#I feel like if puppets had more emotional faces this is how he’d look like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

steddieas-shegoes · 7 months ago

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if you want to use me, i could be your puppet

for @subeddieweek day four with the prompt edging

rated e | 2,505 words | please check ao3 for tags

Day one: ao3 | tumblr Day two: ao3 | tumblr Day three: ao3 | tumblr

⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕

Eddie didn’t think this through.

Running from Steve’s bedroom, naked, meant he would have to find a hiding place.

He did not want to have to deal with this right now.

He didn’t need Steve seeing the way Eddie’s feelings would no doubt show on his face, how he’d be quick to brush off Steve’s apology.

How quickly he’d agree to continuing what they’re doing so he had something rather than nothing at all.

The house was quiet, dark, a reminder of how lonely Steve probably was when he wasn’t busy with the kids or Robin or him. No wonder he was always so quick to jump in bed with Eddie; He wanted a warm body to keep him company.

“Eddie! Wait!” Steve’s voice came from the top of the stairs, but Eddie didn’t turn.

Maybe if he locked himself in the downstairs bathroom, Steve would give up and he could sneak out to his van wrapped in a towel or something. He’d done worse.

Unfortunately, Steve was much faster than him, probably due to the whole jock thing. Eddie had no chance.

Steve’s hand burned where it touched Eddie’s arm, trying to make him turn around and face him.

“Please, Eds. Please look at me. Let me-”

“I don’t want you to explain, Steve.” Eddie turned to him, suddenly angry. How dare he ruin what they were doing? How dare he take something that was so precious and send it careening off the road so quickly? “I want to pretend it never happened. I want to go back to letting you touch me and kiss me and hurt me just right. I want to know you don’t mean it.”

“Why?” Steve sounded angry. “Why would you want that? Is it that bad? What is it about me loving someone that makes them wanna run in any other fucking direction than to me?”

And Eddie wasn’t really prepared for that.

He didn’t really know exactly what happened with Nancy or any of the other girls Steve had been with in high school. He didn’t really know much about any of his casual hookups. He just knew that Steve gave so much to anyone he cared about, and many people took more than was fair of him to give.

“Why can’t I love you, Eddie?”

Eddie looked at Steve, really looked at him.

His eyes were watery, red-rimmed as if he was doing everything he could to resist letting the tears fall. Eddie could see his flush cheeks, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to hold back a sob. His hands shook.

Eddie recognized this for what it actually was. Sure it was emotion, and maybe Steve felt it was genuine emotional turmoil.

But it was also the start of a panic attack, one that would quickly escalate to something Eddie wasn’t sure he could help Steve through.

“Steve, hey-”

“Don’t fuckin’ pacify me, man.” Steve’s breathing picked up and Eddie had to shut this down. “I can be upset.”

“Yes, you absolutely can. I’m not gonna tell you how to feel, but you definitely need to breathe, nice and slow.” Eddie put his hand on Steve’s bare chest, forgetting for a moment that they were both still naked, both still sweaty and sticky from everything they did in Steve’s bed.

“I am breathing.”

“You’re panting. You need to sit down.”

“I’m not sitting down-”

“Red.”

Steve froze.

Eddie immediately regretted saying it, hated that he was using this in a situation outside of their agreement.

He just needed Steve to stop and take care of himself for a second.

“That’s not fair,” Steve’s voice was shaky, unsure. He’d never heard it like that, not even when they first started this, not when they discussed the difficult things.

“It may not be fair, but neither is what you said.” Eddie looked behind him at the couch, the same couch Steve had held his hand while they talked about what they’d be into trying together. “Can we sit?”

“I dunno, are you gonna run again?” Steve crossed his arms over his chest, which would be a hilarious image any other time, but was currently just really sad.

“No. I’m not gonna leave.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” Eddie agreed.

They both sat down on the couch, shifting until there was enough distance not to touch, facing each other.

Steve threw the blanket over their laps to at least make an attempt at being serious.

“I’m sorry I said it like that.” Steve sighed as he put his head back against the couch. At least he seemed to be holding himself together better now. Maybe Eddie could have a turn at a breakdown. “I shouldn’t have said it when we were still…”

“You shouldn’t have said it at all, Steve.” Eddie watched as Steve ground his teeth together. “I know you may think that’s what you’re feeling, but you were on a sex high.”

“I can see why you’d think that,” Steve sounded like he was doing his best to stay calm. “That’s why I shouldn’t have said it then. But I did mean it. That hasn’t changed and it won’t change.”

“Steve, be serious.”

“I am! I need you to be serious! I love you. I’ve loved you for long enough to know that’s what it is.” Steve turned his head and gave him a sad smile. “I know it wasn’t supposed to happen, and I know you don’t feel the same, but I’m glad I said it, even if it wasn’t how I planned to.”

