♡you cant be sad when you're holding a strawberry shortcake♡

It was unbearably hot in Zuko's room. You'd expected it to be fancier with all the daddy's money you thought he had stashed away, but it was rather barren all things considered. A small fan droned on in the corner of the room, not that it did much to combat that staunch August heat and the feeling of his massive body laid on top of yours. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the physical manifestation of whatever had been going on between the two of you, but it was as if you had melted together. Underneath your fingertips were his bare, hot skin, and you could feel further beneath it, the push and pull of his muscles with the slightest of movements. It was times like this you wondered if your boyfriend...situationship...friend? was even human.

He could be rather mechanical. You had always figured it was just one of his charms, polite to a fault and a bit unfeeling. Never cold, if there was one thing to be understood about Zuko, there was nothing cold about him. Even when you were both strangers, he had this warmth in his eyes, something in-between passion, curiosity, and a hunger. A hunger for what, you don't exactly know. You were never one to push, and that wouldn't be your business unless he made it your business. But still, you expected him to open up by now. It's been months of screwing around and months of him skirting around even being seen with you in public.

At this point, you were starting to doubt this was ever going to be anything serious. Honestly, you had no idea what he wanted. There were moments where he was so different, fragile almost. Like one wrong word and he would just shatter in the palm of your hands. He was so unsure. He was so...odd. Like his warmth was a natural quality of his that was never practiced, like the attempt at apathy was nothing more than a thin veneer covering whatever was underneath, scared that it would bubble from the surface and spill his guts out.

Even now, with Zuko literally balls deep in your pussy, there was somehow that separation. He was there. He was everywhere. His calloused hands splayed across the expanse of your hips, holding you firm in place with every jerk and spasm caused by the ridges of his cock drilling into you. Though he initially had tied his hair back, after a few rounds of his fucking his tongue into you and your hands undecidedly pushing him closer then further, more than a few stray pieces were currently buried into the side of your neck where he hid. He tried to be quiet, but he couldn't will his mouth shut, and now he panted into you, the occasional whimper escaping in between quiet groans of expletives.

And it wasn't the first time he got like this. The first time you two had sex he requested for the lights to be off, scared you wouldn't like what you saw, scared of having to face you when it was over, so embarrassed he almost talked himself out of what he'd practically prayed for. He did it then, his hands nervously placed on your hips, eyes screwed shut and his head tilted back. If there was one thing he got better at, it was quieting himself. Back then he was a wreck, so much filling his head, his brain couldn't figure out what was meant to be kept a thought. If he was being honest, he was a bit embarrassed now because while balls deep in your pussy, something struck him violently in his chest and he wanted to cry.

He thought he could hide it with his mean thrusts and his bruising grip bringing your hips to meet him. He couldn't manage the words, but if he could find them, he would only be able to plead with you to fuck back on him, to fuck him as hard as he fucked you, to give him some sort of sign that you liked him just as much as he liked you. He started to lose his own breath. "Fuck...o-oh fuck." And when your hand came to meet his hair, he shuddered.

"Zuko, are you ok?" God this was pathetic. He was so pathetic. Your hand cradled the back of his head, thumb tracing the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "Can you look at me...please?"

He shook his head, the small movement punctuated by a growl from the depths of his throat. If he looked at you, he would say something stupid, like I love you or will you marry me (never mind the fact that he had barely even known you a year). Despite himself, he managed a defeated chuckle.

"You're gonna laugh at me." He didn't need to look at your face to see you frown.

"Why would I do that?" And when he reluctantly lifted his face after a breath or two, taking in the sight of your damp face and the image of the skin that laid beneath the t-shirt, his t-shirt, that you had still been wearing because he was in so much of a rush to fuck you he couldn't be bothered to strip you completely, you swear the ice melted, even if just a bit. "Hi, handsome."

He couldn't help but smile like some love-sick fool. Probably because he was nothing more than a love-sick fool. His hips stalled, time froze, everything went still except for the stray hairs blown around by the fan and his fingers tracing tiny hearts on your skin. "Hi, angel." The way you looked up at him now kept him hard inside you. If it wouldn't cheapen the moment, he'd reach over to grab his phone and take a picture and keep it in a folder with all the other pictures of you on his phone. It was practically all he had in his camera roll. Never the both of you, just you.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your flow, I think I just wanted a kiss." There it went again. That thing in his stomach, that abyss that expands with each passing day and each breath you take, growing exponentially, infinitely until one of these days he slips up and lets it out.

"Who would I be to deny you." He bent until he was practically on top of you, his neck craning down to meet your lips while his hands travelled up your back to press you up and into him. You sighed, something of relief and satisfaction, your hands cupping his cheeks, holding him nearly as much as he held you. It was slow and intentional, at certain moments still, as though the pleasure was entirely derived from just being in each other's presence. He breathed into you, almost greedy, but not devouring. Exploratory was a better word, even though it was territory he had already charted, but it wasn't the novelty that excited him. It was the familiarity. The comfort. A warmth beyond the literal sense, a sort of fullness.

He couldn't get enough of you. He pulled you even closer, your thighs enclosing his, his hips slowly thrusting into yours. And it was painfully slow. As slow as the sweat streaming down both of your bodies, slow as your breath, slower than time itself. He just didn't know what to do with himself. A confidence overtook which he had never experienced before. You felt him smirk against your mouth as the tips of his fingers danced along the hem of your shirt before dipping underneath the cotton.

You decided you liked this version of him that was so rarely afforded to you. The hotter Zuko. The less ashamed Zuko. And your reactions conveyed it, the gasps you let out whenever he teasingly flicked your hardened nipple and massaged your tits like they were stress toys. His hips pistoned with determination now, it was his way of saying that even when face to face, even when equal, he would always be more than willing to carry your weight.

"Am I doing good? Do you feel good? God, you feel so fucking good." You could feel him throb inside you, with every inch he pulled in, it's like he found a way to bury himself even deeper. You found that he absolutely took your breath away. You let a laugh out, and it tumbled out to the sound of twinkling stars. Pure magic.

"S-so good. So fucking perfect." He almost missed it amidst the sound of slapping skin and squelching coming from between the two of you. If he were to look down, he would be entranced by the sight of your juices mixing together, eager to romanticize it into some proof that you were absolutely made for each other. In the act of trying to ground yourself, you had wrapped his hair around your fingers. He groaned at the sight and the pain. He'd put a ring right there. "Pull it harder.", it was barely a whisper before he tried again, "Please, pull it harder." And who would you be to deny him.

He was running on fumes now, perfectly intoxicated by the taste of you that still lingered on his tongue and the feeling of you everywhere. Even when he closed his eyes, you were still there, skin glistening, mouth agape, eyes blissfully closed as you just took it. He would be more than willing to give it to you forever, to be whatever you needed. And of course, he felt fulfilled the more you squeezed around him, practically choking his dick, like even when unconscious to what it did on its own volition, your body didn't want him to leave. "I'm close - fuck- so close." Your voice grew high at the end, out of control and desperate as the coil in your stomach grew tighter and tighter.

Your moans are a broken mess as you cum and in the moment of clarity, it hits you how long you'd been at this. Slightly beyond Zuko's head you can see the setting sun, fallen from where it stood when you began, falling apart in dozens of colors across the once clear sky, waiting to be put back together tomorrow morning. At some point you slouched into him, still spasming, your breath hitching, his hips stuttering into yours as though they were stuck in some loop. Your head falls into Zuko's neck, for a change, your heated breath fanning across the top of his collarbones. He freezes again while looking at your exhausted body. It begins to feel like you're lying on stone.

"I'll go grab you a towel-", he starts, nervously pulling out and trying to roll off his bed despite the fuzz in his vision and the haze behind his eyes. Your tired hand reaches out for his wrist, and he lets you take it, basking in the feeling of your soft skin against his before it fully fades.

"Why do you always do this? It's like every time we have a moment, you freeze. You're running." He fakes an expression of incredulity.

"What are you talking about?" Through your weariness, you manage a look of stoned exasperation. A dry laugh forces its way through you.

"I don't want a fucking towel, Zuko. It's never just a towel with you; it always snowballs into you finding some excuse to leave. Do you have somewhere more important to be? Some other girl you're fucking?" He swallows the anger that rises within at the sheer thought of leaving you to be with anyone else. In hindsight, perhaps it would've been better if he did, if he acted like he felt something. "You know, I just don't get you. You're a real nice guy, but half the time, it doesn't seem like you're here. I mean, why can't you just lay here with me. You never do. God, we've been at this for months, and you never have."

He starts to feel it again, but it's a bit different than before. A bit sharper. You drop his wrist but maintain eye contact, which is more uncompromising anyway. "I don't think I understand why you're upset." It's like he's worlds away, and even scarier, it only takes him a moment to get that far. There's a clinical quality to his voice, something unreal about the way he blinks, something unnatural about the way his chest rises and falls, like he has to remind it too. In all honesty, none of this was like him. He feels like he's taking everything one at a time, trying so hard to just be.

You roll your eyes, mumbling that it's nothing. He hates it. Zuko doesn't do "nothing", that's why it's so hard with you. He can't do anything halfway. He finds it incredibly difficult to just fuck you and waste your time with cheap dates and gross food for the sake of taking it slow. He's just stuck. That's the only way he can think to explain it. Stuck in between wanting to be around you and wanting to be with you in a way that's meaningful to him, skipping past you going back to your stupid dorm and leading separate lives outside of when you text that you want him to come over. Why can't you just live together? Skip the towels and the separate beds. God, he'd live in your fucking skin, if he could.

Maybe that's why the two of you didn't work. You thought the wall he put up was because he didn't like you, which couldn't be further from the truth. He did it for you, because if he didn't there would be nothing stopping him from foregoing all the formalities and the bullshit and waiting to just be with you. Deeper than the superficial way it happened all around him, the relationships whose oxygen to their flame was the circumstances around them. Deeper than boyfriend and girlfriend situationship thing or whatever the hell the two of you had. Something spiritual. Something eternal. Something that can never be swallowed down, something that never goes away.

"I really like you, you know." Your expression softens.

"You don't act like it." He exhales all the confidence he breathed in from you earlier.

Sokka had been into you since the moment he laid eyes on you. Though this sounds cliche, according to Katara it's a very common experience for him. Perhaps that's where his reputation comes from; the fact that it really doesn't take much to get him going, but that doesn't negate the fact that it doesn't take much for him to fall in love either. He couldn't decide if it was his mind playing into his delusional fantasies or if he was hallucinating your face. It seemed that every time he went into the shared basement where both of your buildings did their laundry, you were there too, pretty legs crossed with your phone in your hand, occasionally laughing at some video you happened to scroll onto with your earphones in. If he was lucky, you'd look up and wave at him, recently made familiar with him through Aang. The thought of him made his stomach turn.

Aang knew everybody. It's like the world revolved him as he walked through campus, everyone shouting a short greeting when they saw him walk around the quad or coming up to them when they ate lunch together asking him about if he was attending some party or if he heard about happened some guy he knew by at least 3 degrees of separation. And to think, there were a couple days of calm before he practically became a campus celebrity, still shrouded in the misty mystery of being a transfer student from some university like a million miles away. Not that Sokka was that popular with the ladies even before he met Aang, hell he didn't even have his first kiss until spring of his freshman year while drunk at a party Aang was enthusiastically invited to.

The memory of your first meeting still lingers in his mind. The first day of class, fall semester, sophomore year. Everyone by now had figured out the groove of college life, no longer walking with their heads deep in their phone hoping the digital map knew the lay of the land better than they did with an over-stocked bookbag weighing down their shoulders, but looking at you then, you seemed like one of those people who never lacked confidence. You walked with a group of girls, probably your friends, or maybe people who just like him were swept up in your breeze and followed closely, leaning into every word that came out of your glossed lips. It's like you sparkled, shiny shades resting on your head, pearly teeth smiling through whatever the topic of conversation was, tiny shorts and an even tinier shirt covering your body. You looked like the weather, warm and bright, smelling of something faintly floral and sweet, like walking temptation begging him to take a bite out of you.

You never interacted once. No classes together, never ran into each other at the dining hall (he assumed your pallet was too refined for whatever they passed off as food in there), despite all his straggling across campus hoping to "accidentally" bump into you, it's like you were identical magnetic poles; absolutely repelled by each other. It wasn't until one day in the middle of September when it was uncharacteristically cool, rainy and practically flooding outside. In his haste to get inside his door and out of his soaked clothes, he almost missed the flutter of your laughter. Almost. Your hair was positively drenched, which you lamented about through fits of giggles and Aang's 'hilarious' commentary on the sour weather. If the metaphorical flames of his anger were real, his clothes would be ash at his feet.

The door slammed behind him, or maybe his foot shoved it closed. The sound rivaled the thunder booming outside, garnering the attention of both his traitorous friend and you. Feeling as though you were suddenly out of place, you stood quickly, droplets of water flying from your hair as you rushed to find your umbrella and shoes. Snapped out of his daze, he tried to slow your haste, "You don't have to rush out. I can't in good conscience let you go back out there. It's past cats and dogs at this point; it's like lions and wolves out there.", but you only shrugged him off with a smile on your face. You had opened your mouth to respond, but whatever you were going to say, Aang beat you to it.

"She'll be fine, she's practically next door."

And from the second the words flew out of his mouth, he regretted them. Sokka tried to force his grimace into a less hostile expression, but he never got there. He knew where she lived. He knew her. That bastard knew.

In all honesty, he should've known, Aang knew everybody. What shocked him is that he also knew that he'd been harboring this crush for months and didn't tell him anything. He'd poured out his heart and soul, his opinions of the nail color you had chosen that month, that one time he saw you at the gym in a purple set and he got a nosebleed so bad he had to leave, and the great many wet dreams he's had about you. Why didn't he tell me?

To his credit, he did look guilty on the couch, unusually quiet and staring off at a crack in the wall. Because of this discernable shred of remorse, he decided to only yell at him after the door had closed.

