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echo-rambles · 4 months

Text

use my body against me

summary: when a drunk text to your ex gets answered in a way you never expected, it leads to falling right back into old habits. tags: past established relationship, ex-boyfriend chan, suggestive content but nothing explicit, mention of recreational alcohol use, swearing. notes: title from the way you miss me by all time low. mostly a rewrite of my very first reader insert fic, because I loved the concept but I wasn't a fan of my own writing, and I think I've vastly improved since. I might write a continuation, but no promises.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The situation you currently find yourself in is truly one of your own making. There’s really no one else to blame, no matter how much you would love to point the finger at literally anyone besides yourself.

There’s a text message from Bang Christopher Chan sitting there, on your phone. Staring up at you almost accusatory and chilling you to the bone.

-Good morning, I hope you’re drinking water to combat all of that vodka you consumed last night! hahaha

At first, the text means nothing to you. It leaves you in a state of mild confusion only exacerbated by your incredible hangover. How would he know you drank your weight in liquor? The only answer you can even try to think up isn’t a good one. Feeling brave and a little nauseous, you decide to scroll up, farther into this conversation between you and your ex.

The confusion melts away into horror as you locate the beginning of this conversation. One glance at the selfie you sent has the memory coming back to you, causing your headache to flare. Oh no.

It was late last night, and you had already drank one too many shots of whatever fruity flavored vodka was available. Shut away in Felix’s bathroom, the light overhead far too harsh and fluorescent, pulling your shirt down enough to show off your cleavage. Snapping a picture in the mirror above the sink, leaning into the counter and trying your best to look some approximation of sexy.

Fumbling fingers sent it to Chan. The first text between the two of you in months.

Looking at the selfie now has your stomach twisting into knots. Oh no. The texts that followed aren’t any better. Actually, they somehow make the entire situation worse.

-the fact that i wore this shirt hoping you’d be at this party only to learn you went home EARLY?

-i wasted such an amazing outfit and for nothing

-i bet you looked good too. bastard

-sometimes i can’t tell if i miss you or just the weight of you on top of me

-i miss how good you were -i know fora fact i miss your mouth -i miss your mouth on MY MOUTH -omg i miss my mouth on your

You swipe away from those messages. Knowing for a fact you’ll have to read them eventually, to get a proper understanding of the things you said to him. But not right now. Right now you continue to scroll, your texts devolving into a mix of incomprehensible emojis and bitching at Chan about things he very obviously can’t control. You were a mess, holy shit. Who even let you text? Why wasn’t your phone confiscated the moment vodka hit your lips?

The only things that Chan has replied with since your terrible wall of drunk texts is an initial Oh wow lol, and his aforementioned good morning text.

It could be worse, right? He could’ve blocked you or typed out an excruciatingly long lecture about drinking responsibly. It honestly could’ve been so much worse.

Crawling your way out of bed, still vaguely nauseous and trying to fight the urge to lay face down on the floor and never get up again, you shuffle your way into the bathroom. First thing’s first before you tackle whatever the fuck is on your phone, you decide to wash up to feel human again.

The world can fall apart around you for all you care. All you want is a shower and some toothpaste.

Wrapped in a towel and your toothbrush sticking out of your mouth, you finally decide to reply. You probably shouldn’t, especially now that you’re sober and know better, but you have to apologize. That feels like the polite thing to do.

Well, the only way to begin is by beginning.

-lol hey good afternoon

-I ended up demolishing an entire water bottle when I got home last night but sadly it wasn’t enough to save me

How do you even apologize for last night? Sorry I was so angry and horny and I made it your problem? Sorry that the first time I've texted you since we broke up was a drunk thirst trap? So sorry, and hey by the way how have you been since we had the messiest breakup because you’re bad at prioritizing and I’m bad at communication?

Yeah, definitely none of that.

You’re still standing there in your bathroom, staring into the mirror and brushing your teeth on autopilot as your mind spins into itself, when your phone lights up. One notification followed swiftly by a second, making your phone buzz on the counter.

Chan’s contact stares back at you, both messages fading off into ellipses.

-Ah, RIP. You should’ve drank three…

-Hey, I know this is last minute, but I was wondering if we could…

Oh, you don’t think this is the sort of message you can read by yourself while still combating the aching nausea of a hangover. Absolutely not, whatever he has to say can be answered once you have a sufficient amount of caffeine and the right company.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

“I need a second opinion.” It’s the first thing you say, after sitting down across from Felix and shoving your phone at him. Showing off the string of text messages you experienced after waking up. You still haven’t read the newest text.

Felix barely even moves his head from where it’s resting against the table. He’s clearly just as hungover as you are, but you feel like you’re in the middle of making a very bad decision and you need a second opinion. You shimmy your phone under the seam where his forehead meets the wood.

With a little pout and deep groan, he’s shifting around and unlocking your phone. The silence stretches on as he swipes through the text thread and stares, blinks, and blinks some more. With a start, he’s sitting up straight, pulling the phone closer.

“Wait, he wants to meet up with you?”

“He wants to what?” You snatch the phone from his hands, finally reading the text yourself.

-Hey, I know this is last minute, but I was wondering if we could maybe grab lunch? Or, if you’re still too hungover for lunch, maybe something later?

Just the idea of seeing him again has something hot and electric buzzing through your veins. Your immediate instinct is to say yes. You want to say yes so badly, yes a thousand times over. Instead you very deliberately place your phone onto the table.

Felix has slumped back into his seat, eyeing you warily. “I thought you weren’t talking to him?”

“I mean- I wasn’t. But now I am, kind of? It’s not that big of a deal-”

“It felt like you two went through a divorce, I don’t know if I’d say it’s ‘not a big deal’-”

“I’m over it!” You proclaim, a little loudly. A little desperately. “And he is too if he’s talking to me.”

All you get in response is Felix’s eyebrows pitching inwards and his mouth molding into a little frown. The type of frown that is trying very hard to not be a frown. He’s giving you the most pitying look you’ve probably ever seen on his angelic face.

You should say no. Scoop up your phone and tell him that you can’t make it. Conjure up some far flung excuse so that you won’t reopen old wounds. But you want to see him again, desperately.

You tap your fingers along the edge of the table. “Is this a bad idea?”

“Do you want my truthful answer?” Felix replies from the depths of his hoodie. Your phone sits between you, dark screen facing the ceiling.

You think for a moment. “Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

The thing is, you know he has a point. It doesn’t feel very good but it’s true. Sure, you and Chan can be amicable over text, but that’s over text. Who knows what will happen if you’re face to face. Would it be awkward and stilted? Or maybe everything you say to each other will be filled with vitriolic anger. Things didn’t exactly end on the best terms, and that might just leak into an otherwise pleasant meeting.

But you are nothing if not a professional at both denial and deflections, so you push all of those thoughts very far away.

Maybe this could be a new start. Maybe you and Chan could be the incredibly rare type of people who are friends with their ex. You’d like that, actually, to have Chan back in your life beyond some tertiary character you hear about from other people. Texting him reminded you how much you actually miss your best friend.

Snatching your phone up, you just barely restrain yourself from checking to see if you somehow managed to miss any new messages.

“It’s a friend thing! Friend’s hang out all the time. We're going to go get coffee or something equally platonic and we're going to ignore all of the drunk texts I sent him!” Your voice raises in pitch towards the end, and it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than anything else.

Felix gives you a very unimpressed look. “You told him that you miss the feel of his-”

“I know what I said!"

"In your mouth-"

"Thank you!”

Those texts are burned into your brain, you're well aware of the things you sent Chan. How they got more detailed the more you sent. Just remembering some of them has you flushing.

“I mean," Felix hums, oblivious to the direction your thoughts are taking. "I guess it could be a thing friends do.” There's too much sarcasm in his words for your liking.

“As if you haven’t said something similar to any of your friends.”

One of his eyebrows arch, and the gesture is so very pointed. “Any friend that I’ve gotten on my knees for was never at any point an extremely complicated ex.”

"Shut the fuck up." He's right and you hate it.

But still. You want to see Chan so badly. Finally you give in to the all consuming urge to reply. Opening up Chan’s contact, your fingers work quickly.

-I mean, if you’re paying…

-Of course I’ll pay haha

-then count me in!

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cave so quickly.” Felix sighs, but there’s something all tangled into his words. Some emotion you can’t really identify right now. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it sounds hopeful.

“Seriously, shut up.”

“You came here asking for my opinion!”

“Well!” You huff, trying not to glance at the little typing bubble that appears under your fingers. Signaling that Chan is in the middle of replying to you. He wants to continue your stupid little conversation. Your heart does a funny little wiggle at the sight. “I’ll take what you said into consideration, I guess.”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Felix was probably right, and that was such a complicated thought to have while Chan’s hand was currently palming you through your shirt.

See, it really had started out with grabbing coffee together. Something extremely casual with no pressure, the conversation just a little awkward at the start. Both of you trying to remember how to be civil towards each other, how to smile and laugh at jokes. It came a lot easier to Chan, as always. But you missed this. You missed being in the same space as him and hearing his voice and fucking hell, Felix was right; you’re so incredibly weak.

You tried so hard to keep things on track, really you did. The possibility of being friends was right there, laid out in front of you. But then Chan smiled- that small little smile where he ducks his head and bites at his lip and looks up at you from under those fucking eyelashes of his, and oh. You were gone.

He makes it almost disgustingly easy to be around him. It makes your head buzz.

Somehow the touch of your fingers against the inside of his wrist lead you to his apartment. Where he pins you to the wall and kisses you so deeply you can feel it in your toes. You almost forgot what it felt like when Chan put his full strength into holding you in place. It’s heady.

He still tastes the same. Somehow, in the midst of his hands gripping and tugging you closer, pressing your hips flush together, that’s the thought that floats its way to the forefront. Chan tastes the same, even after all this time where you never got to taste him. He feels the same too, a little wider, mostly in his shoulders, but still familiar. He makes the same little noise in the back of his throat when you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

It’s all so familiar and you could choke on it.

You should probably talk about this. The making out, yes, absolutely, but also the last few months and the texts and him asking to see you out of the blue. It should be talked about, right? Except what would you even say? You’ll just rehash the same things you’ve been saying. You felt ignored and he felt suffocated and you could never find a way to meet in the middle because you’re both stubborn.

You should say something though, right? Right?

The press of his hand against the dip of your waist, pulling you closer, has you losing any semblance of what language even is. Words? Who needs them? He’s hooking his other hand behind your knee and hiking it up, guiding you to wrap your leg around him, and really all you can think about is how you aren’t close enough.

You sneak your fingers up under the hem of his shirt, feeling the expanse of his skin, and the sound of the breathiest gasp leaving his lips settles along the curve of your spine.

This doesn’t feel like a particularly good idea, but then he’s grinding against you, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, and it doesn’t really matter all that much.

“Is this a terrible idea?” He asks, practically breathing the words directly into your mouth, and you find it a little funny. Not only are you both having the same sort of thought, but it feels incredibly belated.

“Honestly Chris? I don’t really give a fuck.”

That gets him to laugh. Just the quietest little giggle into the skin of your jaw. His hand moves, until he’s grabbing at your ass and angling your hips higher, and it’s really such an inspired thing. The feeling of him, hard through his denim, pressing into you has a moan tripping out of you.

You definitely need to talk about this.

Chan keeps touching you, kissing you, undressing you. Little by little, constantly asking 'is this ok? Yeah? We can stop whenever you want-' because he's still a gentleman. You haven't been this close to him in months, but he's still so fucking considerate. It'd be more maddening if it wasn't so familiar. If anything it’s reassuring, filling you with a stupid amount of confidence. You know how to deal with this.

You repeat yes over and over, hands at his shoulders and licking the word into his mouth, no matter how much he asks.

He peels your shirt away, careful with the fabric, mouth already trailing down your neck, your chest, landing on the swell of your cleavage. Hands so wide, palms easily fitting to your bare waist.

"Just tell me to stop, and I will-"

Finally you snap. Like a live wire pulled too taut, reaching out to grab at his face. Pressing your fingers into the hollows of his cheeks, his chin resting in the curve of your palm. "Christopher, I'm so horny I feel like I might cry. So while I really appreciate what you're trying to do- if you don't rail me stupid in the next five minutes, I can't be held accountable for my actions."

"Oh, sorry." He blinks at you, a little slowly as he leans more of his weight into your hand. Your fingers dig into the meat of his face and you can feel something tense in his jaw.

"Don't apologize baby, just get on with it." This feels familiar too. Like slipping into a pair of beloved jeans. The fit so perfect.

His eyes light up in the next instant, sparkling and bright, and holy shit you're in for it now. "Say less, boss."

You don't know if you still love him, but you do know that you'll always love the feeling of his mouth on you. His hands. Leaving wet trails as he kisses your skin messily, sloppy. Clever fingers following in the wake of his tongue.

#stray kids #skz #bang chan x reader #skz x reader #echo writes #if I missed any warnings/tags just let me know!#anyway uhh please enjoy.#I do have plans for a part 2 but nothing concrete #we'll see if I want to continue this lol

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charles-leclerc-official · 2 months

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2024 Australian Grand Prix Race Analysis

Here is my Australian Grand Prix full race analysis, this got long because there was a lot to cover, table of contents below detailing the order of the post.