Eddie had to remind himself to breathe as Steve’s words sank into his brain, consumed his chest and stomach, made the nerves in his body spark with a combination of hope and fear.

“How long?” Eddie squeaked out.

“You remember that night when we talked about our limits?” Steve grinned.

“That was…so long ago. What the hell?” Eddie slapped Steve’s knee, but didn’t pull it away fast enough. Steve’s hand grabbed his. “We’ve been around each other almost every day since then.”

“And I thought about it every day,” Steve admitted. “I was gonna ask you on a date first and make it a big romantic thing. I had a plan.”

“Steve, I-” Eddie shook his head. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to say these things to me to keep me around. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s lining up at my door. I wouldn’t trust anyone the way I trust you with all this. I kinda figured you’d be the one to call it off soon.”

Steve moved the blanket for a moment, tugged Eddie into his lap, and tilted his head to the side.

“I’m not going anywhere, Eds. You’ve got me and I’ve got you.”

How did he do that? How did he sound so sincere, so charming, after such an emotional admission?

“You’ve got me?”

“I’ve got you,” Steve surged forward, lips crashing against Eddie’s as his hands left bruises on his hips.

Eddie would be an idiot to let him go.

He would have to trust that Steve meant it, and he’d have to trust that his heart would be safe in Steve’s hands.

He already trusted him with everything else.

The blanket that had barely been around his waist slipped, half pooling on the couch next to them and half falling to the floor.

Steve pulled away, breathless.

“Will you?” He asked.

Eddie had no idea what he was actually asking. “Will I…?”

“Go on a date with me.”

“Yeah, Stevie. I’ll go on a date with you. You’re buying, though,” Eddie winked.

“Of course,” Steve nodded, leaning up to peck him on the lips. “I was thinking about a road trip. Heard there’s a new record shop opening in Bloomington if you wanted to check it out.”

“Fuck, you really do love me, don’t you? You know I could spend hours in there, right?” Eddie’s heart couldn’t handle the soft look in Steve’s eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll bring a cooler with drinks and snacks. It’ll be fun,” Steve shrugged.

Eddie inched back the tiniest bit and was suddenly reminded that they were very naked. And Steve was getting hard again.

“You know…this house is kinda quiet. Maybe we could…”

“Oh, you wanna be loud?” Steve raised his brow. “Hm. I guess I should give you a reason to be.”

The tone was different, not quite his usual teasing demand, but something that left Eddie wanting.

“Please. God, Steve, I need it, need you,” Eddie had no idea where this begging came from, or why he suddenly felt like he would die without Steve’s hands on him.

“I know what you need, baby,” Steve kissed his jaw, soft for what Eddie knew was coming. “But I need you to tell me your color first.”

“Green, so green.”

“Hey.” There was the demanding tone. “Look at me.”

Eddie had no choice but to look.

“I need you to think about it. Don’t think about how desperate you are. Are you okay with everything we talked about? Are you okay with me loving you?”

Eddie thought about it. Was he actually okay with their short conversation, the feelings Steve admitted to, what that would mean going forward for them? Or was he desperate in more ways than one?

No, no he definitely was okay with this. He’d been so worried that his feelings would never be returned, that he’d be in an endless loop of unrequited love, that he’d do what Steve did and let it slip while he was in space.

Having the guy he loved love him back was a best case scenario for him.

“Green.”

Steve’s lips were back on his, hungry, rough, almost more than Eddie was prepared for, but it wasn’t unwelcome. He sunk into the feeling, let himself drift into Steve physically so he could carry him away mentally.

“Wanna get my fingers in you. Think you can handle just spit?” Steve said as he nipped at Eddie’s neck, leaving red, leaving teeth marks. Eddie wished they could be permanent. Maybe he’d get them tattooed.

“Mhm, please,” Eddie nodded, ignoring the tiny part of his brain that was telling him to be responsible and get the lube. He’d be sore if they didn’t.

The louder part of his brain didn’t care about that, wanted to be sore. He could feel good now and deal with the limp tomorrow.

Steve’s fingers ghosted over Eddie’s lips, pressing down until his mouth opened. He sucked them in, three of them, moaning around them as he made sure they were slick enough to get inside with little resistance.

They were both impatient.

Steve pulled his fingers from Eddie’s mouth only a few seconds later, gently patting his cheek with his other hand when he whined at the loss.

“You’ll have me inside you again, baby.”

Steve didn’t waste another second.

His wet fingers rubbed against Eddie’s entrance, fingertips teasing along his rim and just barely pushing inside one at a time.

It was too much, not nearly enough, and almost exactly what Eddie needed all at once.