"What the actual hell, man!" Aang looked down remorsefully, clenching his jaw as a reminder to choose his words very carefully. Sokka once yelled at him for half an hour for leaving his dishes in the sink for a week, he could only imagine how long he could go for something like this.

"I'm sorry." He patted himself on the back mentally. Good choice, it's simple and to the point, that couldn't get him in any deeper shit.

"Oh, you're sorry? What part are you sorry about Aang, the part where you've been harboring sacred knowledge about the girl I've been obsessing over for months or the part where you've been sneaking her around the apartment for who knows how long?!" Aang's eyes went wide.

"That's never happened! She's never been in here before, I swear." This was only half true. You had been in the apartment before, but not in the way he implied. There was the one time you dropped off his laptop after he left it with you at the library after one of your study sessions and the other time you came by to borrow his charger after you misplaced yours and a few other times in between, but you hadn't slept together. You were friends. Good friends.

"And how do you know where she lives, huh? When did you two get so friendly?" His tone was accusatory as he huffed while throwing his bag on the couch and hurling his wet jacket on the floor in between them, throwing down the proverbial gauntlet. "And why didn't you tell me. We're supposed to be friend's, man and believe me when I say this is a massive breach of the bro-code."

"I know, Sokka, and I'm sorry, ok. I just didn't think it was a big deal-"

"You didn't think it was a big deal?! I've been pining for months. There were days where I moped around this place like some pathetic loser because she didn't look in my direction all the while you two were just chopping it up behind my back." Dammit, Aang thought, I should've kept it to I'm sorry. It's simple and to the point, never done me any wrong before. Everyone loves a nice, simple apology.

"You're right, it is a big deal, a-and to make it up to you, I'll tell you everything you wanna know." He was flying by the seat of his pants now. If he kept going at this rate, he wouldn't hear the end of this even in the afterlife. He could see it now, the both of them buried side by side, the incorporeal ghastly form of Sokka laying into him even after he's been laid to rest. It seemed to please him anyway, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smirk.

"Anything?" This felt like the most important decision of his life. Screw figuring out college or a career, he felt like he held an untarnished library of Alexandria in his hands and all he had to do was pluck the right book. He didn't want too much, he wanted the intrigue, wanted to hear it from you.

"I don't know her bra size if that's what you're gonna ask."

"I should hope you don't, asshole!" He barked out. He stilled for a moment, freeing his hair from the elastics keeping it out of his face so he could run his hands through it, as if massaging his scalp would make a few synapses fire off quicker.

But Aang was too impatient. In his defense, this bit of knowledge stuck with him more than anything, and if it meant so much to him, giving it to Sokka would be like giving water to a dying man. It was with the most satisfied smirk on his face when he said it, as though he couldn't even begin to contain it.

𓏲ּ𝄢Spring - Jonathan Byers 𓏲ּ𝄢

𓏲ּ𝄢Jonathan Byers is tender in the way spring is. He's awkward in the way a newborn dear is, struggling to get his footing in his relationship with you. He's stable, he's wet grass after the snow melts, he's the first flowers after a harsh winter. But he's a realist, he's the cold air that still bites because it's not yet summer. He clings onto winter, not yet ready sometimes to give way to what is soft. He's always had to be tough. Always had to be grounded.

𓏲ּ𝄢 Jonathan is also a bit of a freak of nature. He's a watcher. He's incredibly patient and mysterious in a way that's just in his nature. Like some cryptid creature that hangs out in dank forests, a slightly off gaze in their eye, a tilt in their head as they assess the newcomer into their territory. It's no secret Jonathan wasn't the most popular in high school, and he was mostly fine with that. Popularity didn't matter. He didn't need to go to all the parties and drink until he was sick, he quite liked the dark. No one came to bother him in the dark.

𓏲ּ𝄢 He's often alone in the dark. You're the muse in a lot of his photos, it's just that you don't really know that you are. You can sense how deeply he loves you, it's evident in a glimmer in his eyes, the physical manifestation of his artistic genius, that moment when lightning strikes behind his eyes and he sees you as even more than you. Something eternal. Something endlessly beautiful.

𓏲ּ𝄢And of course, he lets you into that world of photography. He's the type to keep them hidden in a box forever, just for the two of you, a hidden treasure beneath his bed, but you insist on making them more than a personal event. You put them in pretty scrapbooks decorated with memorabilia from your many dates, blades of grass from a field where you had a picnic, movie tickets, candle wax from a romantic dinner. You're the type to keep them in a fancy leather bound book under a coffee table, itching to show off to anyone who will listen.

𓏲ּ𝄢It's very new to have something so positive in the house. Joyce couldn't be happier. It makes him a bit jealous, he wishes he had the Joyce who didn't need him to be a parent. The Joyce who picked up hobbies like knitting to make you both matching sweaters in the winter. The Joyce who had time to relax and just age, not Joyce the struggling mother at her wits ends because of her useless ex-husband, and definitely not the Joyce screaming into the void about the truth that no one is willing to hear. Now he gets to worry about anniversary presents and date night ideas. He gets to be normal.

𓏲ּ𝄢Jonathan has always been a giver. He's the type to give you his jacket in freezing weather just so you won't be cold. He's so warm. He's caught off guard by the first time you insist on putting your hands up his shirt for warmth, but of course he lets you, with a very obvious blush on his face that he can't even bother to hide. He bends to your every whim. He's the boyfriend who carries your shopping bags for you, who's willing to drive around town on dates with you before parking in some open field so you can run around and collect flowers for him. He's very quiet in the ways he's a giver. He's a watcher as well. He's a bit of a creep. Sometimes you chalk it up to a good memory, and sometimes it's things you never told him, but he found out anyway. He always knows.

𓏲ּ𝄢For all the time you spend outside, Jonathan has terrible allergies. He just looks like someone who would have a shit ton of allergies. And though this is projected as someone who personally isn't just allergic to pollen, but also grass and trees, I choose to bestow upon him my same afflictions because, once again, he just looks like someone who's allergic to damn near everything under the sun. This being said, he pretends he isn't nearly as sick as he truly is. It's not because he hates being bed bound, quite the opposite, he loves the opportunity to rest without guilt, but he gets so incredibly sick and he feels like if he lies about the pain, it simply won't be as bad. He's completely averse to taking any medication, insisting that it only prolongs the healing process by stopping the body from fully sweating the illness out. He'd rather just sleep for hours, dealing with the strange fever dreams and night sweats, waking up at odd hours of the night to rattle around in the kitchen for a cup of water. You chastise him for this. Next time he's sick, you swear you're just going to buy him a bell he can ring when he needs something.

𓏲ּ𝄢Spring with Jonathan is very warm. It smells musky, yet clean, like fresh flannel blankets and hours spent lounging around in his bed with nothing on the agenda but lying in each other's arms while soft music plays from his record player. It's a very slow season for the two of you, very sleepy. While I do think his over the top weed usage in s4 was a bit much, it's a vice I'll keep around, if a bit more contained.

Jonathan gets terrible cotton mouth when he's high. You'd think his biggest enemy would be hallucinations or a terrifying tingling all over his body, but he'd never really experienced that. Maybe it's to do with the strain, maybe it's to do with his tolerance, but either way, if he smoked a joint, ate an edible, or ripped a bong, the cotton mouth was absolutely atrocious.

He made sure to involve you in his habits if you didn't want to, he's not even the type to over-indulge himself. Weed is too expensive and hard to find in Hawkins anyway, it's more of a special treat, a break from thinking after an exhausting semester or particularly difficult shift. It's like a calming ritual, his version of those girlie bubble baths with scented candles, a snack tray, and a nice book. He keeps his stash in a box under his bed, right next to his stash of dirty Polaroids of you, kept unnecessarily tidy. His grinder was a parting gift from Argyle, his rolling papers were cheap and boring because it was hard to find the flavored ones, and his rolls were never the neatest, not that they needed to be.

His perfect Friday evenings, those nights where Joyce is working a night shift and Will is in the Wheeler’s basement playing D&D just like they used to. There was something in the air. You had already spent the day together, lazing around the house, going from his bed, to the living room couch, to his bedroom floor. The day had been a haze of kisses and heated touches. You were sitting on his bed when he pulls out that special box on the floor, watching intently, legs crossed on the edge of his bed with a curious look in your eye as he pours the weed into a messy line, adjusting and adding more as he rolls it until it forms that signature cone shape. He doesn't notice your gaze until he picks it up to lick the edge, a boyish smile flitting across his face.

"You wanna try it tonight? 'S not as intimidating as it seems." You bit your lips at the thought. It's not that it's intimidating, but rather that it's intimate. Like one of those scenes from an old movie where someone like Lauren Bacall would share a cigarette with a Humphrey Bogart type, some sort of old rough-around-the-edges detective character, sexual tension thick in the air amidst a tense cat-and-mouse game.

You rubbed your lips together, still sticky with whatever lip gloss you put on about an hour ago. "I don't know, Jay, won't my lip gloss make the end sticky?" He licked his lips at the thought of that. Just a few weeks ago, you'd spent hours in his bed just kissing because he couldn't get enough of the taste of the stuff.

"If anything, it'll make it better. Mask the taste of it a bit, y'know." His palms are already sweaty as you move to the floor, sitting on your heels looking at him expectantly to talk you through it. He's never been the one in the relationship to talk you through anything.

"Can you show me." He's sure you said it in that tone of voice on purpose, just to see him squirm. A shiver goes down his spine, and he looks down at the joint just to avoid your burning gaze. He fiddles with the lighter in his pocket, flicking it once then twice before a steady flame starts. It's with shaky hands that he lights the end, holding it until that familiar amber glow sparked.

"W-What you do is inhale - like suck in the air", he says, putting it to his mouth as a demonstration. He was messy when rolling it, he knew after tasting the crumbs of weed at the tip. "A deep breath, and then you hold it in for a bit, gets you high a bit faster. Then, you blow out before you start coughing like hell." Smoke pooled from his mouth and you watched in fascination, something pooling in the pit of your stomach. Maybe anxiety. Maybe arousal. He held it out to you, and you took it between the tips of your fingers.

"So... I just... go like this." The second it hit your lips; it took all of you not to smile at the indirect kiss you had just shared. You did as he said, inhaling and holding it in your lungs, but the cloud you blew out was puny in comparison to his, which made both of you laugh at the anti-climax of it all. "I don't think I did it right." He chuckled as he took it back from you, ego slightly inflated at the fact that he may have just found something that he was better than you at.

"It takes practice, baby, my first time I coughed until I felt like I was gonna puke to death." Your nose scrunched in disgust.

"Ew, Jay, that's gross." He was already starting to feel it; he could tell by the way your laughed sounded like bells jingling and all the moisture was evaporating from his tongue as it grew heavier in his mouth. Laughter started to bubble up in his stomach and he had to suppress it before he forgot how to breathe.

"That's what it does! It was awful. We nearly cleaned out all the pizza in that stupid van, too. I felt like absolute shit the next day." His voice had gotten raspy after that last hit, his eyes noticeably drooped as well. He looked unreal in this lighting. If you could, you would've snapped a picture.

"Are you hungry now? I think there's some pizza rolls in the freezer?" Pizza rolls were the furthest thing from his mind. He felt like he could dry all of Lake Michigan. He reached awkwardly for a crumpled, half-empty bottle of water that had been in his room for who knows how long before bringing it to his lips. Water doesn't expire right? Does plastic expire?

"N-No, I'm fine. Just peachy." His hands on your thighs caught you off guard, pulling you into his lap with strength you often forget he possesses. He didn't even mean to. He just wanted to be closer to you. You were maybe mere inches away and it still felt like you were on a separate planet. He rubbed patterns in your skin just to remind himself that you were close, hell, you couldn't get much closer. "You want another hit?" God his mouth was like the fucking Sahara Desert.

"I think I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead. Y'know, before I puke to death or something." You weren't whispering, yet he still leaned in to hear you speak, his eyes wandering from your eyes to your lips. They looked like fruit. Smelled like it too. There was some sort of apple in the flavor, it must be. Apple juice, sweet pear, maybe something spicy. Utterly wet. God, he hoped he wasn't drooling.

He reached out to touch you, his thumb rubbing against the sticky substance on your lips as if he could taste it through the pads of his fingertips. They were so full. Like if he bit them, juice would just spill out. "Can I kiss you?" His voice was breathy, like smoke itself. "Please, honey." You nodded slightly and that was all he needed.

He threw off his balance when he kissed you, nearly knocking you to the ground. His hands were fixated on the material of your shirt. He's sure it was his as his fingers found themselves in small holes, wear and tear in material that was too soft to be new. He pulled and tugged as his tongue was undisciplined in your mouth, wandering the expanse of it as if he'd never even kissed you before. He whined as you pulled away, hands on either side of his head, looking up at him through those pretty eyelashes of yours. He had such a pretty girlfriend. So pretty.

"Baby, are you okay?" Your words swam through his head as he tried to concoct whatever response would get your lips back on his the fastest.

"I'm fine. Just wanted to taste you, that's all." His voice grew high at the end, the same way it did when he was begging and broken after you two had been going at it for hours. To be fair, he was incredibly hard right now, but he was willing to ignore that. That wasn't what was important right now. What mattered is the fact that his tongue felt like fucking sandpaper in his mouth. So, what if he was horny, it wasn't gonna solve anything...

He got quiet in the way he did when he was thinking. His lip between his teeth, trying to figure out how to ask what he wants, cheeks red in embarrassment.

"You got something to say, Jonathan?" He could've creamed his pants right then and there. His eyes flutter closed as he tries to find the right words, his hands inching towards what he wants as he struggles to ask.

"Can I eat you out", he asks quietly. You heard him perfectly fine, but you wanted to see him squirm.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you quite right." You were torturing him. You had to have been. In that sorry excuse for shorts, practically underwear, and you were just right there, and he felt like he was going to explode if he didn't get his mouth on you.

"Can I please eat you out. I'll be so good, I promise." And who were you to say no to that.

