talented at, babe.”

#Daniel Ricciardo x reader #Daniel Ricciardo fanfic #F1 fanfic #DR3 #Harley Sunday x Daniel Ricciardo

[dumdumsun]

And Dusk

A/N: Prayers for poor Olga 🙏🏾

Warnings: blood, violence, straight up murder

Word Count: 4096

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Chapter 13: Öga för Öga

Clicking steps echoed the hall Sir Reginald Hargreeves currently walked down, leaving a very discontent Five behind. Once the man disappeared down the hall, the boy left the lounge, growling and rubbing the back of his neck. Mind racing, he hopped on the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Just as the doors were about to close, (Y/N) slipped between them, Pennycrumb under her arm, and grasped onto Five’s arm. Eyes wide, the boy watched her in shock. “(Y/N)? I thought you left already. What are you doing?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” She whispered. “Five, I’m sorry… about lying to you. I-I was gonna tell you all about living with Dad a-and being adopted by him again, but then I didn’t and it was selfish and stupid-”

“(Y/N)-”

“But what I’m sorry about the most was for not speaking up about us. It wasn’t fair to you,” She shook her head. “I just… I’ve been doubtful about us lately. It’s like, everyone’s saying we shouldn’t be together… And after hearing it for so long…”

Five placed his hands on her shoulders firmly. “No,” He breathed. “I’ve waited too long for this, dammit. Listen to me, (Y/N). Don’t let what others say determine your opinions. What we have is fine. I know it seems fucked up, I know it seems wrong. But does any of this ever feel wrong to you?”

Glancing up at him, she shook her head. “No…”

“Exactly. This… Our entire upbringing was so dysfunctional and confusing. Nothing ever felt like true family. We were strangers in our own childhood home. We’re just now behaving like an actual family unit and it’s still confusing. So, no one has the right to tell us how to love. Especially not Reginald Hargreeves. The man who caused this.”

The two rested their foreheads against each other as the elevator doors opened, but they didn’t bother leaving just yet. As the doors closed again, (Y/N) sniffled. “So, you’ve never thought this wasn’t going to last?”

“I’ve never, ever doubted us. I know… compared to you, I know next to nothing about love. But this? This is real. And I promise you, Starlight, once the timeline is restored… I’m making this official. If you’ll have me.”

Snapping her head up, (Y/N) let her tears fall. “Are you… You’re serious?” She grinned. When Five nodded, she quickly elevated herself on her toes and pecked his lips repeatedly. “Yes. Finally.” She whispered. Five grinned and tightened his hold on her, blinking them both out of the building and outside.

“Well, then, why don’t we speed up the process? Here’s what's going to happen,” He started and pulled away, gently wiping her tears away. “I’m about to meet up with The Handler. She offered me a deal to kill the entire board of directors of the Commission in exchange for a briefcase to get us all home to 2019. No more World War III, no more apocalypse.”

(Y/N) glanced down at her pup, who peered up at her, tongue hanging from his mouth. “How can you trust her?”

“I don’t know if I even should. But I’ll have to. She’s our only… our only option.”

From the way he sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets, she could tell he was already regretting his decision. Gently caressing his cheek, she offered him a small smile. “You don’t want to kill, do you?” She whispered, receiving the shake of a head as an answer. “I-I don’t even know what to say to that… Just… Just know that I won’t think any differently of you. You’ll still be my Five. And I’ll be right there beside you if you need me.”

“My god, I don’t deserve you…” He sighed. Quietly chuckling, (Y/N) set her pet down and pulled Five into a hug. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I appreciate you, I really do. I’m gonna get us out of here, but I don’t want you helping me on this. The Handler already knows about you. I can’t have her using you or anything like that against me. So… just wait for me.”

“Wait? Five, I can’t just let you do something like this alone.”

“I know I’ve asked you too many times at this point, but this will be the last. I promise I’ll get you as soon as I come back.” The boy tried a smile as he pulled away. When she gently bit her lip, he sighed. “(Y/N), you can’t come. I’m sorry, but you’ll be by my side after this is over. I promise, okay?”

She shifted her eyes away from him. “You don’t have to keep promising. I trust you.” She whispered. Five exhaled and gently picked up Mr Pennycrumb, placing him in her arms before pecking his love on the lips. With a small smile, he turned around to leave. Just as he blinked away, (Y/N) very gently pinched the back of his blaser, allowing herself and her pet to be teleported with him.

(Y/N) considered herself very lucky for the fact that Five hadn’t noticed her presence. Or maybe she had her stealth to thank. She would quickly duck behind walls, corners, tables and so on whenever she felt that Five was becoming suspicious of her. After all, she knew him like the back of her hand; she could tell when he was subtly glancing over his shoulder or out of the corner of his eye. She waited outside the door of the room the boy had entered, keeping her hand over her pet’s mouth to silence him as she attempted to eavesdrop on the muffled conversation between Five and who she assumed was The Handler.

She had to admit, it did set her blood boiling at the thought of him being alone in that room with another woman, but she knew he would never be disloyal to her. Not after his confession and proposal. So, she shook off her jealousy and hid once again when he exited the room, briefcase in hand.

She gave herself a great pat on the back when she successfully managed to blink with him for the second time. And the third. And when he used the briefcase to teleport. By this point, she was light-headed and nursing her whimpering pup as she followed Five from a distance. She had no idea where or when they were, but judging by the cars people drove and the hairstyles they wore, she wasn’t in the sixties anymore. Most likely the late seventies or early eighties, she assumed.

Setting Mr Pennycrumb on the ground, (Y/N) grabbed hold of his leash and kept a close eye on her love as she blended in as a teenage girl, in outdated clothing, walking her puppy towards an inn. After watching Five enter, she walked onto the porch and sat herself in one of the rocking chairs. She tapped her fingers and toes to the rhythm of the upbeat polka music sounding from the inside. To pass the time, she reviewed tricks with Mr Pennycrumb, clapping and excitedly petting him in praise whenever he’d succeed. What the puppy expected, though, was a treat. It was then that she realized neither of them had eaten in quite some time.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, baby…” She whispered to the pup, who only whined and pawed at her ankles. Huffing, she jumped to her feet and led the two of them inside. Everyone seemed to be dressed for polka dancing, considering their attire and the music playing from a nearby room. With a polka party, there had to be food. Turning to her left, she was met with a nest of blonde curls. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Well, hi there,” The woman looked up with a jolly smile. “I just told the young man before you, we don’t put out the cookies until three.”

“That’s amazing,” (Y/N) smiled. “I was actually wondering where the… polka dancing takes place.”

The woman assessed the young girl with a raised brow. “Very… interesting choice of clothing. And I’m afraid we can’t allow the dog.”

“Ah- Yes, my mom’s actually in there with my clothes. I just need to find her and change. And this is her… service dog.”

“He looks a little young to be a service dog, sweetie.”

“That’s what I told the doctor,” (Y/N) chuckled, smiling down at her pup. “But he does his job very well for the cute little thing he is. However, he cannot do his job if he isn’t at my mom’s side, so…”

Sighing, the woman gestured to her left. “All the way down that hall, dear. Just keep an eye on the dog, will ya?”

“Of course. Thank you.” She nodded before leading her and Pennycrumb in the direction of the room jumping with cheery music and the clicking of dancing feet. She found herself a table in the corner of the room after meandering her way past attendees. Just as she sat herself down, she was greeted by smiling faces, allowing them to gush over and pet her puppy. This eventually resulted in them wanting to feed him their scraps of food, much to her delight.

(Y/N) helped herself to the buffet as she watched the door carefully, wanting to keep an eye on Five’s whereabouts. What she didn’t expect after eating the majority of her plate was to be pulled onto the dance floor. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she genuinely had a blast learning to polka dance, as embarrassing as it was to her. She caught on rather quickly and allowed herself three dances before she politely excused herself, collected her dog, and crept out of the room. Just as she entered the hall again, she saw the blonde attendant from earlier storming away from a broken vending machine and into a room for a meeting labeled ‘Midwest Soybean Society’.

That doesn’t even sound like a real thing, she thought. That must be where the board is meeting.

Deciding to wait out Five’s ‘work’, she strolled over to the vending machine, wincing at the broken glass that once contained the delicious snacks inside. Squinting her eyes, she noticed a certain candy bar, the Fudge Nutter, was leaning just out of its slot. It was just hanging by a thread. That’s when (Y/N) realized, Five hadn’t eaten in a while either. This must’ve been his doing. Using her foot, she kicked the glass out of the way and stuck her hand in, plucking the candy out of its place and pocketing it. Just when she did so, she heard Mr Pennycrumb’s barks aimed in front of them. (Y/N) blinked at the sight before her.

A man- could she even call him that? - with a fish tank holding a goldfish for a head came running in her direction in a panicked hurry, huffing and puffing through what looked to be an intercom of some sort. Tightening her hold on the leash, she swirled her way in front of the fish-man any time he’d change his direction. “Out of my way!” He hissed, but (Y/N) continued to block his path until Five blinked right in front of her. From where she stood behind him, she saw that he was drenched in blood and could only imagine what he looked like from the front. The boy clutched a paddle in his hands, his movements fidgeting. The fish-man gasped in shock at the boy. “Surely, we can come to some form of agreement that benefits both parties,” His British accent quivered. “Quid pro quo? What do you say?”

“Why not?” Five shrugged. “Here’s your quid.” The boy swung the paddle into the man’s side, eliciting a shriek from him. “Here’s your pro.” Then to his leg, sending him to his knees. “And here’s your quo.”

“No! No! Please, don’t!” He whimpered as Five aimed the paddle to his glass tank containing the goldfish. “No!” He cried as the boy smashed the paddle through the tank, glass shattering and water pouring all around. The body fell to the ground with a thud as well as the goldfish. Five loomed over the fish just as Mr Pennycrumb happily barked and skittered to the boy. Blinking, he turned to the dog in confusion.

“Mr Pennycrumb?” He whispered. From his peripheral, he spotted (Y/N) joining his side. “(Y/N), what are you doing here?! How did you even-”

“I’m surprised I made it this far,” She hummed and crouched down, a bag of water in her hand she had fetched the moment Five had blinked into the hallway. “No, baby, you just ate. You fatty.” She chuckled and gently pushed her very hyper golden retriever away, preventing him from gobbling down the fish.

Five watched as she delicately picked AJ up with her index finger and thumb, plopping him into the bag of water before holding it closed. “What’s the poor bastard’s name?” She asked and stood to her feet. Five let out a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling.

“AJ Carmichael…”

“Well, then… It’s nice to meet you, AJ.” She whispered to the bag. The teens quickly looked up when two giggling women exited the polka association room. They stopped in their tracks, observed the scene, and headed straight back inside without a word spoken. (Y/N) sighed and handed the bag over to her love before picking up her pup’s leash. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She perked up and fished the candy out of her pocket, tucking it into Five’s instead.

“For your hard work.”

“Thank you, my love.”

Not a word was spoken between the two after Five took them back to 1963 via the briefcase. “Why couldn’t we just use this to get back home?”