Table of Contents Ferrari – Carlos: his race – Charles: his car setup and race – In depth data analysis Mercedes – Lewis DNF – George: his crash and his race – Fernando penalty Red Bull – Max DNF – Checo: his race Mclaren VCARB – Yuki: his race – Yuki vs Daniel pace analysis Haas Stake Williams

Ferrari

Ferrari had Carlos starting at P2 and Charles starting P4. Right away Carlos went for the overtake on Max in the first few laps, and this is when he took the lead of the race.

Carlos finished P1 and Charles finished P2 for a Ferrari 1-2!

Charles also got the fastest lap on lap 56 so Ferrari took all possible points this weekend.

Ferrari strategy: The Ferrari strategy was good. Full stop. I have seen a lot of takes on this and I want to put them to bed.

Carlos was ahead, he qualified better and did take the lead.

Charles was doing well, HOWEVER his pace especially on those mediums at the start of the race was off(due to the dirty air combined with heat). His car setup was not maximized for the race and we knew that already from qualifying. His tyres also cooked in the dirty air he was dealing with from Lando and Oscar in those early laps. This is where he lost a chunk of time.

So with a car at the lead of the race and another being strong but statistically off the pace Ferrari made the choice to back the leading car.

The pit stops were timed perfectly. They avoided the undercut from Mclaren and kept both drivers on tyres they could push on when it counted(especially for Charles).

This was really exactly what Ferrari should have done given the circumstances of this particular race and the placement of their drivers.

This race was not a repeat of Silverstone 2022. In fact quite the opposite. This really is promising for what Fred and the team can do the rest of the season strategy-wise.

Carlos

Started P2 and finished in P1. As his first race coming off surgery that is to be commended and I would say that this was easily his best race(where he won at least).

His overtake on Max wasn’t as impressive as it’s being hyped, because Max’s brake problem was already present(this is seen on telemetry) so I wouldn’t really say it’s that impressive, he would have had the lead anyway after Max DNFed.

I don’t really have a ton to add, it was a clean race, once he was ahead he kept the lead for the rest of the race and didn’t have to fight any other cars.

I want to dispel some narratives forming around Carlos' win:

“It was a gifted win”: No, Carlos qualified P2, he did overtake, and he finished the race, and the team supported him normally. Nothing was given to him. Was he lucky and in the right place at the right time? Yes, but that isn’t a gifted win.

“Carlos ended Max Verstappen’s streak” : this makes it sound like he beat Max. And that just isn’t true. He overtook Max who was already having serious brake issues, and the reason Max lost/DNFed had nothing to do with Carlos’ driving. Carlos won, no reason to say it like this to try to make it sound better.

Charles

His race was decided in qualifying, and he knew it. It was confirmed after he did his first stint behind Lando.

The Car Setup

First we need to talk about Charles car setup because it set the tone for the rest of the weekend:

For FP3 the team made adjustments to the balance of Charles’ car. This was done because while he was very fast during FP2 and FP1 he was losing time each lap to Max on turns 9 and 10. He was losing grip and that was costing time. While this wasn’t a concern for free practice this kind of thing would have potentially had much greater effects on race day. So changes were made to try to improve the grip.

Unfortunately they didn’t get these adjustments right. And in FP3 Charles had worse grip, which he noted. To compensate for the adjustment Charles and his team went for a very aggressive balance adjustment to the front wing of his car for qualifying. This was too extreme, and it ended up impeding his performance in qualifying. This was once again an over-correction and this is what cost him in qualifying.

(It is also worth noting that in FP3 he set that fastest lap on the softs, which were not used during the race due to heat)

I say all this that while many were claiming Ferrari are not helping Charles and they were ruining his race, this suggests the opposite. In fact Ferrari were more focused on getting Charles’ car tuned to be more competitive against Max. Did they mess that up? Yes. I think a combination of over-correcting the issue and the hotter track temps contributed to this. However all of these factors do suggest that Ferrari is more focused on getting Charles dialed in to take Max. Even though this weekend's outcome might not feel like it reflects that, I think we will be very pleased when they do come through. And I fully believe that Ferrari will be able to do that for Charles this season.

[Charles = Red Max = Blue Carlos = White]

Charles knew his race was decided in qualifying. He said as much, that it basically meant he wasn’t going to be able to push for the win(he meant against Max but I still think this statement stands) So he started further back and the balance and thus grip issues followed Charles on that first stint of the medium tyres and the second on the hards.

Charles started P4 behind Lando Norris. And once again, this is when the way his race was managed was determined. He was in dirty air on that first stint, and well into the second stint. This is when it became clear that he was not going to be contending for the win to the team. So they made strategy calls accordingly.

On the second set of hards he did pick up the pace, made headway closing the gap to Carlos and got the fastest lap.

His pace was off Carlos at the beginning of the race but by the end he was matching and surpassing it.

I want to dispel some narratives and misinformation being spread about Charles’ race and his car:

“The cooling duct replacement is why his car was off” : No, that cooling duct did not affect his performance this race. The car would have behaved differently if that had caused the pace issue. In fact the cooling duct probably helped him in this race overall. Not all parts replacements are bad, so don’t buy into narratives set by people who know nothing about the mechanical functions of these parts.

“Charles didn't fight '' : again wrong. It was clear within those first ten laps he didn't have the pace with the dirty air he was in. Yes he picked up time at the end but that was too late. Charles knows all this, he knew which is why it was good to follow team orders and maximize points for himself and the team.

Furthermore he did fight. At the end of the race when he had the new hards he was closing the gap, he made some progress at that. If he'd had clean air earlier in the race he would have been able to push more. But at the end you could see him closing the gap, he just didn't have enough remaining laps to get close enough to Carlos. I do believe that at the pace he was going if Charles had 10 more laps he would have caught Carlos.

“P2 is bad” (for some reason?): P2 isn't bad, that’s a podium and a bunch of points.

“They changed Charles' car!”: Charles had direct input into his car setup. The team didn't just change it on him without his knowledge or input, or without the need for it.

“Charles was faster” : yes and no. At the beginning Charles was not faster than Carlos. On average he was roughly four tenths off Carlos. However the race was pretty much decided by the time he did find the pace. Those last 10 or so laps were great. He was shaving off time with each lap and he ended up getting the fastest lap of the race! In fact he was faster than Carlos once he got into the clean air. So yes Charles was fast and on the last stint he was faster. But as a whole for this race his pace was on average 4 tenths off Carlos (which is very good, that is a close margin between the cars and looks promising for the SF-24 overall) It really just came down once again to that starting grid placement.

“Charles should have defied team orders” or “Team orders screwed Charles over”: again no. Most of the time it is good for a driver to follow team orders. Even if he had defied team orders I don’t think the outcome of the race would have been any different. He started too far behind Carlos, by the time he was out of dirty air Carlos was too far ahead.

“Melbourne is his strongest track” : nope. Charles has said himself that this isn't his strongest track. People think this because of his grand slam, however that was an exception not the rule.

I also want to address the idea that they should have made Charles and Carlos switch. It’s insane to expect a team to ask a driver who is in first and having no issues to swap with his teammate. Especially with such a large gap between them. That is so far outside of what would be considered acceptable. I understand the urge to want your favorite to get everything(I grit my teeth as I type this because yes I wanted this too), but I don’t even think Charles would want a win like that.

Charles is smart. He knows race strategy. He knew right away what the call would be given where he was. If he'd had the pace and positioning to fight for P1 he would have told the team. He already knew his race wasn’t optimized during quali, that’s why he went with the Ferrari strategy.

The performance this weekend falls mostly on Ferrari for not maximizing the setup configuration of Charles’ car. Also just some bad luck and track conditions. In spite of all that Charles ran a great race that put him in P2 in the WDC.

Finally, remember it’s important to know when you can and should fight. Charles is smart, he knows based on his car and conditions when he can fight. Expecting someone to fight regardless of the conditions being optimal for it is just not realistic, and it doesn’t really lead to good outcomes.

Charles isn't perfect. Dialing a car for your driving style on a particular track is hard and sometimes you get it wrong, especially when there are last minute changes(which I will repeat were needed). We've seen this before with many many teams.

He got the fastest lap on used hards, and he took P2 for a clean Ferrari 1-2 and that is what we love to see. In fact his was the more impressive performance overall as far as on track driving goes in a Ferrari this weekend.

Charles is fast, and he will be fighting again in future races.

Comparing Charles' and Carlos' pace

So now we are going to look at some telemetry that reflects the story of the race as I have told it. Going over some details of note.

Comparing fastest lap: Charles to Carlos

Comparing Charles and Carlos full race pace

You can see that once Charles got clean air he was matching Carlos pace at worst and beating it at best. He was pushing those last few laps for some real speed. The first ten laps where Charles had the most dirty air to contend with were his worst. The switch to the hards helped with this. Once he was on fresh hards in the final 24 laps he was matching Carlos pace or beating it.

Carlos also lost most of his time at turn 10(especially compared to Max) and also turn 6. So we know his car was having the same problem, but nothing was done to try to maximize. It may be he didn’t want to change any more settings, or Ferrari really did give priority to Charles in this regard, it’s impossible to say. But both cars had this problem.

The big focus of the weekend was trying to gain pace and work out the issues on turn 10. In this way Charles actually did get priority with Ferrari trying to get it figured out for his car.

I also don’t think that Ferrari struggling with the car setup for Charles is indicative of anything very concerning. Multiple other teams had issues managing grip and getting car settings right for track conditions (Red Bull being the prime example) So it doesn’t look like they were uniquely struggling in this area.

This race did show us that the SF-24 is a good base to work with and is firmly ahead of the rest of the field with the potential to give Red Bull some trouble.

Anyway I know that was long but I wanted to leave no doubt about what happened and to show the proof.

Mercedes

Mercedes as a whole had the worst weekend of any team. With Lewis' DNF due to engine failure, and George's DNF due to the reckless actions of another driver. This weekend’s result definitely isn’t either driver’s fault.

Lewis

Lewis had to retire after his car suffered an engine failure. The W15 has not been living up to expectations. Not much else to say, clearly not his fault and that car has been giving him trouble all season so far. It is very much a case of it's the car's fault not the driver's.

George

Content warning I will be discussing his crash on lap 58 in detail.

George had a decent race. He was ahead of his teammate at the start and he was chasing down cars.

On lap 58 George crashed out, he lost the rear of the car, went into the gravel and that caused one of the tyres to catch, sliding under the car enough to flip it sideways. The car came to a stop in the middle of the track just after turn 6.

A yellow flag and virtual safety car was deployed.

George called repeatedly for a red flag, stating that he was in the middle of the track. He was clearly scared and terrified he might be hit at any moment.

Fernando Alonso: The reason George lost control is because he was behind Fernando, who going into turn 6 slowed unusually, causing George to have to drive erratically as a response. This “brake check” is what caused George's crash. The stewards investigated after the race and issued a 3 place grid penalty to Fernando. Now I am not going to speculate too much on if Fernando did this brake check on purpose or if it was - as he claim - due to a throttle issue he was having. He either drove recklessly, or maliciously(or some combination of both), either way it is deserving of a penalty. I suspect that the answer lies in the middle but I can't read minds. We can only go off of his account and whether or not we believe his version of events. I do however agree that regardless of if the braking was intentional or not it warranted a penalty. That was extremely dangerous, causing a serious crash that easily could have ended in severe injury or a fatality if the gap to the next car hadn't been great enough. In fact we saw that Lance’s engineer was frantically telling him to slow down, if he hadn’t been as far behind as he was this would have likely ended so much worse.

The session should have been red flagged. A major crash leaving a driver in the middle of the track is a call for an instant red flag. But the stewards went with yellow and a VSC. That call was unacceptable. I suspect they didn't put up the red flag because it was the last lap of the race and they didn't want a controversial finish. If they had it’s possible we see the leading Ferrari’s have the chance to battle it out, or even Lando to compete closer to the front. Yes, anyone beating Carlos at this point after he was easily going to win would have caused controversy. But it’s better to have a controversial race than to literally compromise the safety of a driver. This serves the FIA who recently were under investigation for a race call that favored Fernando. They didn’t want any more race press like that. So they made a call that put George's life in further danger.

It's unacceptable. Calls like this cannot be allowed to slide. I trust that George is making his feelings on the matter very clear.

I am relieved that George is okay, and I hope we do not have to go through this again.

Red Bull

Max

Well we all saw it, Max had to retire his car on lap 3 due to his brakes catching fire. Right away he was on the radio noting a problem with the brakes. Smoke started to plume from the car on lap 3, and it was a full fledged fire by the time he pulled into the pits.

The exact cause for the fire is unclear, but it is likely a stuck caliper given how Max described the problem (imagine trying to go 250 mph with your parking brake on) That sticky feeling likely means the caliper wasn’t positioned correctly. The quality of the brakes has also been called into question, and I wouldn’t be surprised but we don't have any conclusive information on that.