𝜗ৎSummer - Steve Harrington𝜗ৎ

𝜗ৎ Steve is a very summer boyfriend. I mean, just look at him. Sun-kissed and relaxed, long days out in the sun with absolutely nothing to do. He's summery in the way that he can be a bit much. His relationship with Nancy left him incredibly insecure, his relationship with his parents left him feeling unlovable, and his constant run-ins with the killer supernatural and dangerous government officials is starting to make him feel like maybe he just isn't long for this world. Like a star that is hurtling towards its own heat death; and what is the Sun if not a star.

𝜗ৎSteve likes to pretend he's cool around you, but it's always been a difficult sell. It's hard to take a man seriously in a stupid sailor's uniform and even harder when he keeps having to work silly jobs because he couldn't get into a good college. He leans in doorways with a smirk on his face looking to flirt with you no matter how long you've been dating for, he's the type to race you to his car just so he can open the door for you, he even wears those god-forsaken designer shades in-doors just to better sell the role of your cool and mysterious boyfriend. But, like the summer sun, there is no beating the heat and Steve has never been cool.

𝜗ৎ When you first started dating, back when his reputation as 'The Hair' was starting to fade away, revealing the man behind the myth, he used to joke about his big empty house. The incredible sex potential was always the selling point. The fact that he could have you over the counter, on the dining room table, hell, even the stairs if you were feeling really dangerous, and no one would be any the wiser. What that really meant is that no one around cared.

𝜗ৎStill, that big house is nice to have. Whether the constant babysitting is what sprouted to want for a litter of kids, or it was only exacerbated by them, he likes to pretend to be a dutiful father if only for a couple of hours. The big pool in his backyard finally being used to create good memories, a kiss-the-cook apron across his chest, you in the air-conditioned kitchen making picturesque glasses of lemonade with perfectly cut lemon slices on the sugared rim.

𝜗ৎSteve doesn't know how to use a grill. When you came into his life, he really tried to make himself useful. You once told him that nothing is sexier than a man who gets the job done, that's why women love men in uniforms. From that day onward, he spent all his free time in that big empty house, windows cracked open, wind blowing through freshly washed curtains, the smell of too much lavender wafting through the air because he has a tendency to go overboard with the laundry detergent. He has been trying to learn how to cook, but the grill is too advanced, and the apron is for decoration. It's with shame he asks Robin to do it for him, but you simply smile at him and run a hand through his hair and thank him for trying his best.

𝜗ৎThe kids pretend to gag when they look at you, laid up on his pool chairs, your fingers flipping through a book with the back of your bikini untied while Steve spreads the cool sunscreen against your back, utterly entranced. The sunscreen had long since been absorbed, giving your warm skin a sparkly sheen - or maybe the sparkles were Steve's imagination - at this point he was giving you a massage, listening intently as you gave him updates on whatever you had been reading.

"Oh my gosh - babe.", he hummed in response, a smile creeping onto his face at the nickname.

"Yeah?" Summer meant shitty romance novels you get in the checkout line at the grocery store, the kind with long-haired men in pirate shirts on the cover and yellowed pages even when brand new.

"You remember Beatrice and how I was telling you she was abruptly fired from her job as secretary for that pharmacy guy and I thought it was Fernando pulling the strings?"

"Yes", by which he really meant no because these plots were always so convoluted he barely managed to remember the major character names.

"Well, it actually wasn't him! Can you believe it? I was so sure he was up to something shady. You know, it's so hard to trust men with light eyes and Fernando is not called the "blue-eyed devil" for nothing. I swear they're like the source of his manipulative man-powers or something-"

"Would you love me if I had blue eyes, baby." The interruption was mostly a joke, but he is self-aware enough to admit he would've found a way to pout if the answer was no.

"I would miss your brown eyes; you wouldn't be you if they were blue. You'd be like...evil Steve. Very unnerving."

"So, what I'm hearing is you'd be lost without these chocolate browns." You giggled under his hands.

"Oh, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

Unbeknownst to the two of you, the kids had migrated to the opposite end of the pool to stare in disgust. Dustin dramatically gagged, Lucas screwed his face up as if he had just stepped in dog shit, still annoyed that you forced him to put on sunscreen after he insisted that Black people didn't get sunburn, to which you had to assure him that they definitely did and melanoma didn't discriminate, and Will complained through gritted teeth.

"Look at them.", he spat out, "it's like we aren't even here. Steve has this big ass house; I refuse to believe there isn't a room they can't take this to."

"That's just what people do when they get into relationships, they have to get it all out before they hit like 30 and they're too old to get it up. Be glad they don't have their tongues down each other's throats... or somewhere else. This is tame compared to the shit my brother does." El sighed on the ledge of the pool, tuned into the conversation enough to sigh dreamily.

"I think they're cute. They make each other happy." Dustin rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, but they don't have to be so happy in front of us. It's fucking gross! Me and Suzie don't do stuff like that." This aroused a chorus of laughter.

"Because you're too busy serenading each other and smooching over the radio, dude. You can't do stuff like that when your girlfriend is like a million miles away." Lucas remarked which prompted Max to start loudly humming 'Never-ending story' before erupting into a fit of giggles.

"Yeah, but if she was here, we would have the decency to keep our hands to ourselves in front of the company. That is just a complete lack of decorum."

𝜗ৎSummer with Steve smells like lemons and chlorine and sunscreen. His hair is floppy; it's too hot for his signature style, the effort just melts out of his bones, and the gel would slip and slide down his neck after a couple minutes in the sun. It takes him a while for him to realize that you love him anyway. He holds you tighter in the summer, even though you slap his hands away because it's too hot to be on top of each other, to which he pouts and remarks that you hate him. He finds it hard to believe it when you say you could never hate him.

𝜗ৎSteve Harrington lives in fear that he has a heart that cannot love you the way that he does. You once told him you had a heart so big, if you didn't tell him you loved him every time you felt it pounding in your chest, you might just explode. You just had so much love in your heart you could cause your own Big Bang. He cracked a joke that you two could have a 'big bang' in his bedroom and you snorted. You thought he didn't get it. He did. But he was an accident, and his parents couldn't bother to stick around long enough to notice that he hated them, and he's worried he has a heart like his parents. That it's just not in his nature to love you the way he does. That one day he'll forget how.

𝜗ৎIn the summer especially, he doubts he could forget how to love you. He remembers every time he sees you. Every time you come over late at night, the stars peeking in to watch whatever movie you two had on, your limbs tangled in his with his head on your chest, he's overwhelmed by it. He buries himself deeper with every beat of your heart and he counts each one, and with everyone he is reminded of yet another thing he loves about you. You've been doing movie nights for years at this point and he doesn't think he's ever repeated a single thing.

𝜗ৎOne of Steve's favorite parts about summertime is the way you look. He's never been one to judge the tiny skirts you pull out, the two-piece bikinis, the way you match your manicured hands with the pretty polish on your feet. You just glow in a way he didn't think was possible. You look like something only he could've dreamed up; it's why he's never angered at the stares you get when you walk down the street. You're his dream, not theirs, you don't even exist to them. To them, you're just some pretty girl, probably the prettiest they'll ever see, but they'll never have you. I suppose it would be more accurate to say to Steve, you're everyone's dream girl, but you're Steve's dream come true.

𝜗ৎAnd of course, it's not always sunny out. There are those occasional summer storms where you can feel the moisture in the air, thick on your skin, thunder rumbling in heavy clouds, lightning cutting the power around the city. Steve wasn't a fan of loud noises. Silence has never been comfortable, but it's what he's used to. Heavy footsteps echoing in that big empty house, the low rumbling of his car while he hums along to the radio alone, sometimes just sitting with you. Lightning reminds him of gunshots and screeches coming from the unknown. It sounds silly, but after all he's seen, sometimes he thinks it might be the sky opening up to swallow Hawkins whole.

𝜗ৎHe often spends the night with you on nights like those. He stomachs ghost stories until it gets too dark, and the sky gets too loud, following you wherever you go like a shadow, large arms wrapping around your waist. He finds comfort in holding you, it makes him feel stronger, maybe a bit more brave. Like nothing bad can happen as long as you're around. If he was Superman, you wouldn't be his Lois Lane, you'd be his Sun.

𝜗ৎHe can get rather protective, though he's like that all year round. He works out a lot in the summer, whether it be a game of basketball with some friends, a few laps in the pool, or household activities. Lifting up couches so he can vacuum underneath them, rotating the tires on your car, making a sport out of bringing in all the groceries in one trip. He's just so big, and he makes sure you know that it's never been for show.

𝜗ৎMaybe it's all the sun getting to his head, but the urge to have a family with you gets so much worse in the summer. He starts planning it out. If you started about now, you could have a baby in the spring, and it's that the most perfect time to bring someone new into the world. And he knows what you'll tell him, like clockwork you have this conversation every summer when he gets like this. You say it's too soon, you haven't even graduated college yet, you want a career and stability. And he knows. He knows he's being irrational and that now definitely isn't the time when he's been stuck in a new job year after year. But that has never stopped him from wanting it.

You're incredibly sweaty. You feel it in the roots of your hair, in the valley of your breasts, in the palms of your hands intertwined with Steve's. He's an absolute wreck, hair falling in his face, groans flowing freely from his bitten lips, eyes full of love as he looks down at you. If it was possible, your overwhelmed expression made him even harder.

He feels like he's in your throat. Steve has always been a lot, he's just so big. Big hands pressing your hips into his so that even when he pulled out to plow back in, it was so shallow, like he just couldn't bear to be outside of you. His shoulders are so wide, but with how long you've been going at this you don't even have the energy to grab at them, leaving pretty scratch marks all over his back. "Stevie...", you whine out, eye's lidded and your breath haggard, "Baby, I don't - fuck - oh, Steve, I don't know if I can keep up much longer."

He pouts. You'd think you just told him you hated him. His pace slows, almost gently rocking into you, your headboard creaking, screaming for the two of you to stop before it crashes down onto the both of you. "Honey, I'm sorry." You smile. No, he wasn't. Even the way he said it wasn't convincing, he was teasing you. He leans down to kiss you, cradling your head in hand, while his tongue moves sloppily in your mouth.

"I can stop if you want. Run you a nice bubble bath, make you dinner. That would be nice, wouldn't it." He whispers it, centimeters from your lips, like it was some secret meant only for the two of you, but it didn't seem like his mouth and his hips connected. His hips still thought it was time to breed the next generation of Harrington's in your womb.

"Stevie-", you whine out, his lips now making their way down the curves of your tits, his tongue collecting the sweat collecting in between. When he says he could eat you whole, he truly means it. He moans as your hands wind into his hair, tugging from the roots just the way he likes it. His eyes roll when he looks up at you, attempting to be serious with him. "Baby, you have work tomorrow, we can't be up all night like we used to." He shook his head.

"My duty is to my beautiful girlfriend who is still somehow coherent enough to argue with me about my stupid job at Radio Shack and I'm not stopping til that pretty head gets too full of me to speak"

✮⋆ Fall - Eddie Munson ✮⋆

✮⋆Eddie looks like fall. All leather jackets and spooky tattoos, worn out band tee-shirts and ripped jeans. He's off putting to the people who don't get it, gothic - demonic even. And while he does put up a front on the outside, you can't be known as 'The Freak' if you don't put at least some effort into the moniker. If anything, it's something he hides behind. Eddie Munson would try and tell you that he's an open book and that there wasn't a damn thing he had to hide from the world. He would be lying.

✮⋆He's terrified of everything. He'll watch horror movies, but he doesn't like them. Usually, he'll only watch them with company, be it the campaign members, or Wayne, usually not you. His first instinct is to jump into your arms and then pretend that he was only doing it to catch you off guard to scare you. For days that follow, he's looking over his shoulder at small noises, turning all the lights on just to walk down the hall, practically sleeping with one eye open waiting for the boogey man to jump out of his closet. The rumors are ridiculous for this reason. He'd be the last person on the planet interested in summoning demons, hell, when Garrett bought a Ouija board a couple years ago, he took it out back to burn it. Devil worship couldn't be further from the truth.

✮⋆ It's no secret he's not as scary as he pretends to be either. Your first introduction was in high school, paired up together for some history project you were prepared to complete on your own while he blew you off. You were surprised when the first words he ever spoke to you were an apology, eyes casted downwards, kicking dirt around with his shoes. He ran from you. He hated group work for this reason. He felt guilty when others got paired with him, he knew that he was the worst case scenario, the kind of person people begged not to be around. You only barely found him during free period, seated quietly at that old picnic table halfway rotted into the ground with a black metal lunchbox in front of him. Dappled light shone through where leaves had begun to fall as damp grass hid the sound of your footsteps. When you whispered a small 'hello' he screamed.

✮⋆ He's surprisingly charming. While he would prefer to believe he was some daring knight in shining armor, perhaps even some mysterious elf who lived among the forest creatures and ghouls, he was the court jester to your blinding majesty. He's quick to play the role of the fool, make the stupid faces and do the silly voices, it's part of his job as DM anyway, to be an actor. He's so caught up in the performance he doesn't realize how undeniably endearing he is. Especially when it's just the two of you, maybe a bottle of beer that grows lukewarm in his hands as he's been nursing it for a while, a shitty B-movie playing on a small screen and he cracks those small jokes to you, but mostly to himself. The innocuous random tidbits of knowledge he keeps stored in that beautiful brain of his. The way he tousles his hair when he thinks no one's around, too self-conscious to be caught fixing it as it would break the illusion of his roguishness and make him seem like some self-obsessed pretty boy. How his pupils grow incredibly large, leaving nothing but small rims of deep brown with how much love he feels when he looks at you.

✮⋆ He has all these soothing habits. He's just a bundle of nerves. You remember when you first met him in class, damn near every part of him was tapping. The eraser of his pencil moved fiercely against the sheet of notebook paper he had been doodling on, his legs bounced out of sync on the floor, he bit his lips before annoyedly erasing whatever progress he had been making. And he's a hummer. It's like the bell you put on a cat, so they don't sneak up on you. You know he's near when you hear that deep humming, something off a Motley Crue, Black Sabbath, or a Joan Jett album.