“Because of that,” He pointed to the case that sat on the gravel before them. It shook and sputtered and crackled, an electric blue light emanating and swallowing it whole until it was gone. “She’d never hand me a ticket out of here until she got what she wanted.”

“Yeah, I guess I should’ve thought of that…” (Y/N) whispered and turned away.

They stood in the middle of an alleyway, awaiting The Handler’s arrival as (Y/N) took her handkerchief out of her breast pocket and began ridding Five’s face of the blood splatter the best she could. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers no matter how hard she tried to capture them. She could practically see the gears turning in his head, with the way his brows scrunched and his bloodied fingers rubbed against each other. Once she finished what she could of his face, she gently took his hands in hers and cleaned those as well. Their eyes finally met, both pairs filled with concern for the other, just before the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard.

The Handler, in all her glory, walked towards the two, briefcase in hand. Five wouldn’t even face her, even went as far as to keep his back towards her even after she stopped to stand in front of (Y/N). “We meet again, dear.”

“I had a feeling…”

“Do you bring the mutt everywhere you go?”

(Y/N) shrugged at her pet, who was busy scratching himself behind his ear. The Handler hummed and turned to Five. “Well?”

Without a word, the boy stretched his arm that held the bag behind him. The Handler gasped and set the briefcase down, moving her veil out of the way and taking the bag into her hands. She cackled, cooed and sighed at poor AJ before settling her sights on Five, who was now turned to face her. “You know, you’re really starting to fill out those tight little shorts of yours. Isn’t he, (Y/N)?”

Said girl only watched her love, who looked anywhere but at her. She realized he was ashamed, he was regretful. The Handler frowned at him, hand on her hip. “What’s wrong with him? He’s never this quiet after a job like this. I thought you’d be buzzing after this morning’s slaughter, Five.”

“All this killing,” Five sighed. “I’m done with it.”

The Handler raised her brows and moved forward, going to caress his cheek as she usually did, but (Y/N) stepped to his side, hand firmly on his arm. Chuckling, she turned back to Five. “Am I supposed to take that seriously?”

“What I did today, I did for my family. I did it to save the world.”

“Please. Spare me your little assassin with the heart of gold routine, will you?” She tapped his nose before picking up the briefcase and stretching it towards them. “Here. Per our agreement, this will get you, your siblings, and dear (Y/N) back to 2019.”

To spare him the humiliation of taking the briefcase, (Y/N) did it herself, glaring at the woman.

“You have ninety minutes.”

(Y/N)’s stomach dropped as Five snapped his head up. The Handler turned to walk away as he quickly followed her. “You said nothing about a time limit!”

Glancing at her watch, she smiled. “Actually, you have eighty-nine minutes and thirty seconds. Better hurry.”

“You fucking-”

“This is impossible, okay?!” Five interrupted (Y/N)’s insult in a panic. “My siblings are scattered across the city!”

“Nothing’s impossible. You proved that this morning when you killed the board.”

“I need more time.” Five rushed, glancing at his love for a moment, the girl clutching the briefcase in one hand, Pennycrumb’s leash in the other.

“Any more time, and people will start asking questions,” The Handler’s neutral tone contradicted Five’s rushed, panicked voice. “The sooner you get home and out of this time period, the better off we’ll both be, so ticktock, ticktock.”

Growling, Five charged up to (Y/N), the girl watching as the she-devil happily waved at them before Five blinked them out of the alleyway. The blood-scrawled message on Elliott’s floor was hard not to notice when they appeared in his home. (Y/N) widened her eyes at the message written in Swedish:

ÖGA FÖR ÖGA

Five snatched the briefcase from her hold and sighed before he hurried up the steps. (Y/N) followed close behind, the voices of Diego and Luther becoming more apparent the closer they got. Reaching the top of the stairs, they noticed a chair with a sheet-covered figure laying in it. (Y/N) dropped the leash and approached the chair, slowly uncovering the figure and gasping at the sight of a bloodied Elliott. His face was frozen in agony, the light within his dark eyes vanished. She and Five let out a simultaneous ‘damn’ before she covered him back up. “The three psychopaths…”

She looked up as Five wandered the lounge room, searching for a safe place to store the briefcase. As he did so, (Y/N) entered the kitchen, watching her brothers share a single brain cell.

“My name? Is, uh, Luther Hargreeves, and-”

Diego snatched the phone out of Luther’s hand and put it up to his own ear. “You killed one of ours, Olga,” The misinterpretation had (Y/N) rolling her eyes to the back of her head. “Now we’re coming after you. You will be dead by nightfall.”

“Hey!” Five called as he entered the kitchen, beginning to take off his blaser. “It’s Öga För Öga, idiots. Swedish for ‘an eye for an eye’.”

(Y/N) moved behind him and assisted in removing his blaser, glancing up at her brothers. “The Swedes killed Elliott. Not poor Olga.” As she pulled off Five’s vest for him, Diego slowly turned back towards the wall.

“Wrong number. Have a lovely day.” He smiled before hanging up the phone. (Y/N) scoffed and held the boy’s clothes out of his reach when he tried to take them.

“Shower.” She demanded, Five clenching his fists.

“(Y/N), we don’t have time-”

“We’ll have plenty of time. You shower while I wash the blood out.” She explained and began unbuttoning his dress shirt. Five gently swatted her hands away.

“I can undress myself!”

“Then hurry and give me your disgusting clothes!”

“Fine!”

Five scoffed and moved around his brothers, ignoring whatever they had been calling out to him. (Y/N) shook her head and set her love’s clothes into Elliott’s kitchen sink. Diego and Luther leaned against the counter on either side of her as she began washing the blood from the vest.

“You gonna explain what the hell happened?” Diego whispered.

“Why’s he covered in blood?” Luther leaned closer.

“I tried to clean it, I really did.” (Y/N) shrugged.

The brothers gave each other a look before moving their attention back to their sister. Luther cleared his throat. “How’d he, uh… get the blood on him?”

She didn’t give him an explanation, though, and picked up the pile of clothes Five had just dumped outside of the bathroom door before returning to the sink. When the two saw she wasn’t going to speak on Five’s behalf, they both sighed and left her to her work.

Despite his irritation, the boy couldn’t help the swelling of his heart when he cracked the bathroom door open to find his slightly damp, but clean clothes neatly folded on the floor. Grabbing the clothes, he quickly tugged the uniform back on, save for the tie and blaser. Swinging the door open, he was met with a smirking (Y/N). He rolled his eyes as she approached him, taking his tie and putting it on for him. “Doesn’t that make you feel a bit better?”

“No,” He mumbled, but caught the amusement in her eyes. “Maybe a little… but it doesn’t matter because we’re losing time.”

“Well, sorry for not wanting you to smell like you just killed twelve people.” She whispered and pecked his lips, exiting the bathroom after his tie was fastened. Glancing in the mirror, Five adjusted his clothes as Luther did the same just outside the bathroom.

“So, I found a way home.”

“What? How?”

“All the details are irrelevant, but… I made a deal to get back to our timeline.”

(Y/N) watched from the lounge room as the boys spoke, gently petting her dog. Diego joined in the conversation as he pulled a jacket on. “What about doomsday?”

“Won’t happen.”

“And the 2019 apocalypse?”

“Everything will be back to normal,” Five sighed and exited the bathroom, blaser in hand. “Now no more questions. We gotta go. We have to find the others, right? Luther, you get Allison. Diego, Klaus. I’ll get Vanya. Now, we meet back in the arrival alley in seventy-seven minutes.” He pulled on the blaser and picked up four watches, handing one to each person in the room. “I’ve synchronized these watches.”

(Y/N) stood to her feet once the watch was given to her. “Five, what should I do?” She raised her brows. Five shook his head and busied himself with fastening the watch on her wrist.

“Starlight, I want you to gather your things, say your goodbyes to Mr Pennycrumb, and meet back in the alleyway as soon as possible-”

“Wait, what? We’re leaving Penny?” She widened her eyes. Five exhaled through his nose and wordlessly nodded. “Five, why? N-Nothing will happen, he’s just a dog.”

His eyes flicked up to her when her voice broke, his hands coming up to hold her jaw. “He may be just a dog, Starlight, but he isn’t insignificant. Every little yawn he takes, every bark he makes… it all matters, okay? We can’t risk it. I know Mr Pennycrumb was a comfort for you and I’m so sorry… but we can’t take him.”

(Y/N) shakily inhaled, desperately trying to blink back the tears in her eyes, but Five saw them long before she even noticed. Glancing down, he saw the puppy chewing at the toe of his shoe. With the utmost care, Five picked the puppy up and placed him into her arms before leaning down to look into his eyes. “Thanks, buddy… for taking care of her,” He reached forward, Pennycrumb instantly nuzzling his nose into his hand. “You did what I couldn’t. And for that, I am eternally grateful. Goodbye, Mr Pennycrumb.”

“I’m glad you two met.” (Y/N) whispered. Five smiled and sweetly kissed her before stepping back. Clearing her throat, she held her puppy close and walked down the stairs. She only allowed herself to cry when she stepped outside, the door shutting behind her.

—————————————

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[peacefulapocalypse]

I Sexually Identify as an

Attack Helicopter

by ISABEL FALL

I sexually identify as an attack helicopter.

I lied. According to US Army Technical Manual 0, The Soldier as a System, “attack helicopter” is a

gender identity, not a biological sex. My dog tags and Form 3349 say my body is an XX-karyotope

somatic female.

But, really, I didn’t lie. My body is a component in my mission, subordinate to what I truly am. If I

say I am an attack helicopter, then my body, my sex, is too. I’ll prove it to you.

When I joined the Army I consented to tactical-role gender reassignment. It was mandatory for the

MOS I’d tested into. I was nervous. I’d never been anything but a woman before.

But I decided that I was done with womanhood, over what womanhood could do for me; I wanted to

be something furiously new.

To the people who say a woman would’ve refused to do what I do, I say—

Isn’t that the point?

I fly—

Red evening over the white Mojave, and I watch the sun set through a canopy of polycarbonate and

glass: clitoral bulge of cockpit on the helicopter’s nose. Lightning probes the burned wreck of an oil

refinery and the Santa Ana feeds a smoldering wildfire and pulls pine soot out southwest across the

Big Pacific. We are alone with each other, Axis and I, flying low.

We are traveling south to strike a high school.

Rotor wash flattens rings of desert creosote. Did you know that creosote bushes clone themselves?

The ten-thousand-year elders enforce dead zones where nothing can grow except more creosote.

Beetles and mice live among them, the way our cities had pigeons and mice. I guess the analogy

breaks down because the creosote’s lasted ten thousand years. You don’t need an attack helicopter

to tell you that our cities haven’t. The Army gave me gene therapy to make my blood toxic to

mosquitoes. Soon you will have that too, to fight malaria in the Hudson floodplain and on the banks

of the Greater Lake.