I feel for Max, after having such a streak in F1 to have to retire due to a mechanical failure outside of your control has to be very hard. I’m quite sure he’ll be fighting like hell in these coming weekends.

Sergio

Sergio’s race is interesting because Red Bull had been having problems dialing the RB-20 to the track all weekend, this was most evident in Max’s feedback. But both drivers had trouble getting the grip right. I think this is mainly due to a setup problem with the car. Starting in P6 and finishing P5. I am not sure even if he hadn't taken that starting grid penalty if he would have been on the podium given some of the consistent issues the RB-20 has this weekend. It does seem that overall given his placement and circumstances he had about as good of a drive as was possible.

One thing we did learn was that this RB-20 isn’t infallible, and sometimes they too get things wrong.

Mclaren

The most notable thing about Mclaren’s race was the team order to have Oscar swap positions with Lando. Now this hurt, as an Oscar fan this hurt(it’s his home race) however I understand why they made the call. Lando’s pace was better, and if they were going to have a chance of catching Charles they needed him in front. Doesn’t mean it felt great though.

The reason Oscar’s pace was off Lando even though so far he’s been doing much better at matching(or exceeding) Lando’s pace was tyre management. Oscar is still getting better at tyre management, and on a high deg track with the heat that weakness in his driving made the difference in pace between them.

It's pretty clear looking at the telemetry data that Lando was just more consistently faster the entire race. This pace difference really comes down to Lando's tyre management being better. They are still clearly very close, however a podium was on the line and that matters when you're in contention for top 3.

Haas

After Ferrari I think Haas may have had the best race overall. They had a 1-2 to finish out at the back end of the points. The race management and pace of the car has really succeeded expectations so far. Their best race yet, and the best performance from both drivers. I have been enjoying watching Haas just keep surprising in the best way possible.

VCARB

Yuki

Yuki saw his first points of the season! While he originally finished P8 he was promoted to P7 when Fernando received his penalty. This put VCARB ahead of the rest of the mid-field in points and is really showing that Yuki is the VCARB driver to watch. He's really shown that he's comfortable in the car and I am excited to see what else he can do this year.

The shocking thing at VCARB is how far off Daniel is from Yuki's pace. He has struggled in the car every race and has not been able to catch up with Yuki. A difference between teammates this large is cause for concern. After examining possible causes and what Daniel himself has said about the car, it seems that he is just really struggling to find the pace and the cause hasn't been found. As it stands it seems a driver incompatibility issue.

Yuki vs Daniel's pace

Yuki vs Daniel's fastest lap. You can see that they are very similar but where Yuki is picking up that extra time is on high speed corners and the straigts.

The race pace also confirms what we are seeing in a lot of teams that this was decided in qualifying. Daniel's race pace wasn't so far off Yuki, but because he was further back at the start due to not being able to match Yuki (and also having a lap time deleted for exceeding track limits) he started in P18 and finished P12.

If Daniel wants to keep his seat he is going to need to drastically improve his qualifying performance.

Stake

Stake is really embarrassing themselves this year with the pit stops. They hobbled both of their drivers this race with pit stops lasting over 30 seconds. Every race so far this year they have had absurdly long pit stops. I have no idea why, I am going to say sheer incompetence. But this doesn’t reflect at all the actual skill of either of their drivers. Zhou also had to run with a damaged front wing because they didn’t have a spare for him after his was damaged on the curb during qualifying. We still have not really seen what the 2024 Stake car is actually capable of and that is the fault of the garage and the team, not the drivers.

Williams

Alex: Alex was the sole Williams driver this weekend. He stepped into Logan’s car after his crash during FP1 severely damaged his own. He ran a clean race and finished just outside the points. The most important thing this weekend was not to do anymore damage to the car and he did that.

Whew, that is all I have to say about the insanity that was the 2024 Australian Grand Prix. If you made it this far thank you for reading and I will be back for more race analysis when we go to Japan!

#lucis race analysis #australian gp 2024 #formula 1 #f1 #flblr #please let me know what you think or if I missed anything #this is a very long post you've been warned

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itsaspectrumcomic · 6 months

Note

my mom thinks that diet will cure my audhd. she's putting me on a "special diet". is that a real thing because i don't think it is.

I can't speak for ADHD, but there is little to no scientific evidence that special diets can 'improve' autism, let alone 'cure' it.

There is some evidence to suggest autistic people are more likely to have an intolerance to gluten:

'A review by Valicenti-McDermott et al (2006) found that 70% of autistic children had gastrointestinal problems compared to 42% of children without a diagnosis of autism.' - Autism and gluten and casein-free diets from the National Autistic Society

so if you are actually gluten intolerant and you stop eating gluten you might feel better and have less stomach issues, but as far as I know there's not a direct correlation with autism, and being autistic does not mean you're also gluten intolerant.

Here are some articles and studies you might find helpful:

'National Institute for Health and Care Excellence (NICE) advises not to use exclusion diets such as gluten and casein-free diets as you may miss out on certain nutrients. In children this may lead to weight loss and affect their growth.' Autism and diet (bda.uk.com)

'...a review of data from 27 clinical trials...shows that there is little to no scientific evidence to support the bulk of these diets.' Analysis finds little evidence to support dietary interventions for autism | Spectrum | Autism Research News (spectrumnews.org)

Here's a link to the study the above article mentions

The best diet is a healthy balanced one with the right proportions and a good variety from all the food groups.

#ask #anon ask #autism diet #gluten intolerance #neurodivergent #advice #tagging with trigger warnings just in case #tw disordered eating #tw ed diet #tw diet #please let me know if I missed one

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throneofsapphics · 10 months

Text

take her back

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: "She smirked as she saw the look in Aelin's eyes, and winked before turning back around, placing a hand on her friend's shoulder and tugging her into a slightly-too-close dance."

Word Count: ~3.2k

Warnings: jealousy, light bondage, blindfolding, oral, edging, aelin and rowan are mean, somnophilia, slightly dark, light d/s

A/N: adding this to the list of reasons why I'm going to hell, this is literally just smut, minors dni please!

It had been all damn day, and she’d exchanged a few sentences with them. Good morning. I love you. I’ll see you later darling. Want to go out tonight? Only to go out - and be almost completely ignored. Yes, she completely understands their friends are there, but still … a little attention would be nice. They’ve all had a busy week.

“I swear they’ve been ignoring me,” she grumbled, speaking to her friend.

“I doubt that.” She replied, with a wary expression, but she did glance across the room to see her two mates - deep in conversation. “But,” a mischievous gleam filled her eyes as she looked back to y/n. “There’s always something you can do to get their attention.”

“And what would that be?” Her head tilted, lips curving up into a half smile, already knowing what she was implying. Her friend didn’t say anything, but grasped her hand - tugging her out towards the dance floor and into the crowd of sweaty bodies.

She knows she'll end up regretting this, but the temptation is too great to resist.

Aelin had turned around for a few minutes, taking her eyes off y/n, and the female had disappeared. Her eyes scanned the room, before catching a glimpse of the golden dress she’d worn. Short, thin, and nearly strapless. Absolutely gorgeous, and she loved it.

Dancing - with her friend. She smiled, before noticing just how close they were, both laughing and grinning. Y/n must’ve felt her eyes on her, because she glanced over her shoulder. She smirked as she saw the look in Aelin's eyes, and winked before turning back around, placing a hand on her friend's shoulder and tugging her into a slightly-too-close dance.

Aelin knows she’s doing it on purpose, and it still incensed her. Rowan’s hand gripping on her shoulder was the only thing keeping her from storming over there and dragging y/n to the nearest hidden spot.

What is it? He spoke into her mind.

Look.

She turned over her shoulder to watch his expression, as he figured out what she was doing. His nostrils flared, the only sign something might be off.

Take her back.

Aelin grinned.

Normally she would tease her, take her time caressing every inch of her body, fingers ghosting over her ribs, teeth nipping at her inner thighs, touching everywhere except where she wants the most. But this time, everything moves fast. Her front slammed up against the wall, the cold wood rubbing harshly against her nipples, through the thin dress.

She pushes her hands above her, pinning them with one of hers. The other hand squeezes her hip, hard enough fingertip bruises will show the next day.

Too quickly, the pressure of her body is gone - but y/n doesn’t dare move. Before she can think too much about it, she’s flipped back around, her dress torn as rough hands split it in half - leaving her completely bare. She whimpers as nails drag down her chest, right through the valley of her breasts.

“No underwear?” She tuts, “A little whore, aren’t you?”

Y/n shakes her head, but gasps as a hand slaps against her pussy, before two fingers run up her core, gathering her arousal.

“This says differently.” Her fingers rub against each other, Aelin’s eyes transfixed on the slick of her arousal before she takes both fingers in her mouth, eyes switching over to y/n’s.

Her lips part, breath catching. “It’s just for you, only you.”

“So you weren’t flirting your way across the room earlier?”

“No, I wasn’t, I promise” she pleads.

Aelin’s fingers twine in the back of her head, pulling her head back. Canine’s nip harshly at her ear. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I wasn’t.” She says sharply, vaguely offended. She can feel the smile, as her Aelin’s face is pressed into her neck. She lets out a whimper as teeth scrape her pulse point, before deciding she’s had enough, and grabbing the back of Aelin’s head, capturing her lips in a rough and brutal kiss.

Her hand roughly grabbed one breast, pinching her nipples between her fingers, through the fabric. Y/n’s small attempt at control didn’t last long, one hand shoves her chest, her back hitting the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

Y/n’s leg was thrown over her hip, the dress shoved up around her waist. She keened, trying to get closer - to get some sort of friction to release the pressure quickly building between her legs. Instead she earns a sharp slap to her pussy, drawing a whimper out of her.

Aelin just let out a small chuckle of amusement. “Look at you, trying so hard.” That stung, and She tries to shove Aelin away, but her body presses her back against the wall, arms caging her in.

Goosebumps ran down her arms as one finger tilted her chin up. She froze in place, seeing the dangerous mixture of lust and anger building in Aelin’s eyes.

She makes an impulsive decision, and drops to her knees, ignoring the slight pain from the hard floor digging into her bare skin. She looked up at Aelin, through her lashes, before running her hands up the side of her thighs, her skin soft and smooth underneath her hands.

“On your knees already?” She grinned, before hiking her dress up over her own waist, one leg hooking around y/n’s shoulder to pull her closer, while the other gripped the back of her head, yanking so her neck was exposed. “I forgot how pretty you are on your knees for me, my little slut.” She cooed.

She breathed in her scent, and immediately noticed Aelin wasn’t wearing any underwear, and her lips curved into a smirk, leaning forward to lick one long stripe through her folds before sucking on her clit. The female moaned, her other hand supporting herself on the wall as she rolled her hips.

Y/n tilted her head back, “not so tough now, are you?” She teased.

Aelin snarled, giving a tug to the back of her head, before pushing her face in again, grinding her hips against her mouth. Y/n moaned, knowing that she would love the vibrations sent through her. She flicked her tongue against her clit, one hand caressing the skin of her inner thigh. She slowly built speed and pressure, waiting for the moment when Aelin would break.

It didn’t take long, “stick your tongue out.” She ordered, giving a sharp tug to her hair.

Y/n whimpered but listened and let her grind against her. “So good,” she moaned, “letting me use you, my own little whore.” Her hips rolled and she watched with wide eyes as Aelin’s eyes closed, her lips parted slightly and beautiful almost obnoxiously loud moans reverberated through the room.

Y/n whimpered at the sight, and Aelin’s eyes shot open. Her leg tightened around her, pulling her closer until her thighs squeezed around her head. She tested dragging her nails down the back of Aelin’s thighs, and was rewarded with a sharp jerk of the other female’s hips, and her breath catching, she dug her nails in harder, leaving long red scratches behind. Quickly, she picked her rhythm and speed back up again, her hand holding y/n’s head firmly in place as she approached her orgasm.

“That mouth of yours,” she breathed. “Gods you were made for me.”

Tears lined y/n’s eyes at the tight grip, but she forced her eyes to stay open, to witness the pleasure on her beautiful face.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Aelin cursed, as she pushed her face in deeper, her nose brushing against her clit. “Darling, you feel so damn good.”

Y/n was distracted by the taste of her, sweet and intoxicating. Like a web, drawing her in to trap her there. She’d decided she needs to get on her knees for Aelin more. She barely resisted the urge to slip two fingers of her own through her thighs, to find some release, but Aelin calling her name threw all of that out of the window.

She felt her body tense, the subtle shift in her scent as the female finished, Y/n’s name on her lips. Aelin breathed heavily above her, before lowering down to meet her. Their lips met, moving against each other in a soft, sweet way as Aelin tasted herself on y/n’s lips.

“I missed all of the fun, didn’t I?” Rowan asked, moments after Aelin had pulled away from her. Y/n watched as he stalked towards them, gently tugging Aelin back to her feet so she could lean against him. She did, melting back into his body, but y/n stayed on her knees, still catching her own breath.