✮⋆He always needs to be touching you in some way. He blames the cold of an impending winter, but he's like this in the fall too, walking not even a pace behind you, hands stuffed in your jean pockets, whispering some stupid joke in your ear from behind. It's even worse in the cold when the two of you are alone in the trailer, his hands up your shirt, your bra discarded somewhere on the floor hours ago, his hands fidgeting with your tits as you read some magazine you found thrown haphazardly over the couch arm. He sits behind you, your back to his chest, allowing him to peek off his shoulder at whatever you were reading. It was an old Rolling Stone, the one with John Lennon and Yoko Ono on the cover, Wayne bought it for him thinking it would motivate him to read something that wasn't the Hobbit or Ursula Le Guinn. There's nothing innately sexual about it, he says he does it to keep his hands warm and it was either this or shoving them in his pants, but the care to take off his rings and hold you so close led you to believe it was for more than just warmth.

✮⋆Despite what you think, the trailer gets incredibly warm in the fall. Eddie thinks it's your added feminine touch, the fall scented candles, the blankets they forget they had now draped over the old couch. Eddie takes up cooking when he meets you, desperate to find some way to impress you and seem like he has his life together. Flowers weren't gonna do it, it seemed like you got those from a different guy every other day of the week. Jewelry? With what money? A stuffed animal wouldn't cut it either, what if you grew out of them? What if you thought he was a complete idiot? He even bought a stupid Cosmo hoping it would give him some insight to the particular female mind, only to give up and ask Wayne for help who laughed in his face for a few minutes. Needless to say, the house is always warm because the oven is always running and he thinks himself to be the next Julia Child.

✮⋆Fall with Eddie also means matching Halloween costumes. He's never had a girl voluntarily choose to be within 15 feet of him, so he is milking this for every opportunity he's never had. He'd go as far as to sew them himself if he had to, just to see his vision come to life.

"No." Your voice is stern, but had you truly meant it, you would've never let it get this far in the first place. You look at yourself in the mirror, admiring your boyfriend's craftsmanship. It was admittedly well made, but how hard could it be to make something that was barely there.

He's grinning wildly behind you, fiddling with the gold bands around your arms and the fabric of the skirt. "What's wrong with it? You look perfect!"

"Eddie, I look naked." He shakes his head furiously.

"No, my dear, you look like a princess." His hand finds its way to your cheek, caressing it before leaving a kiss on your lips. If they weren't slick with gloss before, they were certainly wet with spit after. He's so messy.

"It's degrading. How come I'm dressed like this, and you get to be fully clothed. Everyone's gonna be staring at me and I swear one wrong move and I'll flash everyone." He did look nice in his Han Solo costume, though being Eddie, he went for more space pirate than spice trader. The beige under shirt was far more billowy than it needed to be, a deep v revealing the tattoos across his chest, specifically the top edges of the fancy lettering of your name that crossed his heart. He even went for eyeliner and sparkly eyeshadow, but you suppose that's less space pirate and more space rocker.

His smile dropped. He hadn't thought that far ahead. He was so caught up in his selfish fantasies he didn't even stop to realize he was taking you to a party...full of drunk people...and a terribly desperate Harrington. He started pulling the brown duster from around his shoulders. "You can wear this, y'know for warmth and stuff." His ringed handheld it out for you and you skeptically looked it up and down.

"This skirt is literally two panels of fabric barely covering my ass and my front Eddie, I'm literally not even wearing underwear right now. What is your stupid jacket gonna do?" Still, you shrugged it over your shoulders, wrapping it around your frame fruitlessly as it lacked anything to tie it with.

"Well, at least this way your tits won't be - wait, you're not wearing underwear right now?" You roll your eyes in annoyance, flakes of brown and gold glitter in your eyeshadow reflecting in the low, yellow light.

"Of course not, everyone would be able to see it."

"And your solution was to go commando?!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, would you rather me walk around in a black thong for all to see?!" This was definitely going to be a problem. Here he was, all excited to parade you around, maybe play a bit of poker with Nance, Jonathan, Robin, and Steve, sing a bit of karaoke if he got drunk enough, and prove to all those assholes that Eddie 'The Freak' Munson was cool enough to be dating the hottest girl in the galaxy. He really wasn't the jealous type. Honestly! Scouts honor. But something about a bunch of randoms staring at you opened a dark pit in his stomach. It wasn't jealousy, he was too cool to be jealous. Jealousy wasn't a very metal emotion.

It didn't help that a boner sprang up as soon as you mentioned the lack of underwear. He was already chubbed with anticipation in seeing you in your costume, realizing it almost made him blow his load, and now he was hanging on by a thin string of sanity and gnawing feeling eating away in his stomach at the idea of everyone seeing you.

"Whatever, if we don't leave now, we'll be late and Robin will never let us live it down. She already thinks we're a couple of horn dogs who can't go a single day without going at it." He smirked.

"Aren't we." Your back was turned to him, but he didn't need to see your face to understand you were unimpressed. You moved out of his room to look around for his keys, committed to keeping the jacket closed tightly in the grip of your left hand. He was quickly behind you, his fancy boots creaking along the floor.

"Wait- we can't go." His protest didn't stop your search and never had he been so glad he was terrible with keeping up with his keys.

"And why's that." You were on your knees now looking under the couch and the force by which he bit his knuckle could've drawn blood. He waltzed up behind you, dry humping the air behind you while you were too preoccupied to reprimand him.

"Because you're totally right. Your costume is completely inappropriate and anyone who sees you is gonna be driven into a terrible sex crazed state. You're simply too dangerous to be seen, my dear." You were sitting back on your heels now, looking under the couch cushions and flicking out the spare change you found in between.

"Then I'll just change. I doubt I'll be the only one not in costume." He let out a pained cry.

"That's even worse! All my hard work gone to waste. I'll die."

"I promise, you'll live." It was that moment when you stood back up, looking your exasperated boyfriend up and down, eyes unable to simply skip over the prominent bulge in his pants. "Or not", you say as a fit of giggles bubble over, "Is that a blaster pistol in your pants or are you happy to see me?" He dropped to his knees, dramatically running his hands down his face.

"You're laughing at me! I'm so hard my balls might actually fucking explode and you're laughing at me. All I'm asking is that we maybe skip out on the party, hand out some candy instead, and maybe put on a movie."

"Right, and fucking me silly isn't anywhere in those plans?"

"Of course it is, but I didn't wanna lead with that. Contrary to popular belief, I am a complete and utter gentleman." You roll your eyes.

"You have 15 minutes to shut up and fuck me, pretty boy, after that I'm changing and we're leaving." The speed at which he got up threw off his balance, but as he wobbled, he faked a deep bow, his wild curls flopping all over the place.

"As you wish."

"Wrong movie, loser."

✦ Winter - Billy Hargrove ✦

✦Billy is harsh in the way that winter is. To put it simply, he bites. There's a chance he used to be warm, somewhere under layers of snow and ice, but whatever warmth used to be there is unpracticed and half-forgotten. He isn't much of a cuddler, he doesn't like being touched unless it's your hand wrapped around his cock, he can be mean and rude, dare I say cold.

✦He has his own way of loving you. He' s not a very doting boyfriend though he insists on being a provider. The lifeguard gig didn't last; he got tired of the screaming kids and even the older women begging for a piece of him got bored after a while. He just seems like the type to work as a mechanic. He loves that Camaro more than life itself, he was the one who nursed her back to life from the sorry state he found her in, mechanical work was nothing new to him. It was strange for him to figure out what he was working for.

✦One minute he's dreaming of new parts, maybe a fresh coat of paint and a nice detailing job, then his mind starts to drift to that anklet you had been eyeing at the mall when you forced him along to spend time with you and Max. He'd rather die than be caught holding your girly purse, but it's worth it to see you in the fitting room asking his opinions of whatever you were buying. But the anklet isn't a sign at first, especially when he realized he could add a charm of his initials on it, an addition that made his chest swell with pride, but then his mind continued to wander. He kept being reminded of your favorite designers, which days of the week you get your nails done, even the movies you're excited to see in theatres. Next thing he knows, he's handing over his wallet telling you not to spend it all in one place, rationalizing it as simply being what men do.

✦He doesn't bring you home for the holidays. That man ruins the holidays, and he wonders if there ever was a time where he wasn't a complete Grinch. Truth be told, he likes the lights and the family activities. It reminds him of a time he can't return to, before his mom up and left and they used to go Christmas tree shopping, fantasizing about what it was like to celebrate the holidays somewhere where it actually snows. Ironic that now that he's here where it snows, he is lacking in the family department.

✦Its more bearable with you around. If the roads are clear, he takes you for late night drives around the rich neighborhoods to judge their big fancy houses and elaborate lights. Amidst the jokes about how high their light bill must be and wondering where they keep all that stuff in the non-winter months, there's a silent promise. In some capacity, that will be the two of you one day. Though he would like to pretend the opposite is true, he isn't much of a realist. He wants that big brick house and the heated driveway, the nice picket fence and a couple of dogs, maybe a kid or two somewhere down the road. He doesn't make wish lists anymore, but a part of him asks for it every year. One year he'll be ready. One day he'll stop getting in his own way out of fear that he'll end up like Neil.

✦He gets cold very quickly. He's not used to mid-western winters or anything below 50 degrees. He hates being cold, he cranks up the heat in his car to the max, irritated at how stiff his bones feel and the fact that his fingers are so numb he can barely light a damn cigarette. He only feels better about it when you crawl into his lap, burying your head under his chin as he snakes his hands around your bundled up waist. You were smart enough to wear layers of sweaters and jackets and coats, but Billy thought he was too cool to get cold. You start keeping blankets in the back seat of his car for this reason and the temperature drops low enough he stops being too prideful to use it.

✦He spends most of his free time at your house, though that's nothing specific to the winter season. It's calmer. Quieter. Believe it or not, he gets tired of his own noise, the loud rock music, the unnecessary obnoxious revving of his engine, his weights clanging to the floor. It's all a distraction, an attempt at being louder than the world around him. Though it takes him a while to meet your parents, he kicks himself for not doing it sooner, if only to appease you and your incessant worrying that they'll break you apart because they don't trust him. He didn't think he did such a thorough job of building a reputation. Everything's so much nicer in your house, the people are so much nicer. For once, he gets to sit with his thoughts and realize that the only way to blow off steam isn't limited to fights and bruising your cervix.

✦He's somehow nicer in the cooler months, maybe a bit more insecure. He's out of his element, it's when he realizes the most that he's incomplete, just a body without any sort of complex interiority. He's almost more self-aware how much of a cliche he is, the leather jackets, a dark past, a very long list of women he's tossed to the side. He would rather die than say it to your face, but he questions why you stick around when you could do so much better than him. He holds you tighter, he insists on staying the night more, on lending you his jacket under the guise of being the territorial macho man everyone thinks him to be, but there's something deeper than that. Something more vulnerable, like he's trying to remind himself that you're still with him. In reminding himself that you choose to stay, maybe one day he'll start understanding why you do.

✦Winter's with Billy are often spent with Max. At first, he was averse to the idea, but after that one mall trip months ago when a random old couple complimented you as a young married couple, he decided he didn't mind it that much. It didn't help how fond she was of you. It's like one day she was scowling at your presence around the house, viewing you as just one of the many girls who blew in and out without anything between the eyes and the next you two are going to the mall having whispery gossip sessions about him while he's just a door over. He'd never considered himself someone who yearns for a Hallmark Christmas, the one spent in front of a fireplace with How the Grinch Stole Christmas or any of those other shitty animated movies on display on a wide screen, here he is driving the two of you to the mall to go shopping for presents while his heart grows at least two sizes in his chest.

✦When it isn't all holiday cheer, it's still pleasant in its own special way. He's not the type to offer you his jacket when you say you're cold, then you'd both be dying of hypothermia as all he's wearing under there is a partially buttoned shirt and a gold chain. He instead encourages you to huddle into him, in his mind a much more efficient way to keep both of you warm. He's not one to be excited by snowfall, even if you're buzzing with excitement and dreams of snowmen and hot cocoa, but he will watch you run around until you tire yourself out finding amusement in your joy. If he's feeling up to it, he may get out there just to pummel you with snowballs, only stopping when he has you writhing in his arms, both of you as cold as you are horny.

Perhaps as much as Billy loved you, he hated snow. It was all in his hair, somehow in his shoes makes his socks soggy and wet, and still felt numb despite only being out there for half an hour. But he supposed there was some sort of balance. For one, watching you strip in front of the mirror in his room without a care in the world, carefully removing layers of warmth until nothing but your bra and panties remained made this whole adventure worth it.

"Lookin' good, princess." He whistled low, pulling a cigarette from a stray box and putting it between his lips.

"Yeah, keep it in your pants, Hargrove, you already tired me out." By which you mean he ran you ragged out there. He used to insist he only ran on the court, but clearly, he must've abandoned that rule just to chase you around with hunks of snow he couldn't even be bothered to properly form into balls. To be fair, you started it, catching him with his back turned and throwing what was practically a tiny brick of ice at that perfectly permed head of hair. From there your ass was grass.

"You're no fun," he drawls out, kicking off his leather boots and fiddling his belt buckle, "You should know better than to start something you can't finish."

"Oh, I finished it or have you already forgotten that you ran back in here begging for mercy." Which is partially what happened. Whether it was your final icy blows or the fact that he slipped on ice and fell right on his ass is really a toss-up, but either way a white flag was raised, and the word "please" left his lips. You could've recorded the moment, who knows when it would happen again.

"That's not how I remember it." His memory was full of snowy images of you on top of him, concentration knitted on your brow with a pretty smile across your face. The details on why got lost in between.

"You just can't stand to lose, can you, baby?" He wanted to wipe that smirk right off your face. You were starting to become a sore winner, which could only mean he was starting to rub off on you. While you start pulling a dry shirt over your head, he starts ripping his off, stalking over to wear you stood by the mirror, casting his shadow over you in the dim light.