Now I cross Highway 40, southbound at two hundred knots. The Apache’s engine is electric and

silent. Decibel killers sop up the rotor noise. White-bright infrared vision shows me stripes of heat,

the tire tracks left by Pear Mesa school buses. Buried housing projects smolder under the dirt,

radiators curled until sunset. This is enemy territory. You can tell because, though this desert was

once Nevada and California, there are no American flags.

“Barb,” the Apache whispers, in a voice that Axis once identified, to my alarm, as my mother’s.

“Waypoint soon.”

“Axis.” I call out to my gunner, tucked into the nose ahead of me. I can see only gray helmet and

flight suit shoulders, but I know that body wholly, the hard knots of muscle, the ridge of pelvic

girdle, the shallow navel and flat hard chest. An attack helicopter has a crew of two. My gunner is

my marriage, my pillar, the completion of my gender.

“Axis.” The repeated call sign means, I hear you.

“Ten minutes to target.”

“Ready for target,” Axis says.

But there is again that roughness, like a fold in carbon fiber. I heard it when we reviewed our

fragment orders for the strike. I hear it again now. I cannot ignore it any more than I could ignore a

battery fire; it is a fault in a person and a system I trust with my life.

But I can choose to ignore it for now.

The target bumps up over the horizon. The low mounds of Kelso-Ventura District High burn warm

gray through a parfait coating of aerogel insulation and desert soil. We have crossed a third of the

continental US to strike a school built by Americans.

Axis cues up a missile: black eyes narrowed, telltales reflected against clear laser-washed cornea.

“Call the shot, Barb.”

“Stand by. Maneuvering.” I lift us above the desert floor, buying some room for the missile to run,

watching the probability-of-kill calculation change with each motion of the aircraft.

Before the Army my name was Seo Ji Hee. Now my call sign is Barb, which isn’t short for Barbara. I

share a rank (flight warrant officer), a gender, and a urinary system with my gunner Axis: we are

harnessed and catheterized into the narrow tandem cockpit of a Boeing AH-70 Apache Mystic.

America names its helicopters for the people it destroyed.

We are here to degrade and destroy strategic targets in the United States of America’s war against

the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. If you disagree with the war, so be it: I ask your empathy, not

your sympathy. Save your pity for the poor legislators who had to find some constitutional

framework for declaring war against a credit union.

The reasons for war don’t matter much to us. We want to fight the way a woman wants to be

gracious, the way a man wants to be firm. Our need is as vamp-fierce as the strutting queen and

dryly subtle as the dapper lesbian and comfortable as the soft resilience of the demiwoman. How

often do you analyze the reasons for your own gender? You might sigh at the necessity of morning

makeup, or hide your love for your friends behind beer and bravado. Maybe you even resent the

punishment for breaking these norms.

But how often—really—do you think about the grand strategy of gender? The mess of history and

sociology, biology and game theory that gave rise to your pants and your hair and your salary? The

casus belli?

Often, you might say. All the time. It haunts me.

Then you, more than anyone, helped make me.

When I was a woman I wanted to be good at woman. I wanted to darken my eyes and strut in heels.

I wanted to laugh from my throat when I was pleased, laugh so low that women would shiver in

contentment down the block.

And at the same time I resented it all. I wanted to be sharper, stronger, a new-made thing,

exquisite and formidable. Did I want that because I was taught to hate being a woman? Or because I

hated being taught anything at all?

Now I am jointed inside. Now I am geared and shafted, I am a being of opposing torques. The noise

I make is canceled by decibel killers so I am no louder than a woman laughing through two walls.

When I was a woman I wanted to have friends who would gasp at the precision and surprise of my

gifts. Now I show friendship by tracking the motions of your head, looking at what you look at, the

way one helicopter’s sensors can be slaved to the motions of another.

When I was a woman I wanted my skin to be as smooth and dark as the sintered stone countertop

in our kitchen.

Now my skin is boron-carbide and Kevlar. Now I have a wrist callus where I press my hydration

sensor into my skin too hard and too often. Now I have bit-down nails from the claustrophobia of the

bus ride to the flight line. I paint them desert colors, compulsively.

When I was a woman I was always aware of surveillance. The threat of the eyes on me, the chance

that I would cross over some threshold of detection and become a target.

Now I do the exact same thing. But I am counting radars and lidars and pit viper thermal sensors,

waiting for a missile.

I am gas turbines. I am the way I never sit on the same side of the table as a stranger. I am most

comfortable in moonless dark, in low places between hills. I am always thirsty and always tense. I

tense my core and pace my breath even when coiled up in a briefing chair. As if my tail rotor must

cancel the spin of the main blades and the turbines must whirl and the plates flex against the pitch

links or I will go down spinning to my death.

An airplane wants in its very body to stay flying. A helicopter is propelled by its interior

near-disaster.

I speak the attack command to my gunner. “Normalize the target.”

Nothing happens.

“Axis. Comm check.”

“Barb, Axis. I hear you.” No explanation for the fault. There is nothing wrong with the weapon attack

parameters. Nothing wrong with any system at all, except the one without any telltales, my spouse,

my gunner.

“Normalize the target,” I repeat.

“Axis. Rifle one.”

The weapon falls off our wing, ignites, homes in on the hard invisible point of the laser designator.

Missiles are faster than you think, more like a bullet than a bird. If you’ve ever seen a bird.

The weapon penetrates the concrete shelter of Kelso-Ventura High School and fills the empty halls

with thermobaric aerosol. Then: ignition. The detonation hollows out the school like a hooked finger

scooping out an egg. There are not more than a few janitors in there. A few teachers working late.

They are bycatch.

What do I feel in that moment? Relief. Not sexual, not like eating or pissing, not like coming in from

the heat to the cool dry climate shelter. It’s a sense of passing . Walking down the street in the right

clothes, with the right partner, to the right job. That feeling. Have you felt it?

But there is also an itch of worry—why did Axis hesitate? How did Axis hesitate?

Kelso-Ventura High School collapses into its own basement. “Target normalized,” Axis reports,

without emotion, and my heart beats slow and worried.

I want you to understand that the way I feel about Axis is hard and impersonal and lovely. It is

exactly the way you would feel if a beautiful, silent turbine whirled beside you day and night,

protecting you, driving you on, coursing with current, fiercely bladed, devoted. God, it’s love. It’s

love I can’t explain. It’s cold and good.

“Barb,” I say, which means I understand . “Exiting north, zero three zero, cupids two.”

I adjust the collective—feel the swash plate push up against the pitch links, the links tilt the angle of

the rotors so they ease their bite on the air—and the Apache, my body, sinks toward the hot desert

floor. Warm updraft caresses the hull, sensual contrast with the Santa Ana wind. I shiver in delight.

Suddenly: warning receivers hiss in my ear, poke me in the sacral vertebrae, put a dark

thunderstorm note into my air. “Shit,” Axis hisses. “Air search radar active, bearing 192, angles

twenty, distance . . . eighty klicks. It’s a fast-mover. He must’ve heard the blast.”

A fighter. A combat jet. Pear Mesa’s mercenary defenders have an air force, and they are out on the

hunt. “A Werewolf.”

“Must be. Gown?”

“Gown up.” I cue the plasma-sheath stealth system that protects us from radar and laser hits. The

Apache glows with lines of arc-weld light, UFO light. Our rotor wash blasts the plasma into a bright

wedding train behind us. To the enemy’s sensors, that trail of plasma is as thick and soft as

insulating foam. To our eyes it’s cold aurora fire.

“Let’s get the fuck out.” I touch the cyclic and we sideslip through Mojave dust, watching the school

fall into itself. There is no reason to do this except that somehow I know Axis wants to see. Finally I

pull the nose around, aim us northeast, shedding light like a comet buzzing the desert on its way

into the sun.

“Werewolf at seventy klicks,” Axis reports. “Coming our way. Time to intercept . . . six minutes.”

The Werewolf Apostles are mercenaries, survivors from the militaries of climate-seared states. They

sell their training and their hardware to earn their refugee peoples a few degrees more distance from

the equator.

The heat of the broken world has chased them here to chase us.

Before my assignment neurosurgery, they made me sit through (I could bear to sit, back then) the

mandatory course on Applied Constructive Gender Theory. Slouched in a fungus-nibbled plastic chair

as transparencies slid across the cracked screen of a De-networked Briefing Element overhead

projector: how I learned the technology of gender.

Long before we had writing or farms or post-digital strike helicopters, we had each other. We lived

together and changed each other, and so we needed to say “this is who I am, this is what I do.”

So, in the same way that we attached sounds to meanings to make language, we began to attach

clusters of behavior to signal social roles. Those clusters were rich, and quick-changing, and so just

like language, we needed networks devoted to processing them. We needed a place in the brain to

construct and to analyze gender.

Generations of queer activists fought to make gender a self-determined choice, and to undo the

creeping determinism that said the way it is now is the way it always was and always must be.

Generations of scientists mapped the neural wiring that motivated and encoded the gender choice.

And the moment their work reached a usable stage—the moment society was ready to accept plastic

gender, and scientists were ready to manipulate it—the military found a new resource. Armed with

functional connectome mapping and neural plastics, the military can make gender tactical.

If gender has always been a construct, then why not construct new ones?

My gender networks have been reassigned to make me a better AH-70 Apache Mystic pilot. This is

better than conventional skill learning. I can show you why.

Look at a diagram of an attack helicopter’s airframe and components. Tell me how much of it you

grasp at once.

Now look at a person near you, their clothes, their hair, their makeup and expression, the way they

meet or avoid your eyes. Tell me which was richer with information about danger and capability. Tell

me which was easier to access and interpret.

The gender networks are old and well-connected. They work .

I remember being a woman. I remember it the way you remember that old, beloved hobby you left

behind. Woman felt like my prom dress, polyester satin smoothed between little hand and little hip.

Woman felt like a little tic of the lips when I was interrupted, or like teasing out the mood my

boyfriend wouldn’t explain. Like remembering his mom’s birthday for him, or giving him a list of

things to buy at the store, when he wanted to be better about groceries.

I was always aware of being small: aware that people could hurt me. I spent a lot of time thinking

about things that had happened right before something awful. I would look around me and ask

myself, are the same things happening now? Women live in cross-reference. It is harder work than

we know.

Now I think about being small as an advantage for nape-of-earth maneuvers and pop-up guided

missile attacks.

Now I yield to speed walkers in the hall like I need to avoid fouling my rotors.

Now walking beneath high-tension power lines makes me feel the way that a cis man would feel if he

strutted down the street in a miniskirt and heels.

I’m comfortable in open spaces but only if there’s terrain to break it up. I hate conversations I

haven’t started; I interrupt shamelessly so that I can make my point and leave.

People treat me like I’m dangerous, like I could hurt them if I wanted to. They want me protected

and watched over. They bring me water and ask how I’m doing.

People want me on their team. They want what I can do.

A fighter is hunting us, and I am afraid that my gunner has gender dysphoria.

Twenty thousand feet above us (still we use feet for altitude) the bathroom-tiled transceivers cupped

behind the nose cone of a Werewolf Apostle J-20S fighter broadcast fingers of radar light. Each beam

cast at a separate frequency, a fringed caress instead of a pointed prod. But we are jumpy, we are

hypervigilant—we feel that creeper touch.