“Not all of it.” Aelin cocked her head. “She’s still been quite the brat.”

“And you rewarded her?” He raised an eyebrow, eyeing the slick arousal on her face. Y/n stared up at him with an innocent smile. He rolled his eyes before turning back to Aelin. His thumb dragged across her chin, gathering whatever was left before slowly licking it off his finger. Rowan’s eyes never left Aelin’s and y/n felt her core begin to throb again.

“She got on her knees so easily. What was I supposed to do?” Aelin pouted, and he flicked her nose before looking back to y/n with narrowed eyes.

Her throat bobbed, recognizing exactly what that look meant.

“If she’s already on her knees,�� Aelin eyed her too. They both looked like predators, watching her every move and reaction. She placed one hand on the wall behind her, pushing herself up, but she couldn’t get far before Aelin’s hand pushed back down on her shoulder, roughly, shoving her back to the floor. Y/n fought a wince as her knees impacted, already feeling the bruise that would appear tomorrow. They noticed, but didn’t seem to care - probably delighting in it. She could hear their words already now everyone will know exactly who you get on your knees for. The thought of hearing those words tomorrow nearly had her whimpering.

Her nipples pebbled as an icy breeze hit them, and her chest arched into the invisible touch. Rowan stood in front of her, his hand gripping her hair much gentler than Aelin had, and her hands rose to shakily undo his laces, but he swatted them away before releasing his grip on her hair. “Stay,” he warned her, and she didn’t dare move. She vaguely caught Aelin moving towards her, but didn’t have time to react before a blindfold slipped over her eyes - tied in a tight knot behind her head. On instinct, her hands reached up to grab it - to shift it, but those were swatted away too. Her dress was ripped off the rest of the way as soft silk wound around her wrists, tying her hands together neatly behind her back. Every brush of Aelin’s calloused hands against her seemed to set her body on fire and she fidgeted, hands pulling against the restraints to test them. Tight enough it would be difficult, but not completely impossible to get out of them. A way out, if she wanted it. And, she’s well aware they did that on purpose.

Her core throbbed again, seeping with arousal, and if she shifted just slightly, she’d be able to slide onto her lower calf, and get some kind of relief.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.” Rowan emphasized, his voice a warning. But she took it as a challenge. One she’s certain she’ll regret.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Y/n said in her most innocent tone, and did it anyway. They could see her every move, her body completely bare.

“Get up.” Rowan ordered. She didn’t move. “Don’t make me say it again. You’re already going to be sobbing by the end of the night. That had her moving and she rose on shaky legs, carefully trying to maintain her balance. It was more difficult than she thought it would be. “Come.” He ordered, and she took a few steps forward only to be shoved back down again, this time the impact even harsher as involuntarily whimpered.

“Not so tough now, are you?” Aelin mocked, repeating her words from earlier. Y/n knew better than to respond, and kept her mouth shut. “Nothing to say?” She felt the air shift as one of them circled her. “You and your friend seemed to have plenty to talk about.”

Her friend's idea worked then. Maybe a bit too well considering the predicament she’s in.

“I believe,” Rowan drawled, “she asked you a question.” She hesitated a few seconds, trying to decide the best answer. “Y/n,” her name was a harsh warning. Maybe the last one she’d get. The drinks from earlier must’ve made her especially stupid tonight.

“Doesn’t mean I have to answer.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. A rough hand yanked her hair back, baring her throat. Rowan’s. He crouched next to her, his other hand gripping her throat. The blindfold was ripped down, gathering around her neck.

“You’re going to regret that.” He growled, lips grazing over her ear. His hand squeezed two fingers pressing against each side of her neck, enough to cut her air off without damaging her throat, before releasing. She gasped, trying to force air back into her lungs. As soon as she’d recovered, his hand yanked her up to rise on her knees, and the tip of his cock pushed against her lips. She opened, and he slammed into her. He ignored her gags, and pushed until his entire length was inside her, his hands tilting her head to the perfect position to take him.

Y/n breathed through her nose, and ran her tongue on her underside, moaning around him. With a slight growl he started fucking her throat, his hand pushing the back of her head as he slammed into her.

Gods it was almost too much, almost too much for her to take. “She fucking loves being used by us, doesn’t she?” Aelin’s eyes met hers as she moaned around him again, drawing a groan from him as he tilted his head back, to hte perfect position to take him. He ignored her gags, and pushed until his entire length was inside her, his hands tilting her head Aelin pressed up on her feet to scrape her teeth against his neckas he slammed into her.

Just as she was approaching her limit, Aelin’s canines sunk into him and he spilled down her throat, pulling out. She coughed on instinct, but a hand clamped her jaw shut, keeping anything from spilling out.

“Swallow.” He pinched her nose and y/n listened without questioning this time, her throat bobbing as she swallowed every last drop. Her breaths were shaky as he released her. Her eyes stayed shut as the blindfold went back on, obscuring her vision completely.

Then, the door clicked shut. She could sense she was alone in the room. Used and left. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes before sliding down her face. Still, she didn’t move, and didn't want to risk angering them any further. Maybe she’d gone a tad too far? Aelin moaned loudly in the other room, right past the thin walls. Normally Rowan would keep a shield up but … not now.

Y/n had no idea how long had passed before she heard the door open again, and was hauled to her feet, thrown over Rowan’s shoulder before tossed inelegantly on the bed. She scrambled to find balance, to try and sit, but pins and needles spread through her legs as her calves cramped. Gentle hands steadied her, before taking the blindfold off, running fingers through her hair.

She squeezed her eyes shut at the light. Not too bright, but compared to the complete darkness it was blinding.

Her entire body heated with anticipation. She met Aelin’s eyes first - the turquoise eyes lined with gold, her face flushed with arousal, Rowan’s and her scents mixed all over her, his seed painting her chest.

Aelin tracked where her eyes went. “Be a good girl and clean me up.” She purred, and pulled y/n towards her. Her touch was softer this time, gentler, as if she could sense the female was approaching her limits. She ran soothing strokes down her back as y/n hesitantly licked, cleaning every bit left, as Rowan slipped behind her, undoing the silky ribbon tying her hands.

Her teeth tugged at one of Aelin’s nipples, enjoying the way her eyes lit up. “Still haven’t had enough?”

Aelin loved the soft smile that crept on y/n’s face. She could always tell when she was reaching a more vulnerable state, and loved running soft strokes and gentle touches down her back.

She’s still not finishing tonight. Rowan spoke into her mind, and she glared at him, leaning back against the pillows to tug y/n into her chest.

She’s earned it. Aelin countered.

You’re too soft. He teased her, but she could hear the finality in his tone. Unless she somehow managed to sneak around him - which was impossible - y/n wouldn’t orgasm tonight.

In the morning.

His eyes rolled and she’d won. Speaking of y/n, her breaths were already steadying out and she nestled further into her, one hand draping over Aelin’s stomach. She smiled down at her, running comforting strokes down her spine. After she was certain she was sound asleep, she slipped off to clean herself, bringing back a slightly wet rag to clean up the arousal still sticking to the inside of y/n’s thighs. Gods, she wanted to do it with her tongue, but that would be too tempting.

Y/n’s stomach coiled, half-asleep, feeling gentle wet strokes against her core. Gods, it felt too realistic to be a wet dream, but how would it … her eyes shot open to see Aelin between her legs, a satisfied grin on her face as her hands held her thighs in place.

Her head threw back in a moan, quickly approaching an orgasm in her sleepy state. This was the best way to be woken up, she decided. One finger slipped inside her, curling to hit that spot.

Her walls tightened around her, her back arching as soft moans left her lips - only to be captured by Rowan, his hand cupping her face and thumb running comforting strokes up and down her cheeks. He left hot, wet kisses down her jaw, neck, to the hollow of her collarbone before scraping his canines over it. Just as she approached the edge, his teeth clamped down into her neck and she screamed in ecstasy, tumbling over as her entire body shuddered and her back arched. Pleasure washes over her entire body, intense but soft and sweet almost like gentle flames licking at her skin.

Y/n was left reeling, breathing heavily as sweat already glistened on her body. “If it was up to me, I would’ve left you on edge for the rest of the weekend.” Rowan said mildly. “At least.”

She whimpered, thanking whatever Gods might be left for Aelin.

“Look at you,” Aelin cooed as she crawled up towards then, “all fucked out and it’s barely past dawn.” She let out a content sigh as Aelin’s soft lips pressed against her. Kissing her once, twice, three times before Rowan flipped her around, pulling her into his chest.

Aelin’s noise of protest hit her ears. “You had her all night.” Rowan growled. She tried to lift her head to see them, but he held her firmly against him. Y/n melted against him, throwing an arm over his waist. Maybe it was a mistake because she felt the immense satisfaction rolling off him, but she was still too sleepy and blissed out to care.

#poly!rowaelin x reader #throne of glass fic #throne of glass imagine #rowan whitethorn x y/n #aelin galathynius x y/n #throne of glass smut #throne of glass #rowaelin x reader #aelin x reader #aelin x y/n #rowan whitethorn x reader #rowaelin x y/n #not proofread #no beta we die like men #I'm taking a cold shower #if I missed any warnings please let me know

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shepscapades · 7 months

Text

[Part 1] [Part 2] [PART 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7]

Finally! Part 3 is here!! yippee!!! As a refresher, this takes place at the beginning of season 9, when Doc and Xisuma try to boot Etho back up after he shuts down pre-Season 8 Finale, set to the vibes of Joywave’s Destruction from DBHC Etho’s playlist! Ouguguh I’ve been looking forward to posting this part so much; it has some of my favorite shots so far… something about the grey-fade of Doc going into shock, something about the last two pages with xisuma and doc’s expressions… idk!! i really loved working on these :] Hope you’re enjoying the horrific, horrific ride!! =w=

As a partially insignificant but Special-To-Me note: Xisuma has always referred to dbhc doc as “Docm”— this is actually the first time X ever calls him “Doc.”

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lover-of-skellies · 7 months

Text

Clarification, if need be: "any word with ___ in it" just means like,, a variant of the original swear. For example, a variant of ass would be dumbass or asshole

You can share other words in the comments if you think there's something worse than what's listed here, or you can send me an anon ask :p only if you're comfortable doing so, of course!

#not skeleton stuff #rambles #tw swearing #cw swearing #swearing cw #swearing warning #tw cursing #cw cursing #cursing warning #cursing tw #cursing cw #<- added as many cw and tw tags as i can think of #if I missed anything feel free to let me know

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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

Text

something like bones and glass

warnings: homophobia; religious homophobia; f slur (several times); brief mention of pedophilia; past child abuse and neglect; violence/fighting; blood; rough sex also on AO3

Steve’s parents come home. Without warning.

Usually they call a few days in advance, just to let Steve know, probably because they assume Steve has friends over, has parties that he has to clean up after, but it’s been a while since that happened. It’s still nice to know when they’ll be home, just so he can prepare himself. So he knows what day he can hole up in his room or escape to Robin’s or Nancy’s.

But he hears their car pull into the driveway as he’s kissing Eddie against the wall by his bed, as Steve is pushing his hands under Eddie’s shirt to press into his skin, as Eddie is pulling his hair, and they both pull away at the same time to blink at each other in confusion.

“Nancy?” Eddie questions, still gripping Steve’s hair, and Steve shrugs.

“She didn’t say she was coming over.” He pecks Eddie quickly before letting go and going to the window. Eddie leans against the wall, watching him smooth his shirt down before he freezes, his eyes widening. “Shit— It’s my parents.”

Eddie’s stomach drops.

“What?”

He crosses the room, joining Steve at the window to see Cathrine and Walter Harrington, pulling suitcases out their car, talking across the roof of it.

“Fuck,” Eddie says, stepping away from the window in case they look up. “Uhm. I can— I can hide up here.”

“Your van in the driveway,” Steve says. His voice is almost distant, and he’s still looking out the window, his face fallen.

“You can say you borrowed it from someone,” Eddie suggests desperately. “Or— Or I can say I’m doing maintenance work? I know about, like, electrical work, we can say your A/C wasn’t working, or—“

“Eddie.”

“Or I— I know about cars, I can say I was working on your car and you invited me in for— for water or something, and—“

“Eddie.”

“And I mentioned music so you’re showing me your tapes, or, like—“

“Eddie.”

Eddie shuts up, staring at Steve with wide eyes, his heart pounding. The front door opens. Steve takes a shaky breath, his gaze unwavering from Eddie’s as something clatters downstairs.

“It’s fine,” Steve says quietly, firmly. “It’s…”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly.

“It’s fine.” Steve shakes his head. They can hear his parents’ voices downstairs, muffled by walls and doors and distance. “We… We’re friends. Right?”

Eddie exhales and nods.

“Come meet my parents,” Steve says with a little eyebrow quirk, and Eddie scoffs. Steve’s smile is fake. Eddie can tell.

“They’re gonna hate me,” he says quietly.

“I don’t care,” Steve says, his voice sharper, and Eddie’s eyes linger on the way his jaw is set, the way it clenches as he looks at Eddie intently. “I don’t— I don’t care what they think. You’re mine.”