"I don't lose, sweetheart." You chuckle under your breath, taking a half-step away from him which he easily matches. His lit cigarette is abandoned in a nearby ash tray, and his belt hits the floor with a metallic thud. You feel his hands over your bare ass before you see them. "I still have you, practically naked, alone with me in my room. Could hardly consider that a loss." You shuddered under his touch.

"Your hands are cold."

"I'm sure you could find a way to warm them up real quick." As his hands start to dip below the waist band of your panties, you turn around, the palm of one hand resting flat on his chest while a finger hooked around the chain around his neck.

"Not so fast, Hargrove, I don't think you earned it." He looked at you incredulously.

"Earned it? Since when the fuck do I have to do that." His minty breath fans over your face, a mix of nicotine lingering in the kisses, the cold surface of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your lips.

"Since I made you my bitch out there on the snow, I wanna see you work for it for once in your life." The laugh he barks out is sharp, his pearly whites starting to resemble the fangs of a wolf. You whispered that last part, not because you were scared of him hearing it. In fact, your piercing gaze sent a shiver down his spine.

"I'm your bitch?" He said it nice and slow, feeling the way that it sounded in his mouth. Before you know it, you're hoisted off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he leans in to kiss you. A real kiss, nothing slow or easy. Just tongue and spit and him practically forcing himself down your throat and his hands grabbing at either side of your head.

"You already getting used to it?" He made a sound deep in his throat, something like a guttural moan or a feral growl. You both fell onto his bed with a small bounce, your knees on either side of his legs and a wild look in his eyes. You don't know what happened first, his hips rolling into yours or you grinding down on top of him, his dick hard in his jeans and your fingers tracing where his Calvin Klein boxers met his tanned skin.

"What did you have in mind for me? You never struck me as the type to be into the whips and leashes." You were surprised he was entertaining this, a salacious grin on his face as he looked up at you, fingers working at the closures of your bra.

werewolf yandere! Jayce who used to live as the Royal Scientist. Before the incident, he could be seen all around. He was the type to save kittens from trees, to make toys for the village children, to have his own little garden outside his modest cottage on the outskirts of the kingdom. He was always nature oriented; it's how he gets into this mess in the first place. He thought it'd be just fine taking it what he thought was an injured pup, but after being bitten, he does note it's odd that his illness isn't accompanied by some rabies induced foaming from the mouth.

He used to be very princely; very clean shaven and rather lean. His time in the forge built some muscle, but recently, he's noticed he's only gotten bigger. It feels like he's cutting his hair every day just for it to grow back thicker and longer the next morning to the point where he just gives up all together. And he's so irritable. He was almost unrecognizable from the soft-spoken Jayce everyone had known and loved. He's losing sleep. An assistant dropped a flask on the floor and the sound of the shattering glass was soon followed by an uncharacteristic growl. The speed at which they scrambled out of there in tears was unseen, the look of terror on their face unfamiliar to him. People didn't use to look at him that way.

He's starting to scare himself. He didn't used to look this way. His amber eyes have gotten wilder, his hands have gotten rougher, his voice is louder and mean. He didn't use to be mean. He can't seem to find patience anymore, not even with himself. His walls are coated in mysterious substances, there's glass on the floor from test tubes being tossed in a fit of rage. It truly was only a matter of time before he was deemed too dangerous to be kept in the castle. He's far too useful to actually be put down, no one quite has the touch that he does. As of now, he's irreplaceable, so they shipped his lab equipment to an old, dilapidated structure so far that even if some unlucky soul happens upon it, there would be no one for miles around to hear them scream.

There truly is a difference between being alone and being lonely. Alone is physical, he's used to being alone in his lab with the window letting in a gentle breeze and the occasional leaf into his high tower. Lonely is a mental beast. Alone is the absence of space, lonely takes up too much. It fills his lungs, it turns his blood blue, it's making him insane. He's seeing brand new colors, he feels as though the world is moving in slow motion, he's smelling and hearing things from miles away. He's getting twitchy, he hasn't slept in months, and the isolation is finally beginning to get to him. There's a reason everything is so dead around him, a biproduct of some old war or maybe a previous test site for volatile materials. Whatever the reason may be, no thing comes around. No birds, no insects, no good grass. A barren wasteland has become the legacy of what used to be one of the brightest minds the world had ever seen.

Then there's you, the court physician who graces his presence every couple weeks. You're nice enough and you have an air about you, something light and pretty, like petals floating about in the wind. It's the way your soft footsteps tread on dead ground, it's the flowy skirts of your dress, it's the wide look in your eyes whenever you look at him. Like a dear in headlights, but rather than being trapped by fear, you're trapped by circumstance. It's a necessary habit to be as light as you are, an image of death less shrouded in blackness and decay. Something more metaphorical and comforting was better suited to with what you dealt with; the sick, injured, and dying, and he seems to be caught in the middle of all three.

He really isn't taking solitude well at all. All he has is his work. All he does is work, only it's becoming less and less legible. His scrawls resemble symbols rather than letters, the mechanisms for his machines become more convoluted, everything twists and turns into vines of wire, gears, and loopy writing that chases their own tails. Besides losing his mind, he's losing time. He's started to black out. The last spell lasted for 6 hours, 45 minutes, and 27 seconds of time where he has no idea where he was nor what he did. There are clocks everywhere, the accumulative sound of their ticks becoming a droning buzz to distract himself from questioning things he can't find the answer to. Questions like what the hell is happening to me?

He doesn't want to seem crazy to you. You're the only person around for miles. You're quick on your feet and he's sure if you could stomach it, you could have him killed. What good is he now as he mutters to himself trying to figure out where he was last night. So, he tries his best to be on his best behavior. He finally gets into the habit of tidying up his space, fearing that you may trip and fall over the mess of papers, quills, random junk he has lying around. Sometimes, he even ventures far enough out to find some tea leaves. He sits by his door and waits for you, catching your scent in the air a while before you arrive which makes his nerves even worse. He can't decide how he wants you to find him, reading a book by the window, shirtless in his forge, pouring you a cup of tea. He breaks a sweat running around to set the scene.

He feels you in the wind before he hears the sound of your keys at the door. You cringe every time you do it, feeling like you're breaking into a foreign space, but the door only locked from the outside and Jayce swallowed any complaints he had. Your bag is slung over your shoulder when you come in, hair in a state of disarray, heaving after the hike and subsequent flight of stairs you climbed to reach his door. "Hello, how are you doing today?" Your voice is full of practiced cordiality, perhaps a bit of guilt somewhere beneath it. He perks up at the sound of your voice, trying not to move too fast, you flinch when he does. You're skittish, he thinks, that must be why you do. He can swear he smells it on you. There's sweat on your brow and an anxious beating of your heart, more than usual. Something is different today, but he feels too foggy to put his finger on it. With the slightest shift in his seat, he's hit with the smell of you. Usually, you smell like where you came from, like the wind and a few flower petals got stuck on you despite there not being any for at least a mile. You smell calm. Like the best parts of outside, running water, and soap. You smell...sweet today. Almost unbearably so.

"I'm...fine. I've been better." You frown, turning to dig in the leather bag hanging off your shoulder for a pill bottle. He beckons you to sit down, which you do reluctantly after only after squinting at him and turning your head in confusion. You lean forward, placing your hand on his hot head, and he closes his eyes to avoid the urge to stare down your cleavage. Still, he leans in, exhaling and inhaling you, as his mind races so fast he couldn't even tell you what he's thinking. You're pleasantly cold. The silky fabric of your blouse hits his face like a cool pillow. He freezes, all too aware of how his breath is uneven and quick. You smell too good.

You pull away, too quickly for his liking. He still runs too hot, maybe even hotter than usual you realize as you pull away as if you'd been burned, and he winces at the loss of contact. His eyes flicker as you dig in that stupid bag on your shoulder. There's always some new poison in there. His nose scrunches in disgust.

"Have you been sitting out in the sun?" And he's still in a daze, subconsciously leaning forward as he tries to figure out what's hitting his nostrils. It's not like candy, it's not artificial or manmade. It's not a chocolate or something sugary, it doesn't really smell like anything at all. It's like he's smelling a feeling. Oh god, he's really losing it now. Next thing you know, he'll be hearing colors.

"N-No. I've just been in here, you know, working in my fortress of solitude." He grimaces. It's almost too much and yet somehow not enough. He can't decide if he wants to force you out or devour you whole. His leg bounces as his head falls into his hands at how pathetic he sounds.

"Is that headache still bothering you? I know you said the other pills upset you even more, so I had Dr. Reveck alter the concentration. These are only a quarter of what the last dose was." He growls, sharp canines poking through the corner of his mouth as he rolls his eyes. He was tired of the pills, all he ever did was puke them right back up and he hated that retching feeling. He didn't eat enough to regurgitate food and he barely had enough energy to keep himself upright as he emptied the contents of his barren stomach. All he did was retch and retch until his body had convinced itself that the toxins were gone and he could finally breath again.

"I said I wasn't going to take anymore." His arms cross over his broad chest, the fabric of his shirt straining due to the stretch.

"I know, but these should at least take care of the headaches. He doesn't know what else to do", you sigh. He doesn't think he was supposed to hear that last part. He knows you study under Reveck, or at least you have more recently, but you've never been much of a chemist. And yet, you take this failure as if it's your own. You were too sweet. "You've been running a fever for months and you still haven't sweat out it out. The medicine is just supposed to boost your immune system to get it out more effectively. I know it's not ideal, but-"

"Then why can't you find something else. It's been the same thing over and over and it doesn't work!" He's trying not to lose his temper, he really is, but he isn't in the clearest state of mind to do that effectively. You flinch, and he feels a pang somewhere in his stomach. Pain? Hunger?

"We don't know what to do." You're tired as you say it. Defeated. The symptoms: the fever, the lost time, the joint pains, they don't make any sense. At first you thought it was a simple cold in the summer, then maybe an issue of over exertion. But he was in pain all the time, you saw the makeshift splints in the corners, the occasional bandages, like his bones were glass and his skin was paper that decided on random whims to break apart. What do you do with that? "I really am sorry."

"And what good is that supposed to do me!" He shouted in a way that physically hurt, his ears were ringing, and his vision was blurring again, that weird sort of blurring where the world were reduced to shades of yellow and blue and everything else was sludgy and brown. You watched on in curiosity and slight horror as the amber of his eyes nearly glowed, like oil lamps in an otherwise bleak abyss.

He got up from his seat quickly, trying to find a reason for doing so as to lessen your fright. "I have been more than patient, being his stupid fucking guinea pig while you two run around like chickens with your head cut-off trying to appease me while you come to the realization that I came to months ago! Neither of you have any clue as to what the fuck you are doing." His hands itch, trying to find something to occupy them so he doesn't throttle you. They settle on his hips as he looks down on you. "It can't be that fucking hard. I worked miracles up there. Fucking miracles, and you know what they do to me as soon as I get a little sick." He pauses, waiting for an answer that you knew he didn't want. He wasn't just a little sick. Right now, in this very moment, it was more than sick, it was insane. His eyes were more than livid, something primal in that glowing irises, his nostrils were flared, and his chest rose rapidly as his breathes came quicker. He wasn't content to stand still; he had to move. Like if he wasn't in constant motion his body just wouldn't know what to do with itself.

"They throw me in a tower and lock away the key. And even worse, there isn't a soul for miles - no - there isn't a soul in the world that knows what to do. The only one who would even stand a chance at figuring out what the hell is wrong with me is me."

He began to pace, swiping papers off his desk, smashing tiny vials of mystery liquids with his bare hands, flinging his journals at the walls seemingly ignorant of the blood dripping from tiny cuts over his hands. He growled as he stormed around, destruction following his large footsteps. He was so big. It was so noticeable now that he stopped putting in effort to make himself small. A few steps and he was across the room, he couldn't even afford to be much taller or his head would scrape the ceiling. Was he always this big?

And you, bless you, who knew when to snap out of your shock and try and calm his rampage. Your hands were firm when they needed to be, and your tone strict when it needed to be as you managed to grab his hands and hold onto them, your grip iron tight as if your life depended on it and ignoring the hellish sensation of sticky blood smearing so thoroughly into the lines of your palms.

As his eyes darted wildly around the room, you tried to maintain eye contact. You were too close. You were overwhelming his senses. Your hands over his, your face inches from his, and you smelled divine. He was assaulted with you, he developed a migraine that fast, the world grew dizzy until he stumbled on to the floor, landing ungracefully onto the wood floor and taking you with him.

"I need you to listen to me." The harshness of his fall seemed to break him out, if only for a moment, as he looked up at you, dazed and mouth half open. There was a stabbing pressure around his temples, his pillars of sanity were collapsing as you spoke. "You're right, we don't know what is going on but damn it if we haven't tried everything we knew to try. We don't know what's going on because we've never seen anything like this, so excuse us for not having a magical cure already prepared. We're in uncharted waters, but you're going to get through it" He looked up at you, blankly, not a thought behind his eyes, just an indiscernible feeling. Like you had hit the eye of the hurricane; you didn't know if it was over or if the worst was still to come. "I am truly sorry."

A few things crossed his mind in that moment, so fast he didn't know what to do. The first was panicked helplessness, the daunting realization that he may be stuck like this forever. He felt tormented, betrayed, and lied to. Sequestered, isolated, locked out of life and the heaven that was the extended feeling of your hands on him. His stomach lurched, his mind reeled, not that humanity was kept from him but that you were kept from him.

Were you scared of him? Is that what it was? He could make himself meeker, he could quiet his voice, he could soften his hands if it meant you came around more often, stayed a little bit longer. Among the fear and the rage that came across him, hunger seeped into the pores of his skin in that moment, that fraction of a second you spent on top of him. And he never did quite nail down the smell, even as he drew in a deep breath to still his beating heart, the allure of you only making it even faster.

You can hear it; you must be able to. He wouldn't be surprised if you could see it, feel his blood flowing in the iron grip you still held. He breathed you in again, he gripped your hands back.