I get the cold-rush skin-prickle feel of a stranger following you in the dark. Has he seen you? Is he

just going the same way? If he attacks, what will you do, could you get help, could you scream? Put

your keys between your fingers, like it will help. Glass branches of possibility grow from my skin,

waiting to be snapped off by the truth.

“Give me a warning before he’s in IRST range,” I order Axis. “We’re going north.”

“Axis.” The Werewolf’s infrared sensor will pick up the heat of us, our engine and plasma shield,

burning against the twilight desert. The same system that hides us from his radar makes us hot and

visible to his IRST.

I throttle up, running faster, and the Apache whispers alarm. “Gown overspeed.” We’re moving too

fast for the plasma stealth system, and the wind’s tearing it from our skin. We are not modest. I

want to duck behind a ridge to cover myself, but I push through the discomfort, feeling out the

tradeoff between stealth and distance. Like the morning check in the mirror, trading the confidence

of a good look against the threat of reaction.

When the women of Soviet Russia went to war against the Nazis, when they volunteered by the

thousands to serve as snipers and pilots and tank drivers and infantry and partisans, they fought

hard and they fought well. They ate frozen horse dung and hauled men twice their weight out of

burning tanks. They shot at their own mothers to kill the Nazis behind her.

But they did not lose their gender; they gave up the inhibition against killing but would not give up

flowers in their hair, polish for their shoes, a yearning for the young lieutenant, a kiss on his dead

lips.

And if that is not enough to convince you that gender grows deep enough to thrive in war: when the

war ended the Soviet women were punished. They went unmarried and unrespected. They were

excluded from the victory parades. They had violated their gender to fight for the state and the state

judged that violation worth punishment more than their heroism was worth reward.

Gender is stronger than war. It remains when all else flees.

When I was a woman I wanted to machine myself.

I loved nails cut like laser arcs and painted violent-bright in bathrooms that smelled like laboratories.

I wanted to grow thick legs with fat and muscle that made shapes under the skin like Nazca lines. I

loved my birth control, loved that I could turn my period off, loved the home beauty-feedback kits

that told you what to eat and dose to adjust your scent, your skin, your moods. I admired, wasn’t

sure if I wanted to be or wanted to fuck, the women in the build-your-own-shit videos I watched on

our local image of the old Internet. Women who made cyberattack kits and jewelry and

sterile-printed IUDs, made their own huge wedge heels and fitted bras and skin-thin chameleon

dresses. Women who talked about their implants the same way they talked about computers,

phones, tools: technologies of access, technologies of self-expression.

Something about their merciless self-possession and self-modification stirred me. The first time I

ever meant to masturbate I imagined one of those women coming into my house, picking the lock,

telling me exactly what to do, how to be like her. I told my first boyfriend about this, I showed him

pictures, and he said, girl, you bi as hell, which was true, but also wrong. Because I did not want

those dresses, those heels, those bodies in the way I wanted my boyfriend. I wanted to possess that

power. I wanted to have it and be it.

The Apache is my body now, and like most bodies it is sensual. Fabric armor that stiffens beneath

my probing fingers. Stub wings clustered with ordnance. Rotors so light and strong they do not even

droop: as artificial-looking, to an older pilot, as breast implants. And I brush at the black ring of a

sensor housing, like the tip of a nail lifting a stray lash from the white of your eye.

I don’t shave, which all the fast jet pilots do, down to the last curly scrotal hair. Nobody expects a

helicopter to be sleek. I have hairy armpits and thick black bush all the way to my ass crack. The

things that are taboo and arousing to me are the things taboo to helicopters. I like to be picked up,

moved, pressed, bent and folded, held down, made to shudder, made to abandon control.

Do these last details bother you? Does the topography of my pubic hair feel intrusive and

unnecessary? I like that. I like to intrude, inflict damage, withdraw. A year after you read this maybe

those paragraphs will be the only thing you remember: and you will know why the rules of gender

are worth recruitment.

But we cannot linger on the point of attack.

“He’s coming north. Time to intercept three minutes.”

“Shit. How long until he gets us on thermal?”

“Ninety seconds with the gown on.” Danger has swept away Axis’ hesitation.

“Shit.”

“He’s not quite on zero aspect—yeah, he’s coming up a few degrees off our heading. He’s not sure

exactly where we are. He’s hunting.”

“He’ll be sure soon enough. Can we kill him?”

“With sidewinders?” Axis pauses articulately: the target is twenty thousand feet above us, and he

has a laser that can blind our missiles. “We’d have more luck bailing out and hiking.”

“All right. I’m gonna fly us out of this.”

“Sure.”

“Just check the gun.”

“Ten times already, Barb.”

When climate and economy and pathology all went finally and totally critical along the Gulf Coast,

the federal government fled Cabo fever and VARD-2 to huddle behind New York’s flood barriers.

We left eleven hundred and six local disaster governments behind. One of them was the Pear Mesa

Budget Committee. The rest of them were doomed.

Pear Mesa was different because it had bought up and hardened its own hardware and power. So

Pear Mesa’s neural nets kept running, retrained from credit union portfolio management to the

emergency triage of hundreds of thousands of starving sick refugees.

Pear Mesa’s computers taught themselves to govern the forsaken southern seaboard. Now they

coordinate water distribution, re-express crop genomes, ration electricity for survival AC, manage all

the life support humans need to exist in our warmed-over hell.

But, like all advanced neural nets, these systems are black boxes. We have no idea how they work,

what they think. Why do Pear Mesa’s AIs order the planting of pear trees? Because pears were their

corporate icon, and the AIs associate pear trees with areas under their control. Why does no one

make the AIs stop? Because no one knows what else is tangled up with the “plant pear trees”

impulse. The AIs may have learned, through some rewarded fallacy or perverse founder effect, that

pear trees cause humans to have babies. They may believe that their only function is to build

support systems around pear trees.

When America declared war on Pear Mesa, their AIs identified a useful diagnostic criterion for hostile

territory: the posting of fifty-star American flags. Without ever knowing what a flag meant, without

any concept of nations or symbols, they ordered the destruction of the stars and stripes in Pear Mesa

territory.

That was convenient for propaganda. But the real reason for the war, sold to a hesitant Congress by

technocrats and strategic ecologists, was the ideology of scale atrocity . Pear Mesa’s AIs could not be

modified by humans, thus could not be joined with America’s own governing algorithms: thus must

be forced to yield all their control, or else remain forever separate.

And that separation was intolerable. By refusing the United States administration, our superior

resources and planning capability, Pear Mesa’s AIs condemned citizens who might otherwise be

saved to die—a genocide by neglect. Wasn’t that the unforgivable crime of fossil capitalism? The

creation of systems whose failure modes led to mass death?

Didn’t we have a moral imperative to intercede?

Pear Mesa cannot surrender, because the neural nets have a basic imperative to remain online. Pear

Mesa’s citizens cannot question the machines’ decisions. Everything the machines do is connected in

ways no human can comprehend. Disobey one order and you might as well disobey them all.

But none of this is why I kill.

I kill for the same reason men don’t wear short skirts, the same reason I used to pluck my brows,

the reason enby people are supposed to be (unfair and stupid, yes, but still) androgynous with short

hair. Are those good reasons to do something? If you say no, honestly no—can you tell me you

break these rules without fear or cost?

But killing isn’t a gender role, you might tell me. Killing isn’t a decision about how to present your

own autonomous self to the world. It is coercive and punitive. Killing is therefore not an act of

gender.

I wish that were true. Can you tell me honestly that killing is a genderless act? The method? The

motive? The victim?

When you imagine the innocent dead, who do you see?

“Barb,” Axis calls, softly. Your own voice always sounds wrong on recordings—too nasal. Axis’ voice

sounds wrong when it’s not coming straight into my skull through helmet mic.

“Barb.”

“How are we doing?”

“Exiting one hundred and fifty knots north. Still in his radar but he hasn’t locked us up.”

“How are you doing?”

I cringe in discomfort. The question is an indirect way for Axis to admit something’s wrong, and that

indirection is obscene. Like hiding a corroded tail rotor bearing from your maintenance guys.

“I’m good,” I say, with fake ease. “I’m in flow. Can’t you feel it?” I dip the nose to match a drop-off

below, provoking a whine from the terrain detector. I am teasing, striking a pose. “We’re gonna be

okay.”

“I feel it, Barb.” But Axis is tense, worried about our pursuer, and other things. Doesn’t laugh.

“How about you?”

“Nominal.”

Again the indirection, again the denial, and so I blurt it out. “Are you dysphoric?”

“What?” Axis says, calmly.

“You’ve been hesitating. Acting funny. Is your—” There is no way to ask someone if their militarized

gender conditioning is malfunctioning. “Are you good?”

“I . . . ” Hesitation. It makes me cringe again, in secondhand shame. Never hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need to go on report?”

Severe gender dysphoria can be a flight risk. If Axis hesitates over something that needs to be done

instantly, the mission could fail decisively. We could both die.

“I don’t want that,” Axis says.

“I don’t want that either,” I say, desperately. I want nothing less than that. “But, Axis, if—”

The warning receiver climbs to a steady crow call.

“He knows we’re here,” I say, to Axis’ tight inhalation. “He can’t get a lock through the gown but

he’s aware of our presence. Fuck. Blinder, blinder, he’s got his laser on us—”

The fighter’s lidar pod is trying to catch the glint of a reflection off us. “Shit,” Axis says. “We’re

gonna get shot.”

“The gown should defeat it. He’s not close enough for thermal yet.”

“He’s gonna launch anyway. He’s gonna shoot and then get a lock to steer it in.”

“I don’t know—missiles aren’t cheap these days—”

The ESM mast on the Apache’s rotor hub, mounted like a lamp on a post, contains a cluster of

electro-optical sensors that constantly scan the sky: the Distributed Aperture Sensor. When the DAS

detects the flash of a missile launch, it plays a warning tone and uses my vest to poke me in the

small of my back.

My vest pokes me in the small of my back.

“Barb. Missile launch south. Barb. Fox 3 inbound. Inbound. Inbound.”

“He fired,” Axis calls. “Barb?”

“Barb,” I acknowledge.

I fuck—

Oh, you want to know: many of you, at least. It’s all right. An attack helicopter isn’t a private way of

being. Your needs and capabilities must be maintained for the mission.

I don’t think becoming an attack helicopter changed who I wanted to fuck. I like butch assertive

people. I like talent and prestige, the status that comes of doing things well. I was never taught the

lie that I was wired for monogamy, but I was still careful with men, I was still wary, and I could

never tell him why: that I was afraid not because of him, but because of all the men who’d seemed

good like him, at first, and then turned into something else.

No one stalks an attack helicopter. No slack-eyed well-dressed drunk punches you for ignoring the

little rape he slurs at your neckline. No one even breaks your heart: with my dopamine system tied

up by the reassignment surgery, fully assigned to mission behavior, I can’t fall in love with anything

except my own purpose.