Eddie stares at him, his eyes flickering to Steve’s lips.

“Fuck. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Following your lead,” he says softly, and Steve smiles weakly, tugging him in by a necklace for a lingering kiss.

“Hey,” Eddie says as Steve is moving toward the door, and Steve pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Steve says earnestly.

Eddie follows Steve out the door, hesitating to rip off his battle jacket and throw it back into Steve’s room. He smooths his shirt down and rolls his eyes when he realises what he’s wearing (Judas Priest; there’s a hand holding a giant razor blade, and he wonders why he didn’t just wear a plain black shirt). The chains hanging from his ripped jeans rattle as he walks down the hall and down the stairs, and he tucks his necklaces under his shirt anxiously before he smooths his hair back. Steve pauses at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at him.

“What are you doing?” he asks quietly, glancing at his chest, at the absence of necklaces.

“Trying to look presentable,” Eddie whispers. Steve stares at him, smiling softly.

“You’re adorable.”

“Shut up.”

Cathrine and Walter’s voices get louder as they head into the living room, where they’re both standing with their suitcases. Eddie lingers by the door, pushing his hands into his pockets in tight fists.

“Hi,” Steve says like he’s asking. Eddie watches his shoulders tighten like he’s bracing himself.

Catherine’s hair barely moves even though she whips her head around to look at Steve. It’s tall and curly and fluffy looking but stiff with hairspray, and she’s wearing a grey pantsuit, her shoulders boxy, and her heels wobble on the carpet of the living room. Walter is also in a suit, his tie loosened, his hands in his pockets.

Eddie takes a deep breath, repressing the simmering anger in his chest as he looks at them, trying hard to keep a neutral, friendly expression.

Steve’s told him about them. About how they left him at home starting when he was nine, and how he was left with nannies and teenage babysitters before that. How they’d lose their shit if he spilled juice on the kitchen floor, if he stained or tore a shirt. How he raised his voice when he was eleven and saw the back of his father’s hand and then the floor, and the gold band around his finger haunted Steve’s dreams.

How his mother constantly, shamelessly, told him it was his fault she wasn’t young and beautiful anymore. That he was the reason his father wasn’t loving and caring, as though Steve ever has any say in his own existence.

“Whose van is in the driveway?” Walter asks sharply, sans greeting even though it’s been a few months since he’s seen Steve.

“Uhm.” Steve turns slightly toward Eddie, who steps further into the room, raising a hand and suddenly wishing his nails weren’t painted.

“That— That’s mine,” Eddie says lightly, putting on a smile.

Catherine’s eyes widen, and Walter stares, facing Eddie. The room is silent except the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle.

“Steven,” Walter says in a careful, measured voice, his eyes trained on Eddie. “Why is there a killer in my living room?”

Eddie’s stomach drops further, his cheeks flaming, and he shoves his hand back in his pocket as Steve says sharply, “He’s not a killer.”

“Steven—“

“He’s not,” Steve snaps, and Eddie looks at him. “Those charges were proven wrong, and dropped, and Eddie’s one of my best friends.”

Eddie stares at Steve, at the firm set of his jaw like he’s just daring his father to argue.

The room is silent again, tense and awkward.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Walter,” Catherine says quietly, breaking the silence, placing a gentle hand on Walter’s shoulder as he and Steve stare each other down. “Let’s be polite to… Steven’s guest.”

Eddie blinks at her, trying ignore the pressure behind his eyes that always comes when he remembers that people actually believe that he’s a murderer. His hands are shaking.

“Your name is Eddie, right?” she says, sickly sweet and so kind it makes Eddie feel nauseous. It reminds him of the way kids in school used to feign interest in D&D, used to ask questions and prompt him to tell them excitedly about it just to make faces at their friends while he talked. Just to complain about how weird he is.

“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie says tightly.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Eddie?” she says like she’s speaking to a child.

Eddie looks at Steve.

Who’s staring back, his gaze intense, his expression firm, and he nods slightly when Eddie silently asks him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says again. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

She and Walter leave to take their luggage upstairs, and Steve tugs Eddie’s shirt, pulling him into a secluded corner in the living room, and their eyes lock. Steve looks like he wants to cry, and Eddie can hear the way his breath is trembling, and Steve’s lips are pursed to keep them from quivering.

“‘S okay,” Eddie says softly.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says weakly, still clutching at Eddie’s shirt.

“No, stop,” Eddie tells him gently, moving closer. “It’s not your fault, Stevie.”

Steve inhales sharply, pressing his lips together.

“They are assholes,” Eddie says softly, reaching up to touch Steve’s cheek. “And that’s not your fault, you got it?”

Steve nods, swallowing.

“Yes.”

“Come here.”

He pulls Steve into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs as Steve’s arms wrap around him tightly. “And after dinner we can say my van broke down and you can take me home.” He pulls away to look into Steve’s eyes. “And you can stick with Wayne and me for a while. How’s that sound?”

Steve nods, his mouth twisting, and Eddie’s heart aches because Steve is trying not to cry.

“I love you so much,” Eddie whispers. “‘S gonna be okay.”

“I hate them so much, Eddie,” Steve says. His voice wavers.

“I know, baby.” Eddie kisses him. “I know. But after this we’ll go home. And we can get high if you want.”

“Will you fuck me?” Steve asks in a small voice.

“Absolutely.”

“Cool.” He exhales and pulls Eddie into a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” Eddie kisses him again, pulling back when a door shuts upstairs, but Steve tugs him close, kissing him chastely before he carefully pulls Eddie’s necklaces out of his shirt.

“Don’t hide.”

Eddie melts a little bit.

Eddie fidgets with his necklaces while Catherine scours the fridge and freezer for a dinner to her liking, complaining about how unhealthy pizzas are and just sighing when Steve points out that he babysits children. She settles on a lasagna that she finds buried in the freezer and some lettuce. Without dressing. (Eddie thought rich people were supposed to eat better.)

Steve sits next to him at the dinner table. Eddie’s never seen plates on this table. It’s usually filled with cards or dice or maps and drawings and crayons. Steve stares sullenly at his plate, poking at his food with his fork as Eddie chats with his mom as best he can. He can still hear the ticking from the clock in the living room as they talk.

He tells her that he met Steve through Dustin, that he knew Steve at school because everyone loved him, and then he found out everyone loves him even outside of school. That the kids he babysits practically worship him. He catches Steve fighting a smile as he speaks.

The conversation dies down after a while. Under the table, Steve sets a hand on Eddie’s thigh and squeezes tightly. He’s shaking.

Eddie subtly reaches under the table and squeezes his hand, rubbing the back of it gently.

“Mr Harrington,” he says politely when they let go of each other. “Steve said you had work in, uhm, was it San Francisco?”

“That’s right,” Walter says dryly.

“I’ve never been,” Eddie says, trying desperately to keep his voice light. “How is it?”

Walter sighs, taking a bite.

“Not as nice as it used to be.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, taking the opportunity for a real conversation. “Why’s that?”

“Not as clean,” he says. Eddie hates his voice. So pompous and dry like the world bores him. “Posters and banners everywhere, all these fags walks around the streets holding hands. Disgusting.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. In his peripheral vision he sees Steve tighten.

“Oh.” He twists his fork, seeing Steve’s hand grip the table cloth tightly. “Sounds real different from Hawkins.”

“Sure is.”

Eddie shifts so he can press his foot to Steve’s because he can’t lean over and kiss him. There’s a long stretch of silence. Eddie counts seventeen ticks of the clock before he speaks again, the silence unbearable.

“Mrs Harrington, Steve mentioned that you collect pottery.”

When he mentioned it, he said he wanted to smash all of it. Eddie doesn’t say that.

“I do,” she says brightly. “I started collecting when I was nineteen, after I married Walter—“

“Why is it disgusting?” Steve interrupts abruptly, looking across the table at his father. Catherine falls silent, staring at him. Eddie says his name softly.

“I’m sorry?” Walter says, lowering his fork.

“The fags,” Steve says coldly. “If they’re just holding hands. What’s the problem?”

Walter stares at Steve, a challenge in his eyes, but Steve keeps his ground, staring back, unblinking.

“You know why.”

“No. I don’t.” Steve lifts his chin defiantly. Eddie wants to marry him. “Tell me.”

“It’s not right.”

“Why?” Steve says, but it’s hardly a question. He almost growls. Eddie shifts in his seat.

“Men are supposed to be with women,” Walter says, his voice measured like he’s lecturing Steve. Eddie can hear the way Steve is breathing, can see his fist trembling as it grips the table cloth. Eddie kind of hopes it rips. “Homosexuals— They— They go against God’s word.”

A small part of Eddie is happy to see him get flustered.

“Right,” Steve breathes. “God’s word.” He’s nodding, his jaw tensed the way it does when he’s particularly mad. It’s hot. Eddie sets his fork down. “Because God always wants the best, right?”

Walter just stares. Catherine’s hands are in her lap.

“That’s why priests rape little boys when they go in for Sunday school, right? Because they know God’s word.” Eddie looks at him, taking a deep breath. “That’s why you married an eighteen year old when you were twenty seven.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he looks at Catherine, who clears her throat delicately and wipes her lips with her napkin even though there’s nothing there. Walter’s face turns red.

“God also says don’t get drunk,” Steve continues, his voice strong. “And we all know you don’t have an issue with that.”

“Steven,” Catherine says firmly, but Steve doesn’t spare her a glance. The air feels like it’s tightening, like they’re all holding their breaths.

“So what’s the problem with fags?” Steve asks, his cheeks red. “Why do you hate them so much? You’re not better than them.”

“Why are you so defensive—”

“Because I am one.”

Steve is yelling.

Steve never yells, not like this. He yells to be heard over rambunctious bickering and laughter, he yells to be heard across the trailer or the house. He doesn’t yell out of anger. But he is now.

The rooms falls silent. Eddie looks from Steve to his parents, to their wide eyes, and he slowly reaches for the knife next to his plate. He grips it in his hand, his muscles tense the way they were when he was fighting the demobats with Dustin. Ready to move at any given second, like his veins are stiff with adrenaline.

“What are you saying?” Walter says coldly, quietly.

Steve scoffs, humourless.

“I think that was pretty clear.”

“Steven—“ Catherine tries to say, but Steve interrupts.

“But you want me to be clearer? I can be clearer.” He pushes his plate away, toward his dad, and leans over in emphasis. “I like men. And I’ve known for years, and I never told you because I knew you’d try to beat it out of me, but you can’t do that anymore.”

Walter throws his fork onto his plate with a clatter, his mouth twisting, and Steve just grins.

“I can be more specific,” he says in a low voice. He leans back, moving his arm to run his fingers through Eddie’s hair more gently than Eddie thought possible at a time like this. “This is my boyfriend, Eddie,” Steve says. Eddie smiles at him. “And I love him more than life itself, and I love when he holds my hand, and when he kisses me, and—”

Walter interrupts by moving out of his seat, the chair scraping loudly on the floor, his face bright red, as though anything Steve’s said is scandalous. Steve seems to have the same thought, pulling his hand away from Eddie and standing too, his eyes following Walter as he moves away from the table.

“I can tell you more,” he says loudly, defiantly. Eddie scoots his chair back, watching raptly, just in case. “I love it when he fucks me.”

Catherine gasps, and a laugh bursts out of Eddie as he watches Walter’s face redden even more.

“And he fucks me hard,” Steve continues, ignoring his mother as she says his name weakly and begins to cry. “And I fucking love it. And I bet that pisses you off even more, doesn’t it.”

He’s breathing hard, and his whole body is trembling, and Eddie feels prouder than he’s ever felt in his life.

“That I’m the one taking it,” Steve says, quieter as Walter stares at him. “You always wanted me to be a man, but I love it when my boyfriend makes me his bitch.”

Heat pools in Eddie’s stomach. He slides his tongue across his lips, wanting to pin Steve to the wall and kiss his breath away.

“And aren’t you angry,” Steve breathes. “That you don’t have another son to fix the Harrington name.” He’s moving closer to Walter, and Eddie watches carefully. Walter’s hands are shaking, his chest rising and falling with each breath that rattles around in the quiet room. “Because you’re an only child,” Steve says thoughtfully, like it’s a new discovery. “And you only had a faggot,” he adds quietly, close enough to press two fingertips into Walter’s chest as he whispers, “Harringtons end with me.”

The air snaps.

Catherine screams when Walter’s fist hits Steve’s face, and Eddie stands from his chair, his vision red, moving quickly as Catherine cries Walter’s name. Walter is trying to hit Steve again, and Eddie grabs the back of his jacket, jerking him off and holding him back as Steve takes a breath.

His eyes are shining in a way Eddie’s never seen before, with malice and rage and twenty years of anger boiling and bubbling out of him. His cheek is already blooming red, and Eddie can see the subtle mark of Walter’s wedding band. Eddie jerks his jacket again, holding him in place.

“I’m not fourteen anymore, Dad,” Steve says evenly.

The crack of his fist on Walter’s face echoes around the room, and Eddie finally drops the jacket, but not before shoving Walter against the wall hard to disorient him. He steps away as Steve punches him again, watching.