You really were quite pretty. Of course, he had noticed it before, but then he had the decorum to keep his hands to himself and out of his pants. That wasn't right. It was dirty. And he didn't look like much of a gentleman anymore, he didn't look like much of a man anymore, but damn if he couldn't play the part well. That's what you smelled like, gentleness and effort. Like his wants and his desperation. Like herbal tea in the windowsill, sweetened with too much honey and laced with sleepiness and dreams. He could taste it on his tongue, saccharine and floral, petrichor and dirt, bursting on his tongue in culminating into more than a flavor, into an experience.

You were on the tip of his tongue; you were in his grasp. You were right there.

"Me too."

He knows he shouldn't, but he was a scientist, which meant he was curious by nature. You fit so neatly into him, your lips so plush against his cracked ones. You didn't stand a chance, stiff and caught off guard, startled by the force his lips came onto yours and the vigor with which they attacked, even after you were unresponsive. So, he moved his biting kisses, down the slope of your jaw, the side of your neck, the center of your throat, the tips of your shoulder blade.

And he'd be lying if he said he felt bad, listening to your gasps and pleas in confusion. "Jayce...", exasperated, confused, and so damn cute, "Jayce, what the hell are you doing?" He was right about one thing, that you could hear his heart thrumming in his chest, practically purring as he nosed over you, contorting his spine to dive as deeply into your skin as it would allow. Every moment you try to make is countered, the both of you pushing and pulling in tandem, waiting for the other to give up.

"Stop it." He huffs at you, like your command was some annoying fly buzzing in his ear. You may as have been, the way you jolt and squirm, fidgeting as he just was a few moments ago while now he was as solid as a wall. And was he...drooling on you? You nearly freeze when you feel his tongue at the junction between your jaw and neck, wetting the spot before sucking harshly and allowing one of his canines to nip the sensitive skin until it felt even wetter. He drew blood. "Jayce, I said stop!"

The combination of the metallic scent of your blood and the assertiveness of your voice drew his attention enough. His eyes flash again, that same gold flash you saw from before, except now reduced to a light rim around his blown-out pupils. And his canines, now sharpened to a point, looking as though they were made to tear through meat. Nothing about him was the same as when you walked in, like something - some animal- had possessed him. In a flash of shame he drops your hands, backing himself into the corner of the room, heaving with a proverbial tail tucked between his legs.

You scrambled to your feet, gunning for the door, in disbelief of what just happened and what you had just discovered. Lycanthropy. He was a fucking werewolf. You had been trying to treat a damn lycanthrope with cough medicine, pain medicine and delusion, of course he was pissed. Even in his corner, indignation boiled in his chest.

"You can't leave me up here. That's not fair." It was a quiet fury whimpered out from a body that just wanted to rest. He was at war with himself, his brain and his body battling it out for control. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't deserve to be alone. It was probably best that he was left alone.

"I can't stay." It's not safe. He slowly stood, staggering drunkenly until he found a chair to lean on.

"Please." And, oh, he sounded so broken. His voice crackled, as unsteady as he was standing, sputtering out of him like a broken record. "Please. I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening to me." He rambled weakly, his eyes glassy in a way that couldn't just be an act. "If you want, I'll take the pills. I'll take whatever you bring up here. I'll be good, just for you. Just - please stay."

The most disappointing part is, sometimes the wolf doesn't mean to open his salivating jaws, but the lamb will still waltz right in away.

You weren't stupid enough to take your hand off the knob, it lingers there, halfway out, almost out. "I don't think that's right. I'd be taking advantage of you. Something is wrong a-and I'll bring someone up here who knows how to deal with this." But you had no plans of going anywhere. You didn't even know if you wanted to run away. Morally, that was probably the right move to make, but maybe his depravity was rubbing off on you and maybe, just maybe, you didn't wanna run for the hills.

But you were scared, you tried to remind yourself. You were terrified. On paper, hell to a person of sound mind, you were in the lion's den, and it was only a matter of when — not if — you were going to be lodged within the jaws of the beast, the only remnants left being the blood he licked off his foul lips. Your heart thrummed in what could only be intense anxiety or excitement. Dread or anticipation. You didn't know what you wanted it to be.

He sighed as his eyes closed, and he shook his head. Breath came slowly to him, rattling in his chest with the little restraint he had within him. His voice was many things when he finally spoke. Pathetic. Scared. Deceptive, even as a real tear slipped down his face. It was almost an out of body experience, sitting and watching and feeling what his worser parts were about to do and even worse than being unable to stop it, he couldn't confidently say he wanted to.

"I can't let you leave."

In an instant, he was across the room. Sooner than you could brace for impact, sooner than you could scream, your back hits the door with a force that almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His gaze is sweltering as he looks down on you, calculating. He never thought he would make it this far. He doesn't know what he wants to touch first. His breath fans across your face, he chokes something out that could be a dry laugh or his own breath catching in his throat.

"It's not your fault." And he tries his best to make it feel that way, even as his hands voyage across your body. He can't decide what he wants to be. Does he want to be romantic and cradle your head in his hands and at least have the decency to look you in the eyes as he shoves his other hand up your skirts? Does he want to be the big bad wolf and keep your wrists bound in his hands and swallow your whimpers and moans alike with his tongue? "I'll try and be good. Just for you."

His kisses are salty as they mix with your tears, yet the moment almost feels intimate. He doesn't force his tongue down your throat and his lips are as soft as they could be. Even as he catches your weak jabs at him, the grip he has isn't bruising. It's firm, it's a warning. Don't try my patience. I don't wanna be mean. He groans into the crook of your neck, his canines wet against your skin, not from your blood, but from his own saliva. He was fucking salivating, rutting against your leg, panting like a damn dog and god you can feel the imprint through his pants.

"I don't think this is a good idea." you try and reason, but your voice is too light and he's too unfocused to pay you any sort of attention. Even now he's fidgety, you can feel it in the twitchy finger tips wrapped around your wrist. He needs something to focus or he's gonna cream his pants like some virgin, which he was, but you didn't need to know that. So, while he's trying to ground himself in stupid equations and chemical formulations, his hands travel to find the most interesting thing, which happen to be the silky fabric of your skirt. It's comfortable in his hands as he grabs and pulls it higher and higher until the bare skin of your thighs are exposed and the scent of you becomes that much clearer.

Like his third eye opened and he fucking saw god, the tips of his fingers meet your clothed pussy and a pleased expression takes over when he feels a damp spot and the throbbing of your poor clit. "Can't believe you were hiding this from me." He sighs, exasperated, while you struggle to avoid his gaze. "Been suffering all this time, alone, and my cure was just right here." His dexterous fingers slip into the pretty fabric, collecting what was already practically leaking out of you, without a clue in the world as to what to do.

Your cunt feels good. Warm and wet and smooth as the silk you were wearing, and as much as you bite your lips to quiet yourself, it doesn't stop your pretty sounds of pleasure from slipping out, small and just for him. You must've been made for him with how at home he feels knuckles deep in your cut, moving is fingers inside you without a lick of precision but all the determination to make you feel good. Like you were some puzzle cube he kept on his desk and all he needed to do was to figure out what way to twist his wrist and flick his fingers to make you come apart.

Your hand at his wrist was no deterrent, especially with the way you ground yourself in his hand, unable to even stop yourself. And by now his hand was wet with evidence that your pussy was at the very least having a great time, even if you didn't want to admit it. It was almost embarrassing how entranced he was, thumb rubbing tight circles around your clit in a way that made your head spin, fingers thrusting in and out in at pace that made you squeeze your eyes shut as you tremble out a faint "-oh god."

He plays with you, and that is the most accurate word, play. Like he was finally back in his element, back in his lab building some great invention, waiting for that eureka moment to hit when he finally figures it out. "Am I doing good?" he mutters out of breath, tongue bit between his teeth, eyes attempting to urge yours to look at him while you tell him that 'yes, he's doing so good, it feels amazing', and you're ashamed how much you don't want him to stop. But the words die in your throat as your pleasure addled brain forces your hips to move faster and your moans to get louder, which isn't exactly what he wanted, but it'll do.

It's not much longer until you're cumming all over him with a squeal, vision blurred, chest heaving at the force in which it came out of you. He's still moving in and out of your soaked cunt, possibly not even realizing how slippery it got, unbothered with the way you squirmed at his ministrations. He doesn't stop until he notices how much your fingernails had dug into his wrist, leaving angry crescent moons in their wake until you let go in your exhaustion.

You realize your legs must've caved a while ago as clarity hits, you feel like all your nerve endings have been shattered into millions of tiny pieces and your limbs have been reduced to jelly, and yet you're still eye to eye with Jayce, who looks shocked. Proud even. A boyish smile crosses his face, a blissful expression in the sea of black that had become his eyes, irises completely swallowed by his dark pupils. He was giddy, like a kid in a candy shop, which is when the idea hits him. Had the ceilings not been so low, he would've had you over his shoulders and his face in your cunt, but he supposes the short trip to the table was worth the trip to save your head. Before you barely register than your moving, your back hits the table and you hear him growl as he licks a languid stripe down your pussy.

Testing the waters, he's cautious, wading in and slurping out what he just pulled out of you, nose bumping into your sensitive clit and his hands confused as to whether he should reach up and play with your tits and start doing what he was doing before. You seemed to like that. You sounded so pretty when he did it, but then again, you sounded pretty now, breathy and light, humming in satisfaction, your breath hitching in slight pain at the way your thighs burn with how his beard rubs against your smooth thighs.

"So good.", he mumbles, the vibrations making your back arch. "You're so good to me. Jus' perfect for me." The slurps are cartoonish and loud as your thighs wrap around his head, his large hands pressing down and holding you so that you couldn't even writhe away.

His other hand was deep within his pants, if his dick wasn't freed soon, he felt like it was going to explode from the pressure. His rhythm was sloppy, open mouthed and messy in your pussy, spit and cum dripping from his mouth and down his chin, debauched expression on his face as he squeezed his cock in a desperate attempt to get the pressure to go away.

He knew when it was getting to be too much. Among your many pleas, "slow down, 's too much" and your teasing "'m not going anywhere", your hands in his hair, tugging him away while your thighs threatened to cut off his oxygen supply, he wasn't the kindest.

"Quit runnin'", he'd mutter out when he grew particularly frustrated, nipping your clit with his teeth or pinching it with his mean hands. But he wasn't just frustrated with you, he was frustrated with himself. It wasn't enough. His hand wasn't enough, sucking on your pretty clit got him closer to that release than his jerky motions down his length and he was starting to take it out on you.

When he pulls away, it's not because he wants to, it's because he needs to and the puppy dog eyes he pulls should be criminal, looking up at you, hard cock angry and red, absolutely leaking and menacing and he just looks like he could cry. "Can I put it in?"

You were at a lost for words. That thing wasn't going in you.

"That's not going to fit." And he sees your hesitation and meets it his own terrible form of coercion, rubbing the leaky tip against your cunt, as if trying to prove to you that it'll fit. He didn't even like the idea, it almost brought tears to his exhausted eyes. "Please - I need it.", and his convincing is doing something to you, your hips moving to meet him, mixing your cum together in a way that was almost romantic.

"Just the tip." You muster all the authoritativeness possible into his voice, but he takes it as permissiveness, proverbial tail wagging like he was about to receive a treat. He repeats it back to you, "mhm, just the tip. I can do that. Just the tip." He has no experience with lining himself up and he's clumsy with it, heavy cook drooling over you in a way that makes you wonder if he was doing this on purpose. It doesn't help how slippery it is, yet no amount of slick could make him slip out.

When he finally gets it in, he loses it. Had he been of sound mind, his face would've gone bright red with the fact that he lasted mere seconds in your pussy, didn't even get a full inch in, and busted immediately, but right now shame was so far out the window it was barely a concept in the far sober part of his mind.

And you? You were positively a wreck, the initial stretch of getting his tip in making you shudder and trying to find something to grab for support. "'m sorry", he moans out, "Didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I-hm- couldn't help it, 'm sorry." He's face to face with you now, his hands on either side of your face, his breath fanning over your face, eyes squeezed shut, trying, and failing, to stall his hips and just sit there. You take mercy on him, pulling him in by his hair to kiss him until the apologies die in his throat, replaced by your spit and your tongue.

He tries to be steady, honestly, but you're just to perfect. What was once slow and stable wasn't even smoothly transitioned into deeper thrusts. "It's not that big," he reasons, "you can take it. You're so perfect, just made for me. You can take it." It's laughable. Not that big, he's not even half way in and you can feel him in your throat. But you let it slide because you don't really have a choice, you can't get many intelligible words out in between screams of pleasure and hysterically load moans.

"Liar," you whimper, all venom lost in translation and his sweet kisses trying to make up for it.

He laughs, practically manically. He knew it. You were too perfect, of course he would fit. What a silly suggestion that he wouldn't, as if you weren't just made for him. "I know, I jus' need it. Need it so bad. 'm sorry." His thrusts are deep and uneven, erratic and dangerous, cock kissing your cervix and all the spongy spots that you couldn't reach on your most wild nights alone. "I'm doing good, right? Makin' you feel good." You laugh lightly; it sounds like the gates of heaven. "You're perfect."

The praise has him keening, dopey and smiley, more than lost in your pussy, but lost in you. You look so divine like this, evening sun coming in through the window, lips soft and plump and kiss bitten, sweat and sex making you glow. He could just keep you forever.

He refuses to cum again until you do, which you admittedly aren't far from. Your voice now hoarse from screaming, it's not long until your vision blanks out and you're creaming all over him, gushing out around his cock, forming a pretty sheen all around him. "Give it to me," he heaves, "want it all. Need all of you." and you certainly have given all you have in you. He finishes in you, deep in you, shortly after you go limp, eyes fluttering shut as your cunt flutters around him, beckoning him to stay inside where it's so wet and inviting. It feels like home; exactly where he belongs.