Are you aware of your body? Do you feel your spine when you stand, your hips when you walk, the

tightness and the mass in your core? When you look at yourself, whose eyes do you use? Your own?

I am always in myself. I never see myself through my partner’s eyes. I have weapons to use, of

course, ways of moving, moans and cries. But I measure those weapons by their effect, not by their

similarity to some idea of how I should be.

Flying is the loop of machinery and pilot, the sense of your motion on the controls translated into

torque and lift, the airframe’s reaction shaping your next motion until the loop closes and machine

and pilot are one. Awareness collapses to the moment. You are always doing the right thing exactly

as it needs to be done. Sex is the same: the search for everything in an instant.

Of course I fuck Axis. A few decades ago this would’ve been a crime. What a waste of perfectly

useful behavior. What a waste of that lean muscled form and those perfect killing hands that know

me millimeter-by-millimeter system-by-system so there is no mystique between us. No “secret

places” or “feminine mysteries,” only the tortuously exact technical exercise of nerves and pressure.

Oxytocin released, to flow between us, by the press of knuckles in my cunt.

When I come beneath Axis I cry out, I press my body close, I want that utter loss of control that I

feel nowhere else. Heartbeat in arched throat: nipple beneath straining tongue. And my mind is

hyper-activated, free-associating, and as Axis works in me I see the work we do together. I see puffs

of thirty-millimeter autocannon detonating on night-cold desert floor.

Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for

violence, alive in the fight.

Does that surprise you? Does it bother you to mingle cold technical discipline with hot flesh and

sweat?

Let me ask you: why has the worst insult you can give a combat pilot always been weak dick?

Have you ever been exultant? Have you ever known that you are a triumph? Have you ever felt that

it was your whole life’s purpose to do something, and all that you needed to succeed was to be

entirely yourself?

To be yourself well is the wholest and best feeling that anything has ever felt.

It is what I feel when I am about to live or die.

The Werewolf’s missile arches down on us, motor burned out, falling like an arrow. He is trying a

Shoot On Prospect attack: he cannot find us exactly, so he fires a missile that will finish the search,

lock onto our heat or burn through our stealth with its onboard radar, or acquire us optically like a

staring human eye. Or at least make us react. Like the catcaller’s barked “Hey!” to evoke the flinch

or the huddle, the proof that he has power.

We are ringed in the vortex of a dilemma. If we switch off the stealth gown, the Werewolf fighter will

lock its radar onto us and guide the missile to the kill. If we keep the stealth system on, the missile’s

heat-seeker will home in on the blazing plasma.

I know what to do. Not in the way you learn how to fly a helicopter, but the way you know how to

hold your elbows when you gesture.

A helicopter is more than a hovering fan, see? The blades of the rotor tilt and swivel. When you turn

the aircraft left, the rotors deepen their bite into the air on one side of their spin, to make off-center

lift. You cannot force a helicopter or it will throw you to the earth. You must be gentle.

I caress the cyclic.

The Apache’s nose comes up smooth and fast. The Mojave horizon disappears under the chin. Axis’

gasp from the front seat passes through the microphone and into the bones of my face. The pitch

indicator climbs up toward sixty degrees, ass down, chin up. Our airspeed plummets from a hundred

and fifty knots to sixty.

We hang there for an instant like a dancer in an oversway. The missile is coming straight down at

us. We are not even running anymore.

And I lower the collective, flattening the blades of the rotor, so that they cannot cut the air at an

angle and we lose all lift.

We fall.

I toe the rudder. The tail rotor yields a little of its purpose, which is to counter the torque of the

main rotor: and that liberated torque spins the Apache clockwise, opposite the rotor’s turn, until we

are nose down sixty degrees, facing back the way we came, looking into the Mojave desert as it rises

up to take us.

I have pirouetted us in place. Plasma fire blows in wraith pennants as the stealth system tries to

keep us modest.

“Can you get it?” I ask.

“Axis.”

I raise the collective again and the rotors bite back into the air. We do not rise, but our fall slows

down. Cyclic stick answers to the barest twitch of wrist, and I remember, once, how that slim wrist

made me think of fragility, frailty, fear: I am remembering even as I pitch the helicopter back and

we climb again, nose up, tail down, scudding backward into the sky while aimed at our chasing killer.

Axis is on top now, above me in the front seat, and in front of Axis is the chin gun, pointed sixty

degrees up into heaven.

“Barb,” the helicopter whispers, like my mother in my ear. “Missile ten seconds. Music? Glare?”

No. No jamming. The Werewolf missile will home in on jamming like a wolf with a taste for pepper.

Our laser might dazzle the seeker, drive it off course—but if the missile turns then Axis cannot take

the shot.

It is not a choice. I trust Axis.

Axis steers the nose turret onto the target and I imagine strong fingers on my own chin, turning me

for a kiss, looking up into the red scorched sky—Axis chooses the weapon (30MM GUIDED PROX AP)

and aims and fires with all the idle don’t-have-to-try confidence of the first girl dribbling a soccer ball

who I ever for a moment loved—

The chin autocannon barks out ten rounds a second. It is effective out to one point five kilometers.

The missile is moving more than a hundred meters per second.

Axis has one second almost exactly, ten shots of thirty-millimeter smart grenade, to save us.

A mote of gray shadow rushes at us and intersects the line of cannon fire from the gun. It becomes

a spray of light. The Apache tings and rattles. The desert below us, behind us, stipples with tiny

plumes of dust that pick up in the wind and settle out like sift from a hand.

“Got it,” Axis says.

“I love you.”

“Axis.”

Many of you are veterans in the act of gender. You weigh the gaze and disposition of strangers in a

subway car and select where to stand, how often to look up, how to accept or reject conversation.

Like a frequency-hopping radar, you modulate your attention for the people in your context: do not

look too much, lest you seem interested, or alarming. You regulate your yawns, your appetite, your

toilet. You do it constantly and without failure.

You are aces.

What other way could be better? What other neural pathways are so available to constant

reprogramming, yet so deeply connected to judgment, behavior, reflex?

Some people say that there is no gender, that it is a postmodern construct, that in fact there are

only man and woman and a few marginal confusions. To those people I ask: if your body-fact is

enough to establish your gender, you would willingly wear bright dresses and cry at movies, wouldn’t

you? You would hold hands and compliment each other on your beauty, wouldn’t you? Because your

cock would be enough to make you a man.

Have you ever guarded anything so vigilantly as you protect yourself against the shame of

gender-wrong?

The same force that keeps you from gender-wrong is the force that keeps me from fucking up.

The missile is dead. The Werewolf Apostle is still up there.

“He’s turning off.” Axis has taken over defensive awareness while I fly. “Radar off. Laser off. He’s

letting us go.”

“Afraid of our fighters?” The mercenaries cannot replace a lost J-20S. And he probably has a

wingman, still hiding, who would die too if they stray into a trap.

“Yes,” Axis says.

“Keep the gown on.” In case he’s trying to bluff us into shutting down our stealth. “We’ll stick to the

terrain until he’s over the horizon.”

“Can you fly us out?”

The Apache is fighting me. Fragments of the destroyed missile have pitted the rotors, damaged the

hub assembly, and jammed the control surfaces. I begin to crush the shrapnel with the Apache’s

hydraulics, pounding the metal free with careful control inputs. But the necessary motions also move

the aircraft. Half a second’s error will crash us into the desert. I have to calculate how to un-jam the

shrapnel while accounting for the effects of that shrapnel on my flight authority and keeping the

aircraft stable despite my constant control inputs while moving at a hundred and thirty knots across

the desert.

“Barb,” I say. “Not a problem.”

And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing

something that takes everything.

The night desert is black to the naked eye, soft gray to thermal. My attention flips between my left

eye, focused on the instruments, and my right eye, looking outside. I am a black box like the Pear

Mesa AIs. Information arrives—a throb of feedback in the cyclic, a shift of Axis’ weight, a dune crest

ahead—and my hands and feet move to hold us steady. If I focused on what I was doing it would all

fall apart. So I don’t.

“Are you happy?” Axis asks.

Good to talk now. Keep my conscious mind from interfering with the gearbox of reflexes below.

“Yeah,” I say, and I blow out a breath into my mask, “yeah, I am,” a lightness in my ribs, “yeah, I

feel good.”

“Why do you think we just blew up a school?”

Why did I text my best friend the appearance and license number of all my cab drivers, just in case?

Because those were the things that had to be done.

Listen: I exist in this context. To make war is part of my gender. I get what I need from the flight

line, from the ozone tang of charging stations and the shimmer of distant bodies warping in the

tarmac heat, from the twenty minutes of anxiety after we land when I cannot convince myself that I

am home, and safe, and that I am no longer keeping us alive with the constant adjustments of my

hands and feet.

“Deplete their skilled labor supply, I guess. Attack the demographic skill curve.”

“Kind of a long-term objective. Kind of makes you think it’s not gonna be over by election season.”

“We don’t get to know why the AIs pick the targets.” Maybe destroying this school was an accident.

A quirk of some otherwise successful network, coupled to the load-bearing elements of a vast

strategy.

“Hey,” I say, after a beat of silence. “You did good back there.”

“You thought I wouldn’t.”

“Barb.” A more honest yes than “yes,” because it is my name, and it acknowledges that I am the

one with the doubt.

“I didn’t know if I would either,” Axis says, which feels exactly like I don’t know if I love you

anymore . I lose control for a moment and the Apache rattles in bad air and the tail slews until I stop

thinking and bring everything back under control in a burst of rage.

“You’re done?” I whisper, into the helmet. I have never even thought about this before. I am cold,

sweat soaked, and shivering with adrenaline comedown, drawn out like a tendon in high heels, a

just-off-the-dance-floor feeling, post-voracious, satisfied. Why would we choose anything else? Why

would we give this up? When it feels so good to do it? When I love it so much?

“I just . . . have questions.” The tactical channel processes the sound of Axis swallowing into a dull

point of sound, like dropped plastic.

“We don’t need to wonder, Axis. We’re gendered for the mission—”

“We can’t do this forever,” Axis says, startling me. I raise the collective and hop us up a hundred

feet, so I do not plow us into the desert. “We’re not going to be like this forever. The world won’t be

like this forever. I can’t think of myself as . . . always this.”

Yes, we will be this way forever. We survived this mission as we survive everywhere on this hot and

hostile earth. By bending all of what we are to the task. And if we use less than all of ourselves to

survive, we die.

“Are you going to put me on report?” Axis whispers.

On report as a flight risk? As a faulty component in a mission-critical system? “You just intercepted

an air-to-air missile with the autocannon, Axis. Would I ever get rid of you?”

“Because I’m useful,” Axis says, softly. “Because I can still do what I’m supposed to do. That’s what

you love. But if I couldn’t . . . I’m distracting you. I’ll let you fly.”

I spare one glance for the gray helmet in the cockpit below mine. Politeness is a gendered protocol.

Who speaks and who listens. Who denies need and who claims it. As a woman, I would’ve pressed

Axis. As a woman, I would’ve unpacked the unease and the disquiet.