Catherine is yelling at them to stop, her voice shrill and high, but Eddie just… watches.

He’s heard Dustin and the others tease Steve for not winning fights. Losing the fight with Jonathan Byers, the fight with Billy Hargrove. But he’s also heard them all praise Steve for beating demodogs with a baseball bat. And he’s seen Steve throw a demobat into the ground by gripping its serrated tail, seen him step on its wing and rip it right in half before flinging its body away and spitting its blood on the ground. And Eddie’s known, for as long as he’s known this Steve Harrington, that he pulls his punches.

But he isn’t tonight.

Walter’s face and Steve’s hands are painted red with blood, and the sound of them both yelling and Cathrine sobbing and the sound of bone and blood are echoing around the kitchen until Walter is dropping to the floor.

Steve is gripping the front of his blood stained shirt, hitting him and hitting him and hitting him, and Eddie startles at the sound of the front door breaking in, blinking hard and realising that the room is lit up by red and blue flashing lights, that Catherine isn’t in the room.

He steps forward to pull Steve away, his vision focused on Steve as shouts fill the room, but Steve shoves him back and Eddie gets a glimpse of his face.

His top lip is split, bleeding, and his cheek is darkly bruised, and he’s crying.

Tears mix with his blood as they slide down his cheeks, and Eddie knows it must hurt as a tear hits his lip, and even though Steve must not be able to see well, he isn’t stopping. Eddie desperately shouts his name, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him away from Walter, who falls onto the floor, weakly saying something about Steve being a bastard. Catherine is sobbing in the doorway as cops pull Walter off the ground, and Eddie holds Steve back.

Steve is sobbing too, and Eddie’s whole body hurts. He’s saying Steve’s name, trying to get him to look at Eddie, wants to prompt him to breathe in all the way, but Steve won’t look at him, his arms straining against Eddie’s grip. He’s still yelling.

The cops push Walter toward the door as one of them, Powell, moves toward Eddie. Eddie recognises him. He was there when Eddie came back, when Hopper came back. He arrested Eddie once when Eddie was fifteen, but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge was Hopper and Joyce Byers filled him on the shitshow that been going on in Hawkins for the past few years.

Powell is staring, wide-eyed, at them, his mouth hanging ajar with an unspoken question.

“He threw the first punch,” Eddie says, gesturing to Walter’s wriggling body as he’s led outside, his voice shaking.

Walter is yelling at Steve, even though he can’t see him. Calling him a bastard, and a faggot. Yelling that Steve isn’t his son.

As soon as he’s out the door, Steve’s body relaxes, and Eddie pulls him close, tugging him into a hug. He’s breathing hard, and shaking so hard that Eddie can feel it even though Steve’s fists are gripping his shirt tightly. The cop looks at them, watching, but Eddie doesn’t care. Let him see.

Eddie holds his face gently when Steve’s crying slows, and he watches the flashing police lights reflect in his glistening eyes and his tears. Eddie wipes a drop of blood from his lip, nodding when Steve’s chin quivers.

“You’re okay,” Eddie murmurs. His hands are shaking too. Steve takes a deep, trembling breath, his eyes flicking back and forth between Eddie’s.

“My ear’s ringing.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he reaches up to Steve’s right ear, touching it gently. There’s some blood in his hair above it, and anger flashes in Eddie’s chest. He wants to go outside and beat Walter some more, regardless of the cops, regardless of his already garbage reputation. But he doesn’t. Because Steve is clutching to his shirt, and he’s crying.

“Can you hear me still?”

Steve nods, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Eddie pulls him into another hug, moving so his mouth is above his right ear, and he knows he’s getting blood on his face, but he doesn’t care.

“‘S gonna be okay,” he says softly. “I got you, sweetheart, you’re alright.”

Eddie closes his eyes, and they sway, and they can still hear the distant, unintelligible shouting of Walter outside. Powell waits next to them patiently until they part slowly. Steve is sniffling, and Eddie wipes his face, under his eyes, under his nose, wipes away the blood on his lip.

“Steve,” Powell says gently. “You gotta tell me what happened.”

Steve takes another deep breath, swallowing thickly before he looks at Powell, setting his shoulders and jaw again.

“I’m queer,” he says firmly. Powell doesn’t react, just looks at him. “I told him.”

“He hit you first?” Powell asks, reiterating what Eddie said earlier. Steve nods.

“I…” He hesitates, reaches down to take Eddie’s hand, and Eddie laces their fingers, squeezes tightly. “I provoked him. Taunted him.”

Powell pauses, looking out the window to see the cars outside, and he slides his tongue over his teeth, seething.

“Wait here a minute.”

Eddie nods, and Steve leans against him as Powell leaves. Eddie wraps his arms around Steve tightly, pulling him close.

“God, you did so good, Stevie,” he murmurs in his good ear. “‘M so proud of you, baby.”

“Eddie,” Steve says weakly. His voice is rough. Eddie kisses his forehead gently.

“I know, baby,” he says just loud enough that Steve can hear him. “But it’s done, okay?” he says. He looks into Steve’s eyes. “You’re done with him.”

Steve exhales, closing his eyes.

Eddie shifts, pulling to guide him to the table, but Steve tugs at his shirt, opening his eyes and leaving a hard, lingering kiss on Eddie’s lips. Eddie closes his eyes, holding Steve until he pulls away, and when Steve looks at him blearily, he lets out a soft laugh that seems out of place.

“I got blood on you,” he says quietly. Eddie scoffs.

“I’ve had worse bodily fluids of yours on me.”

“Gross,” Steve says, grinning, and he winces when it stretches his lip. There’s blood in his teeth.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, pulling him over and pushing him to lean against the table between Eddie’s and Catherine’s plates before he goes to get a paper towel. Steve snatches it from his hand as he stands between his legs, and Eddie lets out a small indignant noise, but Steve shushes him, reaching up to clean blood off his lip. Eddie waits, holding Steve’s hips.

“Love you so much,” Eddie murmurs.

“Love you too.”

“Is your ear still ringing?”

Steve shakes his head before he pauses, tilting his head and closing his eyes as his brows furrow. Eddie takes the paper towel.

“Little bit. Not as bad. I think it’s fine.”

Eddie gently, tenderly wiping blood off Steve’s lips before he presses it to the split, watching Steve wince slightly. He can feel Steve’s heartbeat against his fingertip. It’s still fast.

“Deep breath,” Eddie says softly. Steve closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I got you, baby.”

Steve’s hand finds his waist, holding him tightly as he exhales.

Eddie leans in and kisses his forehead softly, feeling Steve fall forward against him. He pushes his fingers through Steve’s hair, kissing across his forehead, kissing his temple, tilting his head to kiss Steve’s ear tenderly. He whispers to him quietly.

When Powell comes back in, Eddie has to nudge Steve’s cheek gently to make him open his eyes, and Steve turns his face slightly. Eddie pulls away the paper towel. His lip doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.

“He’s being held overnight,” Powell says, pushing a notebook into his pocket. “Paying bail, should be released around noon tomorrow.”

Steve nods.

“Your mother’s going with him,” Powell continues gently, like he can see the anguish it causes in Steve’s eyes. “She’s staying at a friend’s tonight.”

“Okay.”

Powell hesitates, looking from Steve to Eddie.

“You have a place to stay?” he asks. Eddie guesses it’s unspoken knowledge that Steve can’t stay here.

“Yes.”

Eddie knows Steve knows he can stay at the trailer for as long as he has to. And Claudia Henderson’s offered her guest room, as well as Joyce and Hopper. Robin’s offered her bedroom floor. Nancy’s offered her basement.

“And you?” Powell asks, looking at Eddie. Eddie starts for a moment, blinking at him blankly before he nods.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Okay.”

Powell hesitates for a moment longer before he looks at Steve, his eyes shining earnestly.

“He shows up again,” he says carefully. “At your work, or wherever you stay, if he threatens you… Or tries anything.” He points at Steve, so serious the air feels tense again. “You come to the station. You tell me, and if I’m not there you tell Flo, and she’ll find me, okay?”

Steve nods, staring at him, biting his lip.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” Steve says quietly.

“And if you need another place to stay,” Powell adds. “Let me know. My wife and I have a spare bedroom.”

Steve smiles weakly.

“Okay.”

“You too,” Powell says to Eddie. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie says, smiling softly.

Powell claps Steve on his back gently.

“You’re a good kid, Steve.”

Steve pulls Eddie closer when he leaves, and Eddie moves between his legs again, touching his hair gently. The blood above his ear is dry.

They stand in silence as they listen to the cars leave the driveway. Three cars. After a moment the red and blue lights are gone, and Eddie exhales.

Eddie gazes at the bruise on his cheek. His lip is a little swollen, crusted with dry blood. After a moment, Steve leans forward, resting his head on Eddie’s sternum, and Eddie runs a hand over his hair gently.

“What do you need?” Eddie asks quietly. “You wanna shower? Go to bed?”

Steve lifts his head and looks up at him.

“I need you to fuck me.”

Eddie stares at him, looks back and forth between his eyes, watching them shine earnestly, and he stands up straight, tossing away the paper towel.

“Turn around.”

Steve grins and stands up, turning around to face the table, already tugging his shirt off and tossing it across the room. Eddie steps up behind him, tugging Steve’s hair to make him tilt his head before he presses kisses along the side of his neck.

Steve hums breathlessly when Eddie pushes him so the fronts of his legs press to the table, and Eddie reaches around him to unbutton and unzip his jeans.

“Colour?” he asks roughly, pausing as he grips the waistband of the jeans, and Steve whines, his head falling back to Eddie’s shoulder.

“Green, baby, please.”

Eddie grins, shoving Steve’s jeans and boxers down his legs and pushing at his back so he bends over the table.

“Spread ‘em,” he says, kicking at Steve’s foot, and Steve spreads his legs, groaning softly and turning his head so his cheek presses to the table. “Pretty boy.”

“Eddie,” Steve says weakly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” Eddie murmurs. He leans over and kisses his back, down his spine. “So fucking much.”

He kneels on the ground behind him, running his hands over Steve’s ass and his thighs, squeezing and kneading before he leans in to bite at him for a moment before he licks across his hole, holding him tightly.

Steve whines loudly, pushing his ass back toward Eddie, who snickers quietly before eating him out in earnest, licking and sucking and nibbling as he listens to the sweet sounds Steve makes above him.

Steve is groaning and whimpering and whining, and Eddie has to pull away to laugh when a plate falls from the table and shatters on the ground.

“Fuck, sorry,” Steve says, laughing, and Eddie stands to find him gripping the table cloth tightly.

“‘S okay,” Eddie says, breathing hard, tugging Steve’s hair so he stands up again, and Steve releases the table cloth. Eddie wraps his arms around him, kissing his neck. There’s some blood on the table cloth, and Steve is drooling, and Eddie smiles. “Love it when you get all wild. My perfect boy.” He lifts a hand, presses two fingers to Steve’s lips, and Steve whimpers, opening his mouth.

Eddie bites his neck as Steve’s tongue swirls around his fingers, pressing desperate kisses around the back of his neck until he reaches his right ear.

“You have any idea how amazing I think you are?” Eddie asks softly. Steve moans, his head falling back as Eddie pushes his fingers deeper into his mouth, pressing into the pooling spit under his tongue. “Love of my fuckin’ life.”

Steve reaches up and pushes his fingers into Eddie’s hair as soft noises escape his throat.

“You feel good, sweetheart?” Eddie asks. Steve moans quietly, nodding. “You wanna feel better?”

Steve smiles around his fingers, giggling softly, and he tugs Eddie’s hair as he nods.

Eddie pulls his hand away from Steve’s mouth and takes a moment to look at Steve’s spit dripping over his fingers before he reaches down to press a finger inside him.

“Fuck,” Steve groans loudly. Eddie beams.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, Eddie, I need— Gimme more, baby, please—”

“I’ll take care of you, Stevie,” Eddie murmurs into his ear. “I got you.”

“Feel so good, Eddie.”

Eddie smiles again, biting at his neck, fingering him open as he whispers to him. Tells him how pretty is. He gets three fingers in before Steve finally whines, tugging sharply at his hair.

“Eddie,” he gasps. “Please, please, I—”

“Bend over.”

Steve grins again, leaning to lay on the table again, resting his head so his right ear is up.

Eddie kisses his back before he steps back, unbuckling his belt as he moves to the the counter, noisily opening and shutting cabinets until he finds what he’s looking for.

Steve whines Eddie’s name, looking up at him, and Eddie pulls his belt from the loops of his jeans, shaking the bottle of olive oil at him with raised eyebrows. Steve snorts loudly and lets out a childish, juvenile laugh, grinning and hiding his face in his arms.

Eddie’s always hated this olive oil. It’s Catherine’s, expensive and fancy and ordered from Italy, always hidden away in her special occasions only cabinet. But Eddie thinks this counts as a special occasion, because the man of his dreams is bent over the dining table and Eddie doesn’t want to go all the way upstairs for lube.