He was so close already, teetering on the edge of coming without a hand on him or fingers actually inside him, and it would probably be embarrassing if Eddie could think about a single thing that wasn’t the way heat was pooling in his stomach and chest.

“Close,” Eddie whimpered, bucking up against nothing as if that was even necessary.

Steve’s hands were gone. Just like that. No warning at all.

Eddie whimpered again, reaching his hands out to touch, to beg, to do whatever would get Steve’s hands back on him and finish the job he started.

“No, baby,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

And so it went.

Steve got a finger inside him, barely thrusting it in and out before removing it completely when Eddie would start rocking back into the touch.

Then there were two fingers, and Eddie could just barely feel the pressure against his prostate, begging for more or less or something that would be different from the current hanging by a thread he was doing.

He could feel himself drifting, knew he was mentally checking out from what was happening, but he could still hear Steve’s rough voice soothing him, guiding him.

Three fingers pressed inside him, slower than before, stretching him in a way he never could himself.

He felt full, used.

“Color, sweet boy,” Steve said from somewhere in front of him. Eddie was having trouble centering himself, couldn’t quite figure out where he was physically even though he knew he was with Steve.

The fingers inside him stilled, not working him open further or pushing and pulling until Eddie was naturally rocking back and forth.

Steve needed an answer. Eddie had to give him one.

“Green.”

“Good boy,” Steve praised.

Eddie pretended that didn’t make his heart flip-flop in his chest, but something must have given him away anyway. Steve was grinning at him knowingly, though he didn’t say anything.

“You’re gonna come when I tell you, right? Not a second earlier than that.”

At this point, Eddie was pretty sure Steve was in complete control of his body. He was simply the puppet on Steve’s strings.

“Answer me, Eddie.” Steve pushed against his prostate, making his body shiver and cock twitch.

“Only when you say,” Eddie gasped out, lifting his hips to pull away from the overstimulation, but immediately falling back down when he missed it. “Wanna be good for you.”

Steve groaned, and his fingers pushed in and out of Eddie faster.

He wanted to be good, but he was only human.

“St-” Eddie moaned. “-eve. Can’t-”

“‘S okay, baby. You can come now.”

And Eddie did.

Just like that.

The relief of finally being able to unclench his thighs, to actually feel the last string tethering him to earth snap as his release painted Steve’s stomach.

His fingers slowed, but didn’t leave him, keeping him stretched as he clenched around them during the waves of pleasure still wringing through him. He felt like he’d never stop feeling this deep pulsing, had to try to open his eyes to see if he was still coming somehow.

Steve was murmuring something against his hair.

When had he even fallen against Steve’s chest, face buried in his neck?

How long had he been just whimpering against him like a dog in heat?

“...So good for me, sweet boy. So proud of you for waiting for permission.”

Oh.

Praise like that wasn’t exactly a new part of their aftercare, but it was rare that Steve said it more than once or twice, usually just holding him in his arms in silence while Eddie came back down from the clouds.

He’d think about that later.

For now, he let his body relax, the noises stop, and his breathing slow.

He could sleep in Steve’s arms, feel the love pouring from his words and fingertips, and plant his feet on the ground in the morning.

Day five: ao3 | tumblr

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #sub eddie week #sub eddie munson #dom steve harrington

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justasecretflower · 2 months ago

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- How many kids would they want? + pregnancy head canons Ft. Inuyasha boys 💐

Inuyasha

- I would like to say none..

- canonically, he has a daughter. So I imagine that if he had kids it would’ve just..happened.

- that’s the case back then anyway because they didn’t have birth control and whatever else.

- when you become pregnant he’s a whole mix of emotions but dw he’ll settle on being happy.

- he’d be the type to be like “kids are sticky and gross.”

- he warms up to the idea when he sees you with kids

- it’s one and done though..he’s extra careful after having a kid. He loves them, but he’s not doing another.💀

Miroku

- oh my gosh

- you’d pop out more babies than a Victorian wife if he had the choice.

- he wants like 10.

- you tell him obviously you’re not gonna rip your body open to birth 10 kids.

- you settle on like 4 MAYBE 5.

- he’s so happy and very supportive during all of your pregnancies.

- now, many people may think he’d want only boys, but in reality he’s such a girl dad.

- “oh how scandalous” he gossips while sipping imaginary tea.

Sesshomaru

- uh oh.

- none. Idk how to tell you this.

- he’s like Inuyasha, if he has one, he’ll warm up to it, but he doesn’t really try for one.

- again he’s one and done. Like, he’s not exactly dad material, nobody say rin because he married her..

- I feel like he’d have a boy and he’d be exactly like sesshomaru

Naraku

- NONEEEEE

- he’d baby trap you if you’d try to leave, but only because he wants to manipulate you to stay, not because he wants kids.