As an attack helicopter, whose problems are communicated in brief, clear datums, I should ignore

Axis.

But who was ever only one thing?

“If you want to be someone else,” I say, “someone who doesn’t do what we do, then . . . I don’t

want to be the thing that stops you.”

“Bird’s gotta land sometime,” Axis says. “Doesn’t it?”

In the Applied Constructive Gender briefing, they told us that there have always been liminal

genders, places that people passed through on their way to somewhere else. Who are we in those

moments when we break our own rules? The straight man who sleeps with men? The woman who

can’t decide if what she feels is intense admiration, or sexual attraction? Where do we go, who do we

become?

Did you know that instability is one of the most vital traits of a combat aircraft? Civilian planes are

built stable, hard to turn, inclined to run straight ahead on an even level. But a military aircraft is

built so it wants to tumble out of control, and it is held steady only by constant automatic feedback.

The way I am holding this Apache steady now.

Something that is unstable is ready to move, eager to change, it wants to turn, to dive, to tear away

from stillness and fly .

Dynamism requires instability. Instability requires the possibility of change.

“Voice recorder’s off, right?” Axis asks.

“Always.”

“I love doing this. I love doing it with you. I just don’t know if it’s . . . if it’s right.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Barb?”

“Thank you for thinking about whether it’s right. Someone needs to.”

Maybe what Axis feels is a necessary new queerness. One which pries the tool of gender back from

the hands of the state and the economy and the war. I like that idea. I cannot think of myself as a

failure, as something wrong, a perversion of a liberty that past generations fought to gain.

But Axis can. And maybe you can too. That skepticism is not what I need . . . but it is necessary

anyway.

I have tried to show you what I am. I have tried to do it without judgment. That I leave to you.

“Are we gonna make it?” Axis asks, quietly.

The airframe shudders in crosswind. I let the vibrations develop, settle into a rhythm, and then I

make my body play the opposite rhythm to cancel it out.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is an answer to both of Axis’ questions, both of the ways our lives are in

danger now. “Depends how well I fly, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all you, Barb,” Axis says, with absolute trust. “Take us home.”

A search radar brushes across us, scatters off the gown, turns away to look in likelier places. The

Apache’s engine growls, eating battery, turning charge into motion. The airframe shudders again,

harder, wind rising as cooling sky fights blazing ground. We are racing a hundred and fifty feet

above the Larger Mojave where we fight a war over some new kind of survival and the planet we

maimed grows that desert kilometer by kilometer. Our aircraft is wounded in its body and in its

crew. We are propelled by disaster. We are moving swiftly.

#I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter by ISABEL FALL #I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter #ISABEL FALL #gender identity

[wordynerdygurl]

Seven Minutes in Heaven

Author’s Note:  Well hello my friends!  Since hitting 1000 Followers in July (WHAT?!  STILL UNBELIEVABLE!!!) I’ve been working on the requests sent in by my amazing troop of readers!  This is another one of those stories which I’m pleased to share.   As always, help my unending need for validation but re-blogging or liking the story!  Also, you can send asks, make your own request, follow me, or be added to my tag-list! Last, @sammy-jo1977 is my beta... and my ride or die home girl!  Thanks lady! Pairing:  Loki x Female Reader, appearances from most of the Avengers

Summary/ Request:  @queenofmischief asked for a story where “Loki and you guys are friends growing up and you realize you like him and try to hide it but somehow at a party or something or another, maybe Seven Minutes in Heaven is involved, it comes out and really hot smut ensues?”

I used some of the ideas you gave me, dear reader, but made it a little more mature, so I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Warnings:  Lots of 80′s references... music, movies, clothes, etc.  References of smut, heavy petting and kissing

ENJOY!

"But, like, I really don't want to go."  Your cellphone, pinned between your ear and shoulder, pushed your earring into the tender flesh behind your lobe.  It probably didn't help that the jewelry in question was a pair of huge hoops, fluorescent in color and hard plastic.

You heard Wanda sigh, "Yea… I know.  It's just, we all are… and you know it'll be worse if you don't show up."

"I really hate it."  Using a sing-song voice didn't change the feelings behind your words.  Going up to the main floor of The Avengers Tower for a theme party was not a thrilling idea.

"I know you do-", pulling open the door between your room and hers, you palmed your phone, frowning at your friend, "-But you look great!"

"Radical… or wicked… or tubular would be more 80's appropriate."  Still, her compliment made you smile.  It really was a great outfit, totally encapsulating the MTV generation's vibe, complete with hot lime colored leg warmers. 

 Your cropped REO Speedwagon t-shirt was cut off at the neck, dripping low enough to expose one whole shoulder, and a wide stripe of the magenta colored tank top underneath.  Having tucked the camisole into your acid washed denim micro miniskirt, you finished the ensemble with a pair of black pumps, and the obligatory scrunchie of cheap yellow satin.  It pulled your hair into a low, side ponytail.

For makeup you'd painted your eye-shadow on, bright turquoise with pink under your brows.  Lipstick in a shimmery rosy hue brought extra attention to your lips.  And you stored your cell phone, lip gloss and keys in your iridescent fanny pack.

Wanda couldn't help giggling at the sight of you and your collection of clashing colors.  For her look tonight she'd dawned a pair of skin tight leggings, an over-sized button down shirt with a stretchy black belt that was about four inches wide.  Ballet flats, teased out hair and stark makeup had Wanda looking like a video vixen.  It was impressive.

"See, you went sexy… and I went silly."  Pouting now, you flopped onto your bed, "Can I just not?"

Sitting down next to you, patting your knee, "You don’t look silly, but you do look like you could be a hair band groupie!  That’s sexy!” Shrugging your shoulders, unconvinced, Wanda added, “Besides, tonight… It may be fun.  And, worse case?  You get blitzed like a teenager on prom night."

"No… that's not the worst case.  Worst case?  He's there."

Sighing, Wanda shook her head, "He does still rub you the wrong way, huh?  And, yes, he may be there… but-" standing, taking you with her, "-it would be a shame to waste all your wicked cool work!"

Hearing her use the dated vernacular made you grin.  She was right.  Tonight could be a blast, if you were able to get out of your head.  Jumping off the bed, unsettling one of those fashionable leg warmers, you hugged your friend tightly.  You could do this.  You wouldn't be alone.  And if Loki was there, he'd just have to get over it.  You weren't going to pay him any attention.

---

"Mr. Loki… can we please go?  We're already stupid late."  

Bending to straighten his red suspenders, Loki smirked at himself, "Greed is good."

Sighing, exasperated and edging into anger, Peter pulled open the front door, "I don't know what that means, but you look… greasy."

"Like I could steal your company in a corporate take over?  Maybe steal your woman too", Loki questioned, excited at the idea.

Crossing his arms over the red puffy vest he had bought specifically for tonight, Peter grunted, "Uh… I… I guess.  I meant more like one of the assholes in Wolf of Wall Street."

God, you had better be there tonight.  Loki was putting a lot of hope on Stark’s little shindig and he wanted to make sure that all of the little details were absolutely perfect, giving him every advantage.  Standing now, slicking back his long dark hair, "That, my young spider friend, is exactly what I am going for… Evil 80′s CEO."

"Great."

Loki heard the frustration in the young man’s voice.  Someday he would understand, Loki thought, turning to the youthful Avenger beside him, "You certainly make a dashing Marty McFly, Peter.  Truly."

"Aw!  Really, Mr. Loki?  Ya mean it?"  That made the Spider Boy preen, popping his collar, and standing a little straighter.

"I do!  Now-" flashing a rakish smile to his reflection as he passed, "-let's get upstairs and see how everyone else is doing!"

---

Everyone else was ready to party.  The last mission, a particularly difficult one, involved Hydra agents banging it out against our heroes along the rough terrain of the polar ice cap.  Draining the physical and emotional resources of everyone, including you and Loki, Tony had planned a little party to kick off a period of rest and relaxation.

As soon as the elevator opened you knew it was going to be an insane night.  Everything was brightly lit.  Paper streamers were strung up haphazardly along the walls and ceiling.  Big plastic buckets of chips and cheese curls were put out on the counter along with a huge punch bowl that reeked of rum and sugary fruit juice.  On the floor in the kitchenette was a garbage can, freezing, full of ice, only the keg tap visible.  A stack of red plastic cups was at the ready.

Someone had ordered pizza.  Well, dozens of pizzas.  The boxes were piled along the table already crammed with pretzel bags and Doritos.  

Steve was being instructed on the basics of Beer Pong and, you decided, definitely being hustled by Sam.  Bucky looked on with curiosity, quietly sneaking closer to the chips and dip, hoping no one would notice.  Rhodey was watching them both through the reflective lenses of his aviator shades, doing a great job of looking like a Top Gun cadet, including the tight jeans and broken-in bomber jacket.  Grinning as he drank down a bottle of beer, Rhodes shouted, "Hey Stank!  Is all of this really necessary?"

"Don't come for me Rhodey!"  Wearing a pair of neon leopard spotted knit pants, a green polo shirt and white sneakers, Tony was clutching a glass bowl filled with little slips of paper to his chest.  No one had managed to figure out what they were or why he held them.  Drinking two beers from his plastic, can holding helmet, Tony would answer only with a slightly slurred, "It's my trashy 80′s party and I do what I want!"

And Tony had thought of everything.  Sounding like a mixed tape pulled from the radio, the tunes didn't let up!  Ratt, Foreigner, Cindi Lauper, Madonna and Tom Petty all took turns blasting through the room.  So many hits from the past pumped through the sound system, getting people on their feet and keeping them there.  You were swinging and swaying along, having a blast, but when Bon Jovi hit the group of Intergalactic Warriors went wild.

Clint, rocking a mullet wig and a vest with no shirt, jumped onto a table making the motions of an air guitar champion.  Singing into a beer bottle like it was his microphone, "Whoooooaaaa we're halfway there…"

Guffawing, you hid behind your Bud Light filled cup, already red cheeked from the non-stop laughing and alcohol in your system.  At some point you had given up Wanda to Vision in a varsity jacket, doing his best jerk-off jock impression, and not quite pulling it off.  It wasn't his fault that he was too polite to put people down in the way of Eighties movie bad guys. Alone, feeling flushed, but happy, you needed a break and some quiet.  Flinging yourself onto the soft sofa, watching the frat house style antics unfold all around, you couldn’t help laughing.  Tony always found a way to knock the group out of their post mission funk.  Sometimes that meant week long Caribbean vacations and sometimes that meant dressing up in retro attire and scream singing with a cold beer in your hands.  Either way, it seemed to bring everyone closer together, and the pictures were certainly worth framing. The couch dipped as someone joined you.  Swiveling, not quite drunk but not quite sober, you couldn’t help the groan that left you.  “Oh.  It’s you.”

Not exactly the response Loki wanted, he was just grateful that you spoke to him at all.  Lately you seemed to flee any room he entered, a hurt and heavy sigh escaping you before you'd make your exit, never looking back.  Loki couldn't understand why.