So that's where he stays, hushing you when you ask him to pull out, holding your weak wrists in his hand when you try and push him away. "Gotta stay here, right where I belong." And beneath that is another statement. I'm keeping you here. Exactly where you belong. Exactly where you always should've been.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night and his cursed beloved, doomed to die young over and over again. It's a cruel fate, to never know why or exactly when or the who, only to know that the time will come and there was something you could've done to stop it, but you couldn't. Either because you were too stupid or too slow, you were always not enough.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who wasn't always undead. He used to be beautiful and brilliant and so very alive. Though even in life, he had the appearance of someone not long for this world, perhaps already gone. Dark hair, cold eyes, pale skin, iron heart. He was almost comically stereotypical, a tortured scientist down to the leather gloves and stupid goggles that left imprinted rings on the hollows of his eyes.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who lived a double life. Assuring and compassionate to his tortured love, working tirelessly to free you of your affliction and eager to do anything he could within his power to ensure you could live as you were intended, finitely with the promise of a sweet end. The other life was doing everything he could to destroy whatever would untether you from this mortal coil and figure out how to ensure his own eternity. Your love was infinite, and you had the golden opportunity to cherish it with each other forever and you wanted to just throw it away? Didn't you understand that people spend their whole lives merely hoping to find what you two had already found in each other. You had done the hard part, why waste what could be an easy infinity.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who almost gives up all hope after his accident, the accident. A mess of lightning sparks and screams, terrible screams, your screams as you held his body and touched his skin, charred and warm for the first time. His heart beat rapidly, it had never stopped, it could never stop beating for you. There was no "as-if" it was your love that persevered and continued to animate his heart. His imagination was overactive as you carried him, weeping, to where you would lay him to rest, your tears soaking the soil and your fragile hands grasping the earth, as if asking it for his body back. But he had never left. He was always there. Waiting. Watching.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who was very patient, even as the sound of your footsteps ceased. You had died of a broken heart, he had felt it, his own over-active heart was allowed a moment of rest. It stopped in his chest, and he ached. Trapped within a dead body that yearned not for life but for love, he cried tears of slugs and screamed out the scent of petrichor. His natural raucous must've been the cause for the storm that night, the worst storm that town had seen in decades. His headstone now cracked, an old oak tree falling across his grave, when his gnarly hand reached out, he grasped nothing but moss and bark.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who knew time would pass. Even worse, he knew you could forget. The more things reset, the more loose your memory becomes until real memory feel like hazy dreams. He knew this and he knew you would overcome it. He knew it when he saw you every night, staring through your window in the home you had both dreamed of sharing. He was almost sure you hadn't changed the locks. He was almost sure you would recognize him, but it was too soon. He was too bloody. You couldn't know what he had done to make sure he was perfect for you. He could never wash it all away, but he'd be damned if he couldn't hide it.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who maybe goes a smidge overboard. Maybe he didn't need to kill that many people. He certainly shouldn't have relished in it that much. There was something so carnal about it, the flesh underneath his fingernails, the blood from his mouth, he had never felt so alive. It was a drug. He had never partaken when he was alive, a deluded mind was counterproductive to his mission. He had to be present for you. But this, he didn't just feel alive, he felt like God.

☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who begins to take advantage of the fact that you believe you're hallucinating. It's not breaking and entering if he had a key. It's not an invasion of privacy if he had already seeped his way into the recesses of your mind. You remembered him. You thought you were dreaming of him. If anything, you invited him in. You forgot, but he's more than willing to forgive you.

There's something wrong. Something missing, maybe. How do you even know if you're dreaming. It's starting to get messy, your nights are blending into your days, you can seem to remember what you've said and what you kept to yourself. Things are moving. Two mugs by the sink in the morning, two plates of food made for dinner, two sets of keys hanging by the door.

Even when he's not here, there's traces that you know are real, but for the life of you, you can't figure out if he's real. Yet he's in front of you, appearing as he so often does, dressed like he came out of some old movie. A fancy jacket, a flowy dress shirt, a mask dangles from his fingers. "I see no point in hiding from you. I don't think there is anyone who has ever lived who knows me quite like you." He says it so convincingly yet, you don't know who he is.

You feel him. You feel at ease with him, yet you don't feel safe. Like you're entranced. But he's supposed to be here. He belongs here.

It's late now. Some party is happening at Nevermore; you hear it through your open window. The curtains flow, he catches the end with his hand. "You should know better than to sleep with these open. You'll catch a cold." He frowns as he sinks down next to you on your bed. He lets his hair down and it falls gracefully. It frames his face well; he looks more familiar like this. Slightly wild, a look in his eye as he straightens the strap on your nightgown, breath fanning on your exposed skin. "I don't know what you'd do without me."

He smells too clean. Chemical almost. Almost something else. He takes your chin in his hand, his thumb rubbing on your cheek, and he smiles sweetly. It's a look of adoration, a warmth he's not even physically capable of. And when he moves his lips to yours, you can feel him smiling still, you can feel languid strokes on your cheek, his other hand lifting under your gown until his cold hand is splayed across your stomach. There's no rush, his mouth moves languidly, even as you shiver. His kisses are meant to appease you. To say "I'll warm you up. All you need is me. I'm yours." You feel it as your back hits your pillows and you feel him everywhere.

It's not human. The way his tongue moves, how calculating he is, there's some sort of ticking. A ticking against your breast when he kisses you, a ticking that sounds louder when you rake your hands through his dark hair, a ticking that speeds up in contrast of his languid movements. Like everything's in slow motion. Like you're in a movie. Like you're in a memory.

And yet, you enjoy it. You think. There isn't much time for thinking during nights like these, with his hand between your legs pulling moans and whimpers out of you that get lost and mingled with nightingales in the wind. It's wet and it's raw, and he always slips into you without you knowing, impossibly cold and hard, but you can't tell because you feel so alive. You feel complete.

"Don't forget me." That's what this feels like. With his hair falling in your face, and against every fiber in your being, you somehow manage to keep eye contact with him. His eyes soften in a way the rest of him must be incapable as he pushes into you as if angry. You can feel the bruises form, his hand places yours onto your stomach to feel his imprint. It would seem intimate if his thrusts weren't so mean, if he didn't huff out "mine" over and over. It was simple and yet somehow you forgot. How could you ever forget this.

⛤Yandere!William, or Spike as he insisted you call him, who takes great pride in being your patient before Yandere!Angel. It was something he held in incredibly high regard. You were new, not just to the hospital, but the entire field, and it certainly showed. Your white jacket was clean, and someone clearly took care to hand embroider your name onto the pocket. Your finger itched over that spot when you got nervous, the raised letters bringing you back to the exciting feeling of when you first received it just a year or so ago. He knew to get into this place he couldn't have been the first ever patient you ever dealt with, but he was certainly the biggest challenge you'd ever encountered.

⛤Yandere!Spike who definitely takes advantage of the fact that you've never truly dealt with him before. The older doctors didn't give up on him but rather got tired of his games rather quick. They'd been around the block a few times; they'd seen delusion and then they'd seen his delusions. They'd experienced roadblocks as well as immovable objects such as himself. They didn't give up, no, they just decided not to waste their energy on someone who never had any desires to get better. You, poor thing, didn't understand this nuance.

⛤Yandere!Spike who is a dirty liar. You think you're making huge breakthroughs and he's doing what he's doing best and being dramatic. If you have one flaw, it's your ever-extending empathy. It makes you a great psychiatrist, if a little gullible. Not that he's mad at it, it makes you a delicious pawn. You won't play along with him, keeping a neutral expression on your face when he flashes his 'fangs' or rants about his bloodlust, but somethings you just can't hide. That concern for one, that precious little concern that the lamb offers to the 'wounded' wolf.

⛤Yandere!Spike who doesn't even think much of you at first. Sure, you're the prettiest thing to around him since they threw him in here, but that's not a very high bar to clear when he's been having old guys with white beards and cold stethoscopes poking around since he killed his mother years ago. But he is a man with urges. A man with very suppressed urges that his hand just doesn't cut anymore.

⛤Yandere!Spike who doesn't feel bad at all stroking his cock to the thought of you. Sliding his hands down his pants without a trace of a blush on his pale cheeks at the way he squeezes the base, his free hand wet from what spurt out his tip. He doesn't bother shoving the white cotton shirt in his open mouth, letting deep groans flow from his throat without any desire to muffle them. He doesn't feel a sliver of shame when he howls your name at ungodly hours of the night, a piece of him hoping someone Angel would hear him.

⛤Yandere!Spike who's had a one-sided rival with Yandere!Angel since he found out he was also your patient. Spike make have been your patient first, but Angel had been here longer. He had that brooding "woe is me, I am woe" act down. Even threw himself in here to get help, but a leopard never changes its spots or however the phrase goes

⛤Yandere!Angel who definitely feels bad about the immediate crush he develops on you. Well, to be more specific, feels bad about the immediate nasty thoughts he has about you. Half the time, he wouldn't even look at you. For a while, his sessions consisted of him talking to a wall behind your head, his voice low in his shame. It would've been better had he only fantasized about fucking you. More than he had dreamed of being inside you, he had dreamt about killing you

⛤Yandere!Angel who really isn't a violent guy, its exactly why he keeps his distance. He's not a violent dog, he just has this unabating urge to bite. He knows his guilt won't save him, but it makes him feel better. It makes him feel more deserving of you. He eventually even gaslights himself into thinking that his regret of hypothetically killing you negates the amount of times he's fantasized it. It negates how much harder he gets when that light leaves your eyes after he's through with you. It's not his fault, he was born like this. A devourer. A moment isn't enough, a lifetime isn't even enough, he wants eternity. But, of course, eternity has never been offered to mortals.

⛤Yandere!Angel who rationalizes that it can't be that bad. It's always accidental. It's never violent. There is such a thin line between pain and pleasure and sometimes in these dreams he can't tell if you're begging him to stop or keep going. He convinces himself that these dreams of him biting you aren't even his fault. I mean, he can't know your limits for you. You don't know when too much is too much, and he is nothing if not a giver. He is convinced that though he dreams end with you did, you'll eventually wake up. Stronger, more able to handle him.

⛤This doesn't mean Yandere!Angel wouldn't regret it. He would love you even after you turned blue. He would keep you even longer after. He can't let Yandere!Spike get to you. You even now have no idea what he'd do to you. If he is a rabid dog, Spike is a monster. He may be leaner and smaller, that's exactly what makes him worse. Angel's monstrosity is obvious. He's never been able to escape it. He's always been too big, too mean looking. Spike? He was like a rusty needle in an empty plain, you may not have even known you stepped on the wrong thing until you're dying of tetanus.

⛤Yandere!Spike owns this reputation of monster. He likes to scare you. He likes that look in your eye, that look where your eyes glaze over and your pupils get blown out. That Icarian look of staring into the sun as you fall, realizing you may have bitten off more than you can chew. He wants to scare you off, he gets off on that look. It's something he can own, something he keeps replaying in his mind, something he holds over Angel's head.

⛤Yandere!Spike says whatever he can to illicit that response and yet somehow, he can't bring himself to bring yourself into his depraved, blood-lusted delusions. It's a line he didn't even realize existed for him. Breaking out to hunt your parents just to set them on fire is fair game, telling you exactly where he'd cut your friends open to bleed them dry most efficiently is light work. Hurting you? He can think it, but he can't say it. Even his theatric threats to your friends and family, which he knows is only elongating his sentence, and maybe he doesn't mind it. He has his pretty nurse to look forward to. Being here means being with you. Even better, it means you having to be with him.

⛤Yandere!Spike who wonders if he even wants to leave. He is a performer! And here he has a forceful audience. He's killed a lot of people, damn near everyone he knows, he has no one. He has an epiphany after fucking his fist and covering his lower half in his spent. Usually, the fantasies end up in your apartment after an epic prison break where he follows you home and violates you in your own bed. This one happened in his very room. You came in on your own accord, you initiated it, you needed him. It felt good. It felt euphoric. He hadn't felt like this since...ever. It made him realize he spent too much time fantasizing about being yours, he failed to realize you could be his

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A tease, through and through. He likes to be begged for, to put it simply. He likes to worm his way into your brain and slither down your spine and make you shiver. He isn't one for PDA, or rather, he isn't the one to initiate it. There's too much volatile equipment in the lab, if ink is to spill on those notes it could set them back weeks, and one slight miscalculation could create an explosion. It's an unfair double standard with him. If you were to kiss him on the cheek, it's a real possibility he'll joking wipe it off, but he can mess with you all day long.

He is very patient while waiting for your resolve to crumble. He likes the journey between Jayce's presence in the room being your saving grace to your damnation as you try and will him telepathically to leave. He's amused hearing your pleas for him to stop teasing you becoming less honest as you lean into his lingering touches more and more. The way your eyes get wide when he asks you 'is it too hard? it's okay to want to tap out.' in relation to your work, but the way his accent is laid, almost slurred with how thick the words roll of his tongue, makes you think of something else.

His kisses are quick when you need them the slowest. After toying with you all day with his stupid dirty remarks and his pretty face and the way he flexes his hand or moves a spare gear between his fingers, you could eat from the palm of his hand. The blush on your cheeks is written off as a sign of an impending fever, even more believable because you're just so hot, and you lean into his cool hand against your forehead and look up at him with doe eyes that scream just take me home. He plants a kick peck to your check, and you twitch in irritation at the smug look on his face.

He's the type to make you chase him, your desperation feeding into what could only be sadism. He chides you for being desperate. 'I'm not going anywhere, doll, I'm just right here.' he says after pulling away from your hot kisses, removing your frantic hands from his neck and holding them in his. 'Good things come to those who wait.' He's a bit of a control freak in that way. He doesn't care how much you need it; you'll get it when he says so.

Despite his kisses being slow, his hands aren't. They work magic, he could work your bra off without you noticing. They also have a mind of their own, weaving between the buttons of your blouse to wrapping around your hair, tugging it as a sign of disapproval. Or sometimes he just holds your chin in one hand, brushing loose hairs from your face to memorize the look it holds. You would think he was a sculptor the way he delicately traces over each feature, grazing each freckle, feeling every divot in your lip. He's committing it to memory. He's not the type to keep polaroids, but he could immortalize both the before and after of your nights together into iron and stone.