Steve’s fists grip the tablecloth when Eddie pushes in, the same way he clutches at the sheets when they’re in bed. The cloth comes up, and a glass falls the floor, shattering, and Eddie laughs again, setting the olive oil down.

“You’re makin’ a mess, baby.”

Steve just lets out a long groan.

Eddie gazes down at him, at the scars that cover his back and backs of his arms, at the mess of his hair. He slides a hand over his back, smearing oil over his skin.

“How do you want it?” he asks breathlessly.

“Hard.”

“Got it. Hold on.”

Steve giggles, gripping the tablecloth, and he lets out a sharp gasp as Eddie snaps his hips into him.

Eddie loves when Steve gets like this. All loose and relaxed, going with every movement Eddie makes. Unfiltered and loud, groaning and whining and almost screaming when Eddie really gets going, his hand to the small of his back. He’s always like this, even when Eddie fucks him softly and kindly like the first time they had sex (or made love, as Eddie put it dramatically once they’d finished. Steve shoved him away and then promptly pulled him closer to tuck his face into his neck.), tangled in blankets in the back of Eddie’s van, breathing into each other’s mouths, whispering and giggling.

Another plate falls from the table.

Eddie is grinning down at him, watching, listening as he swears and moans.

“Eddie,” Steve wails. Tears are sliding down his face, staining the tablecloth.

“Yeah, baby,” Eddie says roughly, his hands gripping Steve’s hips tightly. “What do you need?”

“Fuck, spit on me,” Steve whimpers. “Make me yours, Eddie, please.”

Eddie exhales, running a hand down his spine tenderly. (That night in the van, Eddie also learned, to his delight, that Steve is even kinkier than he is. It’s fun.)

“You are mine,” he says gently. “Always.”

He fucks into him three more times as he gathers spit in his mouth, and then he pauses, letting it drip over Steve’s back. Steve lets out a soft yes, almost hissing it, and Eddie smiles down at him, rubbing the spit into his skin as he moves again.

“Eddie, right there—”

“I got you, baby, I know.”

“Eddie, please, Eddie, EddieEddieEddie—”

He presses his hand against Steve’s back hard, fucking him harder, faster, until Steve is sobbing, until the two remaining plates and the bottle of olive oil fall to the ground and shatter to pieces. Eddie laughs again.

Steve comes on the table cloth. Eddie lifts him up to wrap his arms around him when they finish, and Steve’s head falls back against Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie doesn’t pull out, just holds Steve close and pulls his necklaces around to hang backwards so they aren’t pressing into Steve’s bare skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly after pressing a soft kiss to his earlobe. Steve exhales.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He presses his hand over Eddie’s forearm, slides it down to lace their fingers.

“Look at that, baby,” Eddie says softly, nudging him so look at the table. Steve’s eyes flutter open, finding it. A mostly empty glass, rolling on its side in spilled water, the pale blue tablecloth uneven and folded and stained with blood and oil and come. “That’s all you.”

Steve exhales, resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’d say you helped.”

Eddie snickers into the side of Steve’s neck, his arms tightening, and Steve moans softly.

“Smartass.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Steve sighs. Eddie can feels his pulse on his lips. It’s slower.

“What now?” he asks quietly.

“Shower,” Steve says, squeezing his hand. “And pack.”

Eddie hums and kisses his neck tenderly.

“And then we’ll go home,” he murmurs.

Steve smiles.

“Then we’ll go home.”

They shower slowly, carefully washing each other’s hair and bodies, washing away blood and sweat and come in the hot, running water. Steve’s shampoo smells warm, like cinnamon and other spices Eddie’s never been able to afford to keep in his cabinets. (Nutmeg? Allspice? Eddie doesn’t even know what he would use them for.) After they dry off and dress, Eddie stuffs the shampoo, along with his conditioner and body soap, into a plastic bag to take with them. Steve adds two cans of Farah Fawcett hairspray.

Eddie helps him sort through his clothes, pick what to take and what to leave behind. He finds one of his own sweaters in Steve’s closet as Steve is stuffing a bag with underwear and socks, and he giggles to himself before throwing it at Steve. Steve’s cheeks flush pink, and he wordlessly stuffs it into the bag.

Steve packs most of his shirts, except a few he says his mother picked out, and most of his jeans. Eddie gets a garbage bag for the clothes Steve doesn’t want anymore, and he laughs as makes his way through the kitchen, looking at the mess he and Steve made and next behind. They aren’t going to clean it up. Just because.

Steve’s room is pathetically empty by the time they finish packing. It was already pathetically empty before, if Eddie’s honest. No framed pictures, no keepsakes. No stuffed animals or childhood toys. Steve’s bags, a duffel bag and a backpack, are both stuffed with clothes and soap, with a bottle of cologne and a copy of the Hobbit that he tried to hide from Eddie.

Eddie finds it, of course. And looks up at Steve with a beaming grin, even as Steve rubs the back of his neck, blushing bright red.

“You love it so much, I just…”

Eddie crosses the room and wraps his arms around his neck, swaying like they’re dancing.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m trying to.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Eddie says, grinning. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, pulling him close. “It’s fine if you don’t.”

“I know,” Steve says shyly, swaying with him again. “Think I’m just a slow reader.”

“‘S okay, baby,” Eddie says softly. “You don’t have a due date or anything.”

“Thank God.”

They go to bed in the Harrington house for the last time.

Eddie wakes up to Steve’s lips pressing down his neck, and he smiles at the ceiling without opening his eyes, tilting his head back to give him room. He hums softly.

“Whassa time?” Eddie mumbles weakly, reaching blindly to find Steve’s hair.

“Six twenty-seven,” Steve says before he licks a slow line up his neck. Eddie groans.

“Forgot I’m in love with a morning person.”

“‘S sweet,” Steve says lightly. “Just relax, baby.”

Eddie sighs, tugging at his hair again, but his hand falls when Steve moves, tossing the blanket up so he can duck under it. Eddie shivers at the gust of cold morning air that hits his body, and then he shivers again as Steve tugs at the waistband of his boxers.

“I’ll make you coffee,” Eddie says breathlessly when Steve comes back up from under the blanket, cracking his eyes open to find Steve grinning brightly at him. His split lip doesn’t bleed even as he smile. The bruise on his face is colourful, reddish purple and blue, and somehow achingly beautiful even as it makes Eddie’s chest hurt like he’s been shot.

“I’d like that,” Steve says softly.

They get out of bed slowly, lazily, and Eddie tugs on one of Steve’s hoodies as he yawns.

Steve always looks beautiful in the morning light. Even in gray mornings like this, he seems to glow brighter than the sun.

Steve goes to the bathroom while Eddie goes down to make the coffee. He finds Steve’s favourite mug in a cabinet, the cute blue one, and he leans against the counter as he waits on the coffee, looking at the dining table and smiling to himself.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by a car pulling into the driveway.

He blinks, tilting his head to listen like he can’t tell where it’s coming from, and he turns around, leaning to look out the window to see Catherine.

Anger flares in his chest, and he’s swinging the front door open before she’s even out of the car, careless to the fact that he’s in his boxers.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks sharply as she approaches the door. Her eyes skim over him, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair isn’t as nice as it was yesterday, and Eddie can see traces of her makeup that ran down her cheeks last night.

“It’s my house,” she says primly.

“Well we’re not gone yet,” Eddie snaps. “Come back in a few hours.”

She takes a breath, opening her mouth to speak, but Steve’s voice interrupts her.

“Eddie?” Eddie turns sharply, looking to see Steve coming down the stairs, and Steve’s face hardens when he sees his mother on the front step. “Oh.”

“We don’t have to deal with this, baby,” Eddie says quickly. “Just get your stuff, we can go.”

Steve pauses, staring at Catherine coldly, his mouth twisting thoughtfully before he says, “No. Let’s have coffee,” in a voice that’s far too calm, too light.

He continues down the stairs and turns wordlessly into the kitchen, and Catherine steps past Eddie.

Eddie shuts the door, his stomach knotting, and he follows them to the kitchen. Steve is sipping from the mug, leaning against the counter, and Eddie joins him, watching with a suppressed smile as Catherine looks at the table.

“What do you want?” Steve asks coldly.

“What happened to the table?”

“Eddie fucked me on it. What do you want?”

Catherine’s face turns red, and she looks away from the table, clearing her throat delicately.

“I wanted to talk.”

“So talk,” Steve says dryly, sipping the coffee. He’s still staring at her, almost seething.

Catherine hesitates, taking a breath and looking at the floor, eyeing the broken bottle of olive oil, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

“I know,” she says slowly. “That what happened last night is not… reversible.”

She looks up at Steve.

“But you are still our son,” she says kindly, and Eddie scoffs. “And I want you to know that you still have a home here.”

“No.”

She blinks.

“No?”

Steve inhales deeply, biting his lip, and he carefully holds the mug out to Eddie, who takes it as Steve crosses his arms.

“I have never had a home here,” Steve says calmly, “Mom.”

“Steven,” she says softly. Like it hurts.

He shakes his head, pressing his lips together.

“I’ve never felt…” He pauses, swallowing. “I’ve never felt safe here. Or— Or loved. I’ve never felt fucking— at home here. This has always been just— just a sad empty… lonely house for the sad empty lonely little boy.”

Eddie looks at the floor, biting his lip as he focusses on the heat of the mug in his hands.

“I know you don’t mean that, darling,” Catherine says softly.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Steve says coldly.

“Steven, of course I do—”

“No, you don’t,” Steve shouts. Eddie flinches, and he turns to set the mug on the counter. “No, you don’t,” Steve repeats, breathing hard. “You don’t know shit about me. You know my name because you picked it, but you don’t know who I am.”

“Steven—“

“You left me,” Steve interrupts, his voice shaking. “You— You left me. Here. With— With teenagers, while you went off on holidays and fucking business trips, you left me here, while I was trying to grow up, and then I had to figure out to be a grown up, all by myself because you weren’t here.”

His lip is quivering, and he steadies it between his teeth.

“You don’t know me,” he says again, quietly.

“Steven, you’re my son,” she says softly.

“I’m half deaf.”

She blinks.

“What?”

“One of my ears,” Steve says slowly, “has no hearing.” He stands up straight, off the counter, and gestures to his ears with a hand. “Can you tell which ear it is?”

She stares, wide-eyed.

“Steven—“

“Can you tell me,” he says shakily, “when my hearing started going?”

Silence.

“Because I can tell you,” Steve whispers. “The fucking day.”

He moves closer, his breathing unsteady.

“July sixteenth,” he says quietly. “Nineteen eighty.”

Eddie grips the counter, biting his lip as he watches. Catherine’s are welling with tears, but Steve doesn’t seem to even notice.

“When your husband gave me a concussion,” he continues, whispering. “And I looked up to see you leave the room, and shut the door behind yourself.”

Eddie’s eyes jump to Catherine, his vision red. Her lip is quivering. Eddie doesn’t care.

“I have had four concussions in my life,” Steve says, holding up four fingers before he lowers two of them. “Two of them… were from your husband. And both times, you left.”

“Steven,” she says weakly, but Steve snaps.

“You left,” he shouts. Catherine flinches. Eddie doesn’t. “You picked him,” he says, pointing toward the door. “Twenty fucking years, and you picked him, again, and again, and again.” He chokes, and his voice breaks. “My whole life,” he says weakly. “You picked a man, who never loved you, over your son.”

Eddie’s eyes burn, and he looks at the ground, swallowing thickly.

“And last night you picked him again,” Steve says.

Catherine stares at him. A tear slides down her cheek.

“So no,” Steve says after taking a breath. “You don’t know me, and you don’t get to. This is all you get.”

He stares her down for a moment, and Eddie blinks his tears back, watching proudly.

“Fuck you,” Steve says softly. “And fuck him, and fuck this house. I’m fucking done.”

“Steven, please,” she begs quietly. “You don’t have to come here, or— or see him, but I still want to be… a part of your life, darling, I—”

“You’re not better than him,” Steve yells, crying. “You let him, you let him do everything he did to me.” He’s panting, and Eddie’s chest tightens. He stands up straight. “You made me hate myself before I was old enough to understand why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, darling—”

“Well you don’t fucking love me either,” Steve yells. He stops short, blinking like he’s realises it just as he says it, and Eddie wants to pull him into a hug, but he also wants to find Nancy’s gun and shoot both his parents for ever making Steve feel like this. “Even if you think you do,” he says softly. “Whatever kind of love you think you have for me. I don’t want it.”

He stares for a moment longer before wiping his face hard and shaking his head.

And he leaves.

Eddie holds his breath, listening as Steve storms up the stairs, listening as Catherine cries quietly, a hand pressed over her mouth. Steve comes back down after a few moments with his bags, and he pauses in the doorway, looking at Eddie, who looks up.

“Go to the van, I’ll be there in a minute, babe.”

Steve looks at him for a moment before he steps close and tugs him by his shirt into a kiss, sliding his tongue into Eddie mouth and holding him close desperately. Eddie pushes his fingers into Steve’s hair, closing his eyes and exhaling, tasting the coffee on Steve’s breath.