After all, it had been two months since that night.  The one where he'd stumbled on you, glowing blue in the light of the television set, alone and in the darkness.  You asked him to join you, he had accepted.

The movie was called "Say Anything" and Loki had to admit, as far as romance on film went, this story was very moving.  But that was an unexpected bonus to being so near to you.  Before the credits rolled, you had burrowed against him, snuggled under his arm with your head on his chest.  

Stroking your hair, Loki pressed a kiss to your forehead, thoughtlessly, naturally.  Pushing away, looking up at him through hooded lashes, "You… you kissed me?"

Words failed the silver tongued devil, something he still pondered all these weeks later, so a nod was all you got for a response.  Kneeling, your sleep shirt riding over your thighs, Loki watched your small hand rising to cup his cheek.  Feeling your lips against his own was the beginning of the best night of his life.

And then, nothing.  It was like a switch had been thrown and no matter how many ways he tried to reach out for you, Loki wasn't able to connect.  Not like that night.

So, he was going against his nature tonight.  Joining the group, drinking a bit of his brother's mead, wearing a dated but pristine business suit.  All done in the vain hope that something would shift in his favor.

He had already lost too many nights to memories of you.  Soft, full skin under his broad palms.  The tiny moan you exhaled when Loki’s tongue met your own.  How your wet, willing body accepted him, without question or stipulation.  And in the afterglow, when your head rested in the crook of his neck and your cherry cola scented breath circled him, you let Loki hold you close.

But he buried it all.  Tonight he was the embodiment of all things slick.  Nothing could stick to him; not when he had a goal in mind and this much gel in his hair.  Loki Odinson would be taking you home tonight, come hell or high water. Wolfish, Loki’s grin was wicked, “Yes.  Your dream has come true.”  Sitting back, he crossed his designer suit covered knee at the ankle, exposing socks with little golfers on them.  He let his right arm rest along the back of the sofa, not around you… not yet, but inching closer. “What is that cologne you’re wearing?” “Don’t you like it?  I’m told Drakkar Noir was quite the scent of the 80′s.  I did my research.” Twisting, you looked him over, impressed despite yourself.  The suit was totally of its time.  Black, pinstriped and you were sure the jacket that came with it was draped somewhere safe.  His shirt was shiny but soft and bright, blinding white.  Suspenders of red matched the tie that draped down the center of his chest. With his hair combed straight back and held in place with some kind of product, Loki looked like he was capable of eating a six course lunch at Sardi’s, complete with dirty martinis, then jetting back to the office in time to defraud a corporate spending account.  The kind of executive that blackmails a co-worker with pictures of a mistress.  The kind of douche bag that tries to take over a rec center to build a mall.  In short, an avarice little asshole.  So, why was it so hot? “It’s… overpowering.”, boy, was that an understatement.  Loki’s whole aesthetic was overpowering right now.  And, was he moving closer? His bent knee brushed against your own as he leaned near enough to be heard at a whisper, “You look adorable, you know that?” Scrunching into the corner of the couch, eyeing him suspiciously, “Oh?  Really?” “Really.”, his hand brushed over your exposed shoulder, making you jump at his touch.

Uh uh.  No way.  You would not be so easy to seduce this time around.  Even if those wide hands sent goosebumps growing all over your body, Loki would not charm his way into your panties again.  Not like last time.

It had been spontaneous.  Genuine, at least for you.  And in the moment, it felt like Loki had given you a little piece of himself, a tenderness that no one else ever saw in the far flung Frost Giant.  

Maybe that's why Clint's words hurt so much.  He had told you so casually, holding up a spoonful of Cheerios, "Loki said his last girl was a drag.  Basic bitch?  Is that what the kids say?"

Thinking about it now made your heart hurt.  You had given yourself to someone who thought you were beneath him.  Loki couldn't want you.  You would never be good enough.

But that night haunted you.  His soulful kisses that stole your breath.  The drag of Loki’s hands over the swell of your bottom as you straddled his hips.  His solid chest under your own hands, dark head curved against the couch cushion, but those burning eyes never leaving your face.  “I thought you said I was plain.  Simple.  Boring.”  

Leveling his own words back at him made Loki straighten in his seat.  How could you think that?  Unbalanced, stammering, “Uh… I… I’d never…” “Never expected me to find out?  I believe that.  And, let me tell you this-”  Pushing yourself up with the help of the couch’s arm, you rose on unsteady legs, “-I’m not nearly drunk enough to fall into your arms again.”  Spinning away, you made a dash towards the people in the kitchen, without looking back. Watching you go, Loki could do nothing but stare after your retreating form, flummoxed.

“That was… painful.”

He knew that voice well enough, frustrated, confused and unfit for company, “Go away, Tony.”

“I don’t think I will.  In fact-” sitting down in your empty spot, patting Loki’s knee, “-I’m going to make myself comfortable.  Now, tell Uncle Tony all about it.”

Rolling his eyes, unable to find you in the crowd, Loki risked a sideways glance at his replacement companion.  Was he really going to indulge in this?  Tell his almost friend about you… about your one night together?  Loki raked his hands through the pomade in his hair, growling low, “If you breathe a word of it Tony, I’ll-” Lowering his wrap around sunglasses, peering at Loki, Tony smiled, “Your secret is safe with me.” ---

Thinking less and less about Loki as the night went on should have been a relief but it seemed like the scent of him followed you everywhere.  Unable to get free of him, you busied yourself with drinks, dancing, and munching like you were a kid again.  Anything to keep your mind from wandering.

It's not like the party was boring.  Not at all!  There was plenty to distract you and you let it.  Natasha made you her partner for beer pong and somehow you successfully won against Rhodey and Sam.  

Next, Wanda needed you, which is how you wound up sitting on the bathroom sink listening to her go on about Vision in that wistful, loving way that made your own heart ache.  Being a little drunk, you had to fight the urge to cry because you were lonely and hurting. “I saw you talking to Loki… what was that about?”  She was reapplying ruby red lipstick, studying herself in the mirror, not looking directly at you.  

Wanda's voice cut through your self doubt spiral though, something you were thankful for, and with a casual tone you countered, “He was trying to get something started, I think.” Eyebrows lifting, Wanda’s interested piqued,  “Really?  Loki was hitting on you?” “Yea… I mean, I think so.  Was coming on awfully strong too.  But… he’s been a jerk, right?”  

Wanda cleaned up her eye make-up taking a minute, after washing her hands she looked at you, “I mean, he is here.” “So?” “So, you know he’s not really a joiner.  More of a lone wolf.  In fact, I think this may be the first of these little parties he’s come to.  Maybe he’s changed… grown a bit?  And, honestly, you never asked him about-”

Hopping off the counter, cutting her off, more than a little huffy at her good sense, “No, I didn’t and I don’t plan to.  Loki thinks I’m a bore?  Too basic for him?  Fine.  I have better things to do with my time.” Laying her hand on your shoulder, Wanda stopped you, eyeing you in the mirror once more, “I know his words hurt… but you’re going to have to clear the air eventually.  Especially if we’re all going to work together.”

Shrugging, you offered your friend a small smile.  There was truth in her sentiment, even if your slightly drunken brain rebelled against hearing it, “Yea, you're right… plus-” looking around the small washroom, just to make sure no one could hear the pair of you, “- he looks really hot tonight!”

Giggling, Wanda hugged you close, “I didn’t want to say anything, but… yea he does!” The pair of you were still laughing together, standing at the back of the crowd as Tony turned down the music, announcing, “Gather round children, Uncle Tony needs your attention!”  There were a few groans, mostly from the beer pong table, as apparently Bucky was unhappy about forfeiting his winning match.  Everyone else, in all their high haired glory, were congregating near their host, curious and more than a little drunk.

“Tony, what the hell, man?  You killed the tunes!”, Clint shouted, spilling Bud Light foam as he joined the tightening circle. “Patience, my drunk friend.  You all remember this?”  From the table nearby, Tony picked up his glass bowl, triumphant, “Our Destiny!”

Pepper, sighing with a smile, “So dramatic!” Shaking the bowl in her direction Tony smirked, “Ok smarty, then you pick first.  Go on… Pick!” There were oohs and ahhs from the assembled Avengers.  Rolling her eyes, Pepper reached in, grabbing the first slip her fingers found.  Pulling it free, she grinned, eyeing Tony, “It says ‘Loki’...” Hearing his name, Loki snapped his head up, surprise registering on his face, “Excuse me?” Holding it up for his examination, Pepper waved the slip under the regal nose of the junior Odinson, “See… your name.” “Yes, but why?”

Butting in, Tony snatched the scrap from the hand of his lovely fiance, practically dancing with glee.  Turning to Loki, “Now you, Gordon Gecko, pull a slip.” Aware of all eyes locked on him, Loki reached into the jar, digging around a little more than necessary.  Finally satisfied, the thin paper pinched between his fingers, Loki opened the folded note.  When his fierce gaze met yours, you knew without a doubt.  It was your name he had grabbed. Throwing a thick arm across Loki’s broad shoulders, Tony hugged him close, “Well?  What’s it say?” It all made sense in that moment.  The tacky costumes, flat beer and endless music.  A drunken moment of clarity had descended.  Tony, waving his arms, eating up the crowd’s reactions, heads turning to gauge your response.  Swallowing hard, your hearing failing you, you just faked a smile. You and Loki were going into the closet for Seven Minutes in Heaven. Only there was no way you were going to do that.  Not after what he’d said.  Not after your one night together, right?  But you felt a gentle hand pushing your forward, into the center of your circle of friends and for some reason, your feet followed.  

Refusing didn't enter your mind.  With everyone ogling you and Loki, making a scene would only cause more speculation, something you weren't keen to do.  Instead, you stepped next to Tony, outwardly eager to play along.  

You just shouldn't have dared to look at your proposed make out partner.  Laser focused, Loki’s lusty look hadn’t wavered.  No, the light in those thundering blue eyes was carnal, darker than you had ever seen, matching your own.  Against your better judgement, you wanted Loki, too.

Whatever Tony was saying was a blur, merely sounds, because you were utterly stunned by the nearness of Loki.  The roaring laughs of the rest of the group were drowned out by your pounding heart.  A door opened to a dim room, the pantry maybe?  You didn’t know and in that moment you didn’t really care. 

With a small smile, Loki ducked into the cupboard, lacing his fingers with yours, offering a bit of his strength.  Dragging you inside, your body pinned between a shelf of snacks and the hard body of your frenemy, a whimper of want passed your lips.  Loki still smelled so good and now he was so close.  “Have fun you two!”, Tony’s words were accompanied by the door shutting you and Loki inside, in the dark.  Surrounded by silence, Loki’s sharp pants were the only sound louder than your racing pulse, which was saying something. Afraid to move, afraid of spooking you, Loki struggled to search your stare in the low light.  He had already experienced your angry dismissal of his attention tonight.  It wasn't something he wanted to relive, not when you were so close with sweet and speedy breath, your chest brushing against his own at each exhale.