Not often rough, but after enough of an adrenaline rush, maybe after a dose of shimmer, he could get there. He's not often messy, but after a rough day of frustration and failure, he's all teeth and tongue, mashing your face into his, practically falling into you with a fervor and anguish that is unfamiliar to the both of you.

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He gives me sadist vibes. The type to tie you to the headboard and leave you there with a vibrator strapped to your clit until you are sobbing and begging for him to take it off. The type to talk to you like he hates your guts, cooing at you condescendingly giving you whiplash at the juxtaposition of his mean words and his sweet tone. The type to accuse of getting off on the idea of being caught by Jayce when you're fucking in the lab. 'You think he'd be surprised, pretty, seeing that his best friend is a fucking whore?' You get the picture.

He can be sweet. Even when he's jackhammering his cock down your throat, calling you the filthiest names under the sun, he really doesn't have a vicious bone in his body. His pupils are dilated too big for his expression to be of genuine disgust. His hands are too gentle, even as wiping the tears that he caused, to truly hate you.

I see a lot of headcanons saying that he prefers giving to receiving, which I don't personally agree with. Don't get me wrong, he loves being in between your thighs, it's his favorite way of pushing your buttons and pushing you to the limits. He likes how frustrated you get when he blows cool air onto your aching clit while you clench at nothing. He's mesmerized by the way his spit mingles with your overflowing cunt. But nothing beats the sight of you on your knees, drool dripping from your chin, eyes closed as you're trying to remember how to breath. It's the fastest way to turn his brain off, and lord knows he needs it.

Due to his experimental nature, he's definitely into edging, both being on a receiving and giving ends. He doesn't just want to test your limits, he wants to test his, and he is not one to give up. He easily gives into you after enough tears start flowing, but he could go until feels like he is about to pass out. You probably tap out before he does, his groans eventually becoming nothing more than breathy whimpers, his chest heaving, his hand wrapping around the hand currently wrapped around his red, leaking cock. He's almost delirious but it just hurts so good.

More of a groaner than a moaner. Definitely takes advantage of those nights where you're on top of him to bury his head in your neck just to groan in your ear and tell you just how good you look on top of him because he knows it gets you off.

When it comes to Jayce, he's willing to swallow his feelings and let Viktor have you. He's more perceptive than people give him credit for, and he knows that Viktor would never ask him to back off. He likes you a lot actually, he thinks you're wonderful, but he also knows that Viktor doesn't just fall for anybody. Jayce is someone who is quick to be smitten but also someone who loves where they water. Jayce would've had an easier time finding someone else and seeing his friend happy would've made him happy enough to get through it.

He's sappy and naive. You can't tell me he isn't the type to believe in love at first sight or true love. What if you were Viktor's true love? He couldn't possibly take that from him, especially when he feels like he's taken too much already. Though the effectiveness is debatable, his intentions are very clear. Everything he does is to protect those close to them, to take care of them. He has some white knight tendencies because of this.

As for Viktor, he notices Jayce's crush and it's such a conundrum for him. He is someone who wants notoriety, he isn't content to being the man behind the curtain and getting you would be a small gain in the right direction. It's not that he thinks of you as some trophy, but functionally, you would serve as such to his ego. He likes you outside of that, he'd want you regardless of if Jayce did, but he would be lying to say that it doesn't bring him some joy knowing that he is finally in a position to take something from him.

The one thing stopping him from taking action is his conscious. I don't think he's self-aware enough to recognize his pride as his fatal flaw, but he recognizes enough and is frankly disgusted that he even thinks of you as a means to feed his ego. Egotistical nonsense is Jayce's thing, it's a Piltover thing. He's better than that. He wants you but it's always been an internal conflict of does he want you for the right reasons. Funnily enough, their predicament before the war is the exact opposite from the after; both of them waiting for the other to take you.

Long story short, no I don't think they would hold debates in front of you. Any sort of competition would be very implied, and reader would have to be a mind reader to get what was going on. Jayce has definitely brought it up before, and Viktor would much rather spend his time focusing on work then the juvenile nonsense that is competing for the same person. The one time they discuss it; Jayce is trying to help Viktor work up the nerve to ask you out and Viktor admonishes him for assuming that he needed any sort of charity from him. He detests the idea that Jayce is just 'giving' him you, who's to even say that you like Jayce back. Who is he to even give you away. All you would be present for is awkward stare offs as you're convinced that they are telepathically communicating about you.

While you don't know exactly what is going on, you can sense a rift forming between the two of them. When you do leave, it's before the council blows up, and it's not even because of the problems between the two scientists. I personally have always disliked the trope of the girl leaving the love triangle because she's breaking them apart, I think if a friendship is so easily broken up by a girl it was never that good of a friendship to begin with. Your leaving is spurned by the same catalyst that causes so many problems in the show; growing tensions between the Undercity and Piltover (I could make a whole other post on why class consciousness should've remained the main conflict of the show but I digress).

♞Vi♞

♞Shocker to no one, Vi doesn't often knock before she enters a room. It's a bad habit she keeps meaning to get better about, but with how often she hangs around your apartment, she thinks of it as her own place. Why would she knock to go into your room? She doesn't knock to enter her own bedroom, and yours is interchangeable to her. Besides, you've been friends for years, there really isn't much she could see that would surprise her. You used to bathe together for fucks sake, granted that was before either of you could speak and ended before your adolescent tongue had figured out how to properly pronounce the letter V, but still.

♞If not for her sake, at least for yours. The number of nights you'd thought your house was broken into only to find it was Vi in your kitchen making herself a sandwich was starting to get a bit ridiculous. It's not even like she's particularly stealthy, she really can't sneak around to save her life, but sometimes you really wonder about putting a bell around her neck.

♞You knew she was heading out before you got in the shower only because she shouted it through the door. You didn't hear much through the pressure of the water mixing with the music you had blasting, but you thought you heard the door shut faintly and that was enough to start your everything shower in what you thought was complete solitude. You thought you would've been met with empty air and the clothes you set out on your bed when you left the bathroom towel-less, but you were sadly mistaken. Vi, however, was pleasantly surprised.

You didn't notice her at first as she was on her knees on the opposite side of your bed, feeling around the floor with phone flashlight dimly lighting the dark space beneath your bed. The sound of the door shutting behind you gains her attention, her head popping up to see you...in front of her...naked. Your first instinct is to scream as you grab your clothes and try to figure out what's more important to cover. She sits there dumbfounded with her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide. "Violet!" You shout, wishing she would cover her eyes rather than her gaping mouth, but she is practically frozen until you shout her full name. "Violet?" It almost sounds foreign coming from your lips. Her brows furrow in confusion. Who's Violet? It doesn't help not much is happening behind those eyes. The lights are on, and no one is home. You could've called her Vi and she still would've been perplexed. "That is your name isn't it." Is it? It is! She's Violet, you're her best friend of years...naked and so very attractive and shit she's staring. She stands up quickly, maybe too quickly as she stumbles over her feet as she desperately tries to turn herself around or at least avert her gaze. "Yeah, but I only get the Violet treatment when I do something wrong. I didn't mean to catch you fresh out the shower." "You weren't supposed to be here. Didn't you say you were going to the gym or something!" Getting dressed is made infinitely harder while trying to avoid her gaze. You somehow managed to nearly put your pants on backwards during your struggle. "I mean I was but then I got hungry, so I made something to eat and then I remembered that I left my keys in here, so I came back for them." "And you didn't think to knock?!" The funny thing is, you had fantasized about this scenario before, but it's kinda like how dancing in the rain looks so much more fun in the movies than it feels in actuality. In a porno, yeah, this would be great. She'd throw you on the bed, you'd play coy before eventually confessing you had been waiting for this to happen, and the sound of fireworks in the distance would be covered by the sound of your headboard banging against the wall. You weren't prepared for this. You'd think that would make it hotter, but performance takes some preparation. Spontaneity needs at least the possibility of it happening, and as far as you knew she was hot, sweaty, and punching a sandbag half an hour away. "Please stop yelling at me with your tits out, I can't focus." You collect your bearings long enough to hook the closures on your bra and throw a shirt over your head, completely out of breath and exhausted. "Vi, I don't know why your keys would be in here. Last I saw them, they were on the couch." Her cheeks red, her eyes wide, and her lips pursed, she has a thought for the first time in the past ten minutes. Shit, I did leave my keys there. Not knowing how to leave the situation, she robotically walks to your door, her head down in shame as she mumbles apology after apology and doesn't breathe until the door shuts behind her. When she gets over the initial shock, she does have a bit of pep in her step for the rest of the day. To put it simply, she was given a joy that no one would be able to take from her for at least a month.

★Ekko★

★He thinks he's great at acting nonchalant after the fact, but he is in shambles. It's even worse that you weren't great friends beforehand. Like, if he was to say 'hello' of course you'd say it back, but it was really nothing more than that. Passing acquaintances who, at least for him, was desperately in love with the other to the point of roses, pearls, and unsent love letters.

★He's willing to admit it was completely his fault. You were close enough, or rather it was his way of flirting and trying to get closer to you, that he would swing by and use you as a recipe tester. You were just down the hall from him, practically neighbors, and what was more neighborly than brining by a plate of food every once in a while. He was still workshopping some dumpling recipe, unsure if he got the texture of the wrapper quite right, and he didn't give you any notice, figuring that if you were too busy you just wouldn't open the door for him. When he shows up and you open the door for him, looking as if you had just woken up, he's too distracted to listen to the words coming from your mouth to register that you just told him you were about to get in the shower and that you'd be out in a bit.

★He tentatively waits in your living room for a few minutes, hot plate growing lukewarm in his lap as he twiddles his thumbs on your couch when he hears a large bang come from your room. Being the chivalrous, brave young man Ekko is, he barges in without a second thought, immediately distracted by the sight of you completely topless. He freezes, but only for a moment, swinging the door closed and shouting 'I'm sorry!" from behind it as he basks in his shame on the couch.

It's been a week. A terrible, miserable week of sleepless nights and forced smiles and shame. A terrible week for Ekko that is, Scar finds it hilarious how often he fucks up his words to the point of silence. If the humiliation wasn't bad enough, he hasn't built the courage to even be seen by you. Any place possible to cross paths, in the downstairs lobby to get mail or on the stairs after a grocery trip, his usual dopey smile flashes by in an instant as he moves to duck his head. No 'hello', just the jingling of his keys in the lock and the slamming of his door. You think its endearing how embarrassed he is. It makes you feel even better about how embarrassed you are. Your friends had to have gotten sick of you by now with how often you think about it. "Do you think he saw...them?" you ask, the answer already in your head but you're hoping someone is going to feed your delusions or at least lie to you. "Girl, of course he saw them, he's a lovesick idiot, not blind." You hate how nonchalantly she says it, as if you haven't been crushing on this guy for weeks and him seeing your bare chest is just a normal Tuesday afternoon. "Well, then why hasn't he said anything since?" Because surely, he would. Right? And, believe me, he does want to say something. In his own apartment he's talking to his roommate, Scar, about it, forcing him to roleplay as you, which he does begrudgingly only so he can hold it over his head later. Not that Scar is any help, he does your voice all wrong and slaps him every time he starts to ramble. "Because he's too busy still thinking about it. I really don't know what you're so upset about. You gave him another reason to be obsessed with you." Yeah, and it's absolutely killing him. He feels gross, like some pervy teenage boy. Like a peeping tom! Ekko is a nice young man. He respects women! He doesn't even say the word 'bitch', and he knows that you're much more than your figure. His heart knows and his brain knows. His dick doesn't, but that doesn't matter!! When he decides to settle this once and for all, he is a complete wreck. His palms are sweaty, he spent more time than usual picking an outfit that screamed 'I'm not a pervy loser', he even got you flowers to make the apology really official. After standing at your doorstep for a few minutes to work up the nerve, he eventually knocks, slightly surprised when you answer the door as quickly as you do. You stare at each other for a few moments, flowers awkwardly thrust into your hands as he licks his lips and wipes the moisture of his hands onto his pants. "Hey, so I just wanted to apologize for a couple days ago when I totally accidentally and absolutely not on purpose at all caught you while changing. I heard a bang, and I went to go check it out and I wasn't thinking before I went in there which is totally my bad. I completely understand if you feel violated and if you would like you never have to see my face every again, but I really just wanted to come by and make it abundantly clear that I am not some gross creepy guy and I never wanted to make you uncomfortable and-" "Ekko?" He's so glad you stopped him when you did because he could feel himself going blue in the face from how fast he forced his words out. "It's cool. We're good." "We are?" If he wasn't standing right in front you, he may have just literally jumped for joy. "Yes, Ekko, it's ok. I was more concerned when you started avoiding me. I thought you were like grossed out or something." And he doesn't know how to respond. Something tells him that saying you have a nice rack is probably not the way to go. "NO! I mean, no I wasn't grossed out. If I may, you looked really pretty, not that I saw much anyway. Your towel covered the...important stuff. I just assumed you would want your space from me after that." "If I wanted space, I would've asked. I missed you." He could faint after hearing that. "Yeah, I missed you too."

❂Jayce ❂

❂His crush on you is starting to get really embarrassing, actually. He signs his notes with his first name and your last name, he's giving himself pep-talks in his foggy bathroom mirror, and the number of wet dreams is really starting to get out of hand. It's not like he hasn't imagined what you'd look like undressed before he sees it, on the contrary, some of those dreams are so realistic he gets confused when you don't acknowledge them.

❂He is starting to make progress, by which I mean he was convinced by Mel to start interacting with you like a normal human rather than staring at you from a far. He invites you over to his place, he gets invited to yours, to everyone but you it's very obvious that he's courting you. You don't think much of your walks around the gardens, your coffee shop meetups, or when he invites you to nice events. You think he's just another one of your friends.

❂Jayce knew you liked shopping, why else would you ask him to accompany you so often. At first, he thought it was your way of flirting with him, or at the very least your way of getting someone else to carry your bags, but everything is very platonic. Does it hurt it bit when he finds out you only ask him as a last resort when your girlfriends are unavailable, yeah, but he gets to join you in the changing room, so he doesn't have much of a problem with it.