They’re both breathless when they part, and Steve looks into Eddie’s eyes. Eddie nods, touching his cheek.

Steve goes outside.

The door shuts behind him, and Eddie hears the van door open and shut. And then he just hears Catherine’s soft breaths. And the ticking of the clock in the living room.

He leans against the counter, looking at the floor, hesitating before he looks up at her.

“He is… the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Eddie says slowly, softly, his voice almost echoing in the kitchen. “He is the bravest, kindest, strongest, most— most selfless person I have ever known.”

She’s still crying. But she’s looking at him, listening.

“And you…” He pauses, taking a deep breath, his hands shaking, his lip quivering. “And you fucked… every chance you got to have him in your life. Twenty years. You got twenty years of chances, and you fucked them all up.”

He stares for a moment.

“I can tell,” he says softly, “that there’s… a small part of you… that cares about him. Somewhere in there. So to that… small part.” He steps forward, his eyes burning. “I swear, I will… love him, and care for him, and look after him, and do everything I fucking can to make sure he feels as loved and protected as he is.”

He points a trembling finger at her.

“Because that is a privilege that I have.” He’s breathing hard, his eyes burning, his heart pounding in his chest. “And I will do everything in my power to not lose that privilege.”

He hesitates a moment longer, watching her cry before he turns around and picks up the mug and dumps the coffee in the sink. He rinses the mug quickly and shuts off the water harder than he needs to.

And he leaves. Without giving her a second glance.

He hands Steve the mug as he slides into the driver seat, and Steve laughs wetly, taking it.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Eddie looks over at him, biting his lip. His face is tear-streaked, his lashes clumped, his cheeks and nose rosy red.

Broken and slowly pieced back together.

His eyes are gleaming, and he looks so awfully exhausted that Eddie wants to tell him to get in the back of the van to take a nap, but he also looks so relieved that Eddie just pulls him into a kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “With all my fuckin’ heart and soul, baby.”

“I love you too,” Steve whispers back.

Eddie kisses him again, sucking on his lower lip for a moment and holding his chin gently, and he pauses when they part, taking a soft breath.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” Steve says, laughing tearfully again, and Eddie scoffs, blinking tears back as he pulls out of the driveway.

“Who gives a shit?”

Steve giggles, clutching the mug to his chest.

“Let’s go home.”

“Okay.”

#needed to write steve and catharsis #i have a very specific idea of what kinds of people his parents are and i needed him confronting them #especially his mom i actually considered writing a part two just about her life bc I Know Who She Is #(should i do that would anyone read that)#(lmao a character analysis of what is essentially an oc)#anyway #pls let me know if i missed anything that needs a warning #take care of yourselves ily <3 #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #deaf/hoh steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x steve #steve x eddie #stranger things #stranger things fanfic

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tj-crochets · 5 months

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It’s the end of the year, so it’s time for a group photo! These are all the plushies I’ve sewn that are still in my house

I’ve been sewing for four years now and it turns out I’ve made a looooot of plushies lol

#sewing #handmade #plushies #spider plushie #octopus plushie #I don’t think any of the rest of them are visible enough in their entirety to need warnings for ‘in case you don’t want to see this’ reasons #but let me know if I need to add more tags #wait! I missed the safety manta ray!!!#oops lol #I should maybe get some of these out of my house

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pennedmusings · 7 months

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Thumb Fight

Summary: You are in a bar waiting for Sirius and the boys to show up, but the chaos and the hubbub of the setting make it difficult for you to have a good time. Thankfully, Sirius shows up just in time.

Note: fluff, comfort, Muggle!AU, Sirius and the reader are friends but with mutual pining! because I'm a slut for that. Gender-neutral reader. Neurodivergent reader. Not very well edited

Relationship: Sirius Black x Reader (mutual pining)

Warnings: Sensory overstimulation, sensory icks, crying, self-depreciation, reader is not very fond of themselves, mentions of drinking! reader almost has a panic attack (?)

Word count: approx 2K words

Likes and reblogs are much appreciated, comments even more so!

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The music was so loud you could barely hear your own thoughts.

It had been a pleasant hum before, a singer crooning softly from a corner, stuff that you could handle, stuff that you enjoyed actually. But as the night went on, the crowd got progressively drunker, and their tastes got progressively rambunctious. Right now, the speakers boomed with the heavy bass of some pop song. The crowd that had clamoured to put on “real” music instead of the Chris Isaak that you were so at ease with, now no longer cared for the song and wanted to focus on their chatter. People yelled at decibels far beyond the human capacity just to say hello to someone.

It was a Saturday night so the bar was packed to the brim, and you could feel several arms brushing past yours. You escaped the corner you had thought to seclude yourself in when a couple came in with each other’s tongues down their throats. You walked over to the bar and laid your hands flat against the marble when your skin came in contact with something wet. It was probably just condensed water from a cold drink, your brain tried to reason, but your instinct was to recoil in disgust and immediately wipe your hands off the cold, wet, annoying sensation on your hand.

It was a nightmare for you.

You flinched every time you so much as heard another glass hit the bar.

The glasses clinked.

The crowd roared.

Somebody said “hello” a little too loudly.

The bass pumped.

The door squeaks.

The bar top is wet.

Someone’s arm is brushing yours.

Too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too-

“Hey, hey, hey, puppy, what’s wrong?” warm hands lift your chin up and you almost flinch before realising who it is. Your eyes meet the concerned grey of Sirius’s. and as his eyes widen you realise how bad you must look in the moment. Surely, Sirius pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and starts dabbing around your eyes.

Oh, you didn’t know you’d started crying.

His thumbs smooth out the furrows of your eyebrows as he moves closer to you, as if he’s trying to shield you from the rest of the bar.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks softly, and you nod.

In no time he’s wading through the crowd, trying to create an opening for you to follow him out with. He holds your hands in his throughout the whole deal. Finally when you are both outside, the crisp, chilly autumn air hits you and you sit on the pavement in grateful silence. You don’t need to speak and Sirius doesn’t demand an answer as well.

You lose track of time as you rub your hands over your body. Crack your joints, gnaw on your lip, braid a portion of your hair, and tap your feet to a rhythm stuck in your head. After a minute, or maybe 10, or maybe 20, when you’re humming the same part of a Mitski song over and over again, Sirius speaks up.

“You feeling better now?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” the relief is evident in his voice, “ I got really worried seeing you like that.” He admits.

An apology comes out of you instinctively.

Sirius scoffs and settles down beside you, “it’s not your fault lovely.” He offers you his hand and you take him up. He quickly moulds your hands into a position for a thumb-fight and you are grateful for the distraction. Because he is sitting next to you and you can smell his cologne, and you can feel the heat emanating from his body; you might go into a different kind of panic attack if you focus on just him for longer.

“It kind of is though,” you soldier on with your self-criticism. “If I wasn’t so fucked in the head, you wouldn’t have to leave everything and sit with me outside a bar.”

The thumb fight has reached a strategic impasse, both of you hold your thumbs poised, ready to attack, but none making the first move.

“For the record, I didn’t leave anything.”

You look up to his eyes for the first time since coming outside the bar. But perhaps for the first time, he’s the one avoiding eye contact. You try to hold his gaze but he is adamant to not let you.

“What do you mean? I know for a fact that James and Remus are in there waiting for you to join them.” you point out. The boys were supposed to get to the bar together, being the roommates that they are. They had offered to pick you up from your apartment so that all of you could be there together but you knew they’d have to take a detour to accommodate that. Besides, your shift ended earlier today so you figured that going to the bar was less depressing than sitting by yourself at home waiting for someone to pick you up. Maybe you should have taken Remus up on his offer after all.

“They’re twats who have separation anxiety.” He deadpans but both of you know he’s only teasing. He’d take a bullet for them through his heart.

His face looks peculiar, unfamiliar in this setting because you’ve never seen him like this- all shy and red in the cheeks, avoiding eye contact, for once you’re the pursuer.

“Twats they may be, they’re still your friends. You should go inside with them. I’m much better here, you don’t need to stay.” You brush your thumb against his in challenge.

“Oh but I do,” the response is prompt, “need to be here to look after you. All alone, looking so pretty in the night, someone might steal you away. And where will be after that?” his thumb bashes yours away.

“You’ll all be much better off.” You huff.

He tsks very loudly and soon your thumb is pressed underneath his. You try to wriggle it free but he is a rugby player and his strength is not to be messed with. “ Quit it.” He warns.

There’s a pregnant pause. You’ve had this conversation before. Maybe not with the others, but definitely more times with Sirius than you could count. None of you say anything. You have long given up on trying to retrieve the thumb that’s stored underneath his firm grip.

“It’s rotten work.” You finally huff out.

He sighs, “Not to me. Not if its you.”

The stupid bastard knows Euripides. Great.

Anger and self-loathing forgotten you now try to get to the bottom of this enigma. “Pray tell, how did you know what to say?”

“I’m a man of culture-!” you smack him upside down. “OW!” he rubs the back of his head tenderly.

“You binge-watched all of Dance Moms in a week.”

“It’s a cultural revolution.”

“You have the attention span of a very small baby without any object permanence, you did not go through all of Euripides.” You say decidedly.

“Okay, I did not. You just mentioned it one day and said that you liked it a lot. So I thought of reading it but I couldn’t get past the first page.” Here you crack a smile, “ so then I just went on the internet to find something popular from the book and this was the first thing that showed up. Of course, knowing you, I could bet that you would quote this at some point or the other at me, and I wanted to be prepared.”

The chilly London air feels so much hotter than before. Even though its late at night, you think you can see the sun trying to shine its way out from the darkness. Sirius Orion Black will kill you one day. You think he’s trying to kill you right now. With his stupid shy smile, his stupid grey eyes looking at the pavement like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, the stupid blush creeping over his cheeks.

“Oh so when I asked you to take the chicken out of the freezer that one day, it was too much work for you, but Y/N just mentions a book and you’re off cramming its Wikipedia page? Some roommate you are Pads!”

Both of you whip your head around at the sudden intrusion. James leans against the door with his arms crossed over his chest in a display of anger that you know is all fake. Remus is standing next to him with his hands in his pocket and a small smile on his face. They look like they’ve been here for a while now and the realisation makes you want to disintegrate into the asphalt.

Intrusion into your quiet time with Sirius it may be, but you are in a way grateful for it; the conversation was going into realms you aren’t prepared at all to face. You look towards Sirius and judging by his face, he’s relieved too.

“What are you lot doing outside?” Sirius demands nonetheless (your thumb is still firmly wrapped under his), “aren’t you supposed to be getting piss drunk today?”

“We were supposed to get piss drunk together” James explains with all the patience of a tired rugby player who’s been working without break for the whole day, “We ordered shots and everything but we couldn’t find you or Y/N, so we came outside looking for you.”

You feel heat rising to your cheeks. Oh, so your breakdowns were that predictable. Being perceived is a mortifying ordeal.

However when you look to James and Remus there is nothing but kindness, understanding, and concern in their eyes. That lessens some of the awkwardness.

(Sirius’s hand has now enveloped yours, and that’s doing wonders for the anxiety too)

“Anyway,” Remus begins with a long drawl in that usual ‘Let’s-get-to-the-point-shall-we’ way of his, “are we heading back inside? No offense darling Y/N but its fucking freezing out here.”

Despite his words, you know there isn’t any malice to his position. It’s his way of asking if you’re okay in front of everyone; if you’re okay to face the inside.

Though the question is meant for you, you look to Sirius for some sort of inclination. You get nothing but a soft smile. You know what it means. You just have to say the word and they would camp outside and start a party by the pavement.

It’s overwhelming and heartwarming at the same time to think about how deep their friendship goes. To abandon everything simply because one person isn’t comfortable with it. You are beyond lucky to have this in your life. But however tempting the idea of leaving all this to go sleep in your bed might seem on other nights, tonight you find yourself looking forward to getting piss drunk with this group of men who crashed into your life like a storm.

Your hand is now being properly caressed and massaged by Sirius’s and you feel all the stress slipping away. The prospect of the daunting inside seems less and less like a bad idea knowing that you have him by your side. You need only make the smallest protest and he’ll escort you out immediately. No matter the amount of wet table tops, or too-loud people, you know that with him around none of your senses would have enough sense to make you feel anxious.

So you nod.

James lets out a whoop and Remus chuckles at his antics. Sirius- well, Sirius is smiling at you again before he’s hauling himself up to his feet. He takes a second to adjust before he’s pulling you up as well (by the hand he had never let go of).

The gates to the bar are swung open by one of the boys, and the inside is as you expected it to be: loud, with people clambering all over the place. But you don’t notice that not when Sirius pulls your thumb into another fight and the rest of the world blurs away.

#harry potter fanfic #sirius black #reader insert #sirius black x reader #sirius black x y/n #sirius black x you #muggle au #marauders #comforting #fluff #neurodivergent #reader has sensory issues #largely based off of the time when i get overstimulated in public settings #i wish i had a Sirius Black to comfort me #please let me know if i'm missing a warning

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