Lifting a hand, grazing over your uncovered shoulder, Loki's touch was electric.  You moved towards it, towards him, needing more of his energy.  Craving it.

Bold in the dark, you grabbed at Loki’s suspenders, tugging him closer.  Rising on your toes, covering some of the distance between your mouth and his, you pressed a hot kiss to those soft, pink lips.  Under your fluttering fingers Loki shivered, "Darling-"

"Shut up.  I… I don't care."

"But I never…"

"I told you.  I don't care.  Now kiss me like you mean it, because we only have about six more minutes!"

Not needing any more encouragement, Loki found the flare of your hips in the shadows, molding your curves to the rigid planes of his body.  Desperate, needy, you felt his tongue move against your own.  Want, plain and simple, led your own fingers to the collar of Loki’s starched shirt and the tangle of his raven hair. Fisting it, tugging against those luscious locks, you couldn’t seem to get close enough to the tall God sharing your cupboard.  Whining, his name on your lips, you drew Loki tight enough that the press of your breasts was edging towards pain.  Demanding, true to your word, with every pass of Loki’s magical mouth over your own the last few weeks were forgotten. Hungry for more, Loki roughly squeezed the flesh of your ass, grinding you against his wool blend covered crotch.  Stuttering, his arousal was so stiff, for a minute Loki worried about making a mess.  But that feeling was replaced with unbridled ecstasy when your lips found the tender skin below his ear.  

A nip, enough to make Loki hiss, was soon soothed by your sucking on the same spot.  Resting your butt on the nearest shelf, you didn’t have to stand on tip-toe to reach the soft, sweet sections of Loki where you longed to lavish attention.  He took advantage of your new position by sliding a free hand along the swell of your separated thighs.  “I just need to feel you, dove.  I need to know that you want me as much as I want you.”  It was a husky whisper, directly into your ear, and it sent an arc of icy fire to your core.  When his long fingers skimmed over the silky slick of your panties you moaned in unison, bucking into Loki’s touch, lost in the moment. Stepping between your legs, Loki took one of your hands into each of his own, pinning you wide open against the boxes of cereal and granola bars that lined the pantry walls.  Devouring you slowly, Loki kissed along the column of muscles at your throat, across the exposed line of your clavicle.  You could do little more than take his delicious torment as more and more of your sweat dappled skin was serviced by his silver tongue. “Yes… Loki…”, tumbling out of you, just like the night when you first came together, you crooned his name in delight.  Breathless, boneless and broken with need. CLICK!  The sound made you both freeze.  Snapping swiftly, Loki’s head swung towards the door where the bright light and noisy crowd of the party was intruding into your private pantry. “WHOA, WHOA, WHOA!  What do we have here?”  Swinging into the tight space, Tony’s shrewd look took in the scene in seconds, “What were you two doing in here?  It was a very quiet seven minutes!” Straightening to standing, Loki stood, blocking you from sight as you readjusted your clothes.  Smoothing down his tangled strands, sarcasm dripping, “Talking.  Very quietly.”  When he was sure you were decent, Loki offered you his hand, and blinking you stepped back into the wild and raucous party still in full swing.  Tony, flashing a knowing grin your way, nodded, “I hope you didn’t smush the chips!  We still need those!” Giggling, you locked onto Loki’s arm, letting him lead you towards the keg and away from the shouted questions of your friends.  You knew there was no mystery about what happened in those seven minutes.  Hair mused, makeup smudged, lips swollen and shirts twisted, the pair of you were walking neon signs for getting to third base.

Silently Loki poured you a beer, taking a small glass of Asgardian mead for himself, before raising his glass your way.  Returning his gesture, you downed the frothy ale fast, feeling a little parched after your spit swapping time in the hall closet.  Boring into you, his eyes followed each of your movements, searching for a sign of your feelings. Dropping your empty cup on the counter, you turned and jumped onto the marble ledge, feet dangling.  “Loki?” Placing his own glass down gently, Loki took his position between your bent knees, looking down at your darling face, “Yes?” “Did you say those things?  That I was… boring?  Basic?” Shaking his dark waves no, Loki bit into his bottom lip, “Never.  What I said was, my last girl, ages ago, was those things… but my new lady-” tracing along your jaw, tipping your chin his way, “-she is everything I could ever want.”

“Am I… am I your new lady, then?” With a fierce flicker of fire in his eyes, Loki nodded yes this time, “Absolutely.” Leaning into him, arms around his neck, you tugged him down to meet your waiting lips.  “Good.  Good to know.  Because I think I’m going to watch a movie tonight.” “Really?  I recall really enjoying the last one.” “Hmm… me too.”  Sliding off the counter, ducking under Loki’s long arms, you turned back to face him, “My room… say, an hour?”

Snapping his suspenders, smirking, “I’ll be there.”  Watching you skip away made Loki’s pulse pound in anticipation.  Pouring himself another glass of clear liquor, he chuckled, amazed at the change seven minutes had created.  

“You’re welcome.” “Ah!  Yes, many thanks Tony.”  

Leaning against the counter, Tony knocked into Loki’s shoulder, “You’re cute together, Rock of Ages, but don’t make me regret helping you tonight!  Treat her right.”

“Of course.  I... truly, thank you.”, sincerity seeped from Loki at the favor from Tony. “No worries!  No worries!”  Waving away any additional gratitude, Tony looked over the group of half cocked, and totally cocked heroes before him, “Of course the real bitch was getting Pepper to pull your name from the bowl…”

My Marvelous Minxes tag-list:  @queenofmischief @vodka-and-some-sass @just-random-obsessions @brokenthelovely @lots-of-loki @thefallenbibliophilequote @iamverity @iluvsumbucky @unadulteratedwizardlove @wolfsmom1 @procrastinatinglikeabitch @mizfit2 @shxdowofdarkness @nonsensicalobsessions @ahintofkiwistrawberry @jessiejunebug @rorybutnotgilmore @crystalizedcaramel @lokislittlecorner @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @capcapcapsicle @jamielea81 @caffiend-queen @thenatalie @sammy-jo1977 @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @is-it-madness @jenjen8675309 @alexakeyloveloki @poetic-fiasco​

#loki x reader #loki x you #hot loki #loki smut #loki love #1000followers #mcu smut #mcu fanfiction #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #80's #80's loki #80's mcu

[neverendingstories00]

you guessed it...another round (unfortunately) of BoB headcanons in the middle of the night because sleep is for the weak but I am weak

Luz has...a unique sense of style. We’re talking clashing patterns, neon crocs with jibbits, sunglasses and fedoras, you name it. Urban Outfitters who? He was wearing it before it was trendy🙄✋🏽 GET on his level. A wonderful example of his fashion sense is the time the company had weekend passes (modern au) and he decided to wear his best outfit; a white shirt with an horribly outdated meme, cargo shorts with a chain, nike socks, and neon crocs. To top it off; a fedora and sports sunglasses with a purple tint. Yeah, it’s BAD.

To add to the Luz and his horrible fashion sense, do any of you remember icarly and the penny tee’s saying stuff like “my cheese my rules” and “fries matter?” HE OWNS A WHOLE DAMN CLOSET OF THEM

I can see Speirs LOVING Lana Del Rey. He has a secret Spotify and has a whole playlist of his favourite songs by her. Actually not just Lana Del Rey, all the sad girls like Lorde and Mitski. If you catch Speirs singing in a velvet robe to Millon Dollar Man, no you didn’t. You would be dead by then.

Speaking of music tastes, let’s move onto Lewis Nixon. First of all, brace yourself. Lewis Nixon has reverted back into his college phase (like he ever grew out of it). He’s a huge fan of Alternative eighties rock like The Smiths, The Pyscadelic Furs, Talking Heads, The Cure, etc. He has all his old vinyls and it’s a cool collection. However, Nixon hates Morrisey, which is good. He complains about the Smiths, with The Queen Is Dead blasting in the back.

Speirs kidnapped Carwood Lipton one time. Carwood works as an English teacher and Speirs is his boyfriend who works as a real estate agent meets ex mafia hitman but he doesn’t talk about it. Speris one day was like “we’re going camping” and took Carwood...camping. But like the thing is...Carwood told NO ONE. And plus he had a job to teach so yeah. Let’s just say that Carwood might’ve been a missing person’s case for like two weeks. But he kept posting on his Facebook like “what a lovely hike with my lovely boyfriend😍” or “look at our rv? isn’t she something🥰” and George Luz would comment and be like “BLINK TWICE IF YOU NEED HELP WHERE RU”

Eugene wanted Babe to start eating healthier, so he took him to Trader Joe’s and made him buy a bunch of healthy snacks because in case you have forgotten, Babe is a literal baby. So Babe picks out a bunch of snacks but doesn’t realize it’s baby food, nor does Eugene. So Babe is casually munching on little yogurt bites and Guarno is like “Franny feeds that to our baby what the fuck” and Babe spits them out, mortified.

Floyd Talbert was apart of the dance team in middle. Like, he was the only guy on the team so it was insanely akwared. I can imagine him having a solo for “Womanizer” but getting kicked off the stage bc he started full on strip dancing in a glittery fedora in front of his prince pal. High school Floyd is an absolute nightmare.

Joe Liebgott eats Hershey Bars, Meat, and monster energy drinks only. No wonder he’s skinny. He’s such a picky eater, it’s horrible. Like he also loves weird food combos, like cheese and Oreos. Which is nasty.

Dick Winters LOVES Water Skiing. I’m not joking, it’s his favourite hobby. Catch your daddy Quaker in a pair of tight speedo shorts and Nixon’s aviators, gliding across the water.

HARRY!! How could I forget. I can see his man owning a bunch of cat’s and calling them “sweetie”, “honey”, “sugar”, and a bunch of cutesy names. All of the name’s were kitty’s idea. Speaking of Kitty, I can see her being a big girl, like height and weight. Harry worships her and calls her “my big beautiful Amazon” and Nixon thinks it’s weird BUT IT’S CUTE

Johnny Martin has a secret Twitter account that nobody is allowed to see. Instead of typing like a normal person, he smashes the keyboard. Nobody knows what he’s saying except for Bull. It’s very concerning.

For Halloween, the mortar trio have really strange costumes. One year, they were a rollercoaster. Other years they were the three musketeers, Alvin and the chipmunks, and the powderpuff girls. There costumes are genuinely terrifying to look at. Did I mention there the sexy versions as well? There worse costume was sexy rock, paper, and scissors. Mega yikes.

#band of brothers #speirton #winnix #carrie chats

[lady-in-the-lair]

There was an electric violinist with uv pink Mohawk, body paint and violin who played Paganini while dancing naked under black lights and I met a very posh English man in his late seventies or eighties who came to the cloakroom in latex and corset and collected his full white tie and evening dress suit. “I do so love to go from one extreme to another” so I have happier memories! It was one weird night in the ‘90s. If you want any more suggestions for a Venom rave fic, please hit me up!

Well, that's certainly something far removed from my own experiences, so thanks for the ideas! Venom should work as a bouncer; he'd love it there. Eddie I'm not so sure of, but at least Venom will be having a blast.

#ask tag