-now, if that happened..

- he’d constantly ignore the kid, but maybe he’d warm up?..

- he’d also not have any other kids, he’s successfully manipulated you so why would he?

- you’d have to hold the kid and let them cry as they ask why dad doesn’t want to spend time with them.

- naraku hears this, and, in his own twisted way, yes he “loves” his kid. He just thinks of them more so as a commodity.

- so he takes them on a ‘mission’ and teaches them how to use his puppets and stuff.

- the kids ecstatic, naraku doesn’t have to do much work, it’s a win win.

- that’s all you’re getting though.

Kōga

- he’s a “however many you want” kind of guy.

- he adores his kids though.

- I think you prolly end up with like three. That fits him.

- two boys one girl. The girl being the youngest is how I picture it.

- overprotective girl dad obviously.

- teaches his sons how to hunt properly, dots on his daughter but teaches her how to fight with her brothers for self defense.

- if she ever gets a bf he’s fighting for her, actually.

- he likes when you wear clothes that show off your belly. He likes showing off how he “claimed” you.

- also in a “look at my beautiful, glowing wife” way.

- tells your belly how strong they’ll be.

Jinenji

- I love him.

- he cried and passed out when he found out you were pregnant, he didn’t know he could even have kids.

- now he wants a whole army, but secretly because he never voices his opinion on it. He thinks since you go through the pain, you have the absolute final say and you wouldn’t want that many kids anyway..

- he carries you everywhere. You’re never on your feet.

- his whole hand takes up your entire belly. So when the baby kicks around he’s watching and feeling with tears streaking down his face.

- he’s our lil sensitive king.

- he goes into serious overprotective mode. He’s checking all of the food that you eat, making sure every step doesn’t end up making you trip, making sure you rest up.

- prepares you little salted rose petal baths and just sits there watching you. The love in his eyes makes you melt every time you look over to glance at him.

- his mom goes crazy too. Giving you advice, old wives tales, etc.

- the best overall. Because he is.

———————————————————————-

~. You look lost, visit my garden ?

Reqs open.

Tags

#inuyasha #inuyasha x reader #inuyasha headcanon #Jinenji x reader #naraku x reader #miroku x reader #kōga x reader #sesshomaru x reader #i love you #justasecretflower #inuyasha imagine

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stellar-skyy · 1 year ago

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MECHANICAL HEART - Platonic Ei & reader

i. SUMMARY: After she discarded her first prototype, Ei created a second. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: Dehumanization (is it dehumanization if they aren't technically human?), mentions of abandonment, implied emotional neglect. Ei isn't the best parent in this one tbh. iii. NOTES: Platonic, angst, puppet!reader, gn!reader, 0.8k words. iv. A/N: ok i said i wasn't gonna write this week cause i'm busy but in my defense i've been procrastinating a lot and this is the result.

When Ei sought to create a body to withstand eternity, she didn’t plan to create two prototypes. She only needed one vessel, and any excess was unwelcomed. What she didn’t account for was failing miserably at her first attempt, and having to redesign her plan entirely.

You were the stronger one, if only by a small fraction. You had stared up at her, wide and unblinking, and something changed behind her eyes. She brought you close into her arms—gently, for any more pressure and you might have cracked into two.

It wasn’t quite love. She cared for you the way an inventor cared for their creations, all out of a sense of duty and a desire to preserve what has been so carefully built. There wasn’t a single ounce of maternal affection behind it.

She looked after you of course, like any good inventor would. She’d repair the cracks across your arms and legs, and test each one of your joints to make sure they were in working order. Her hands would trace around your wrists, feeling exactly where the ball-and-socket connected with an unabashed sort of curiosity. You were a source of fascination for her, a wonder of her own invention. How could it be that she created something like you from parts of her inhuman self: eyes glistening with tears that felt real, staring at her with such childish innocence.

You were so human—perhaps even more so than herself—and yet you were completely synthetic.

She didn’t love you. But she held you in her arms and pressed gentle kisses to your forehead when you cried, and was that not close enough? You could forget how cold her lips were on your skin, and try to ignore how limp her hold was, if it allowed you another moment of believing she cared for you.

It was a sort of care, you reasoned. An emotion so raw and tender, one might mistake it for love if they were desperate enough. Deep down, you knew better. You knew that all the love Ei had to share died with her sister. If there was any left, she would have taken pity on the other prototype—your brother.

He was a soft one. Round face, long lashes, hair falling down his back in waves of indigo. His sobs spilled freely from the moment he was created, covering his cheeks in tears. An emotional creature, Ei had called him. Too fragile to rule a nation, too weak to be used as a reference for her final vessel like you had become. Almost as quickly as he’d been created, he was whisked away and out of sight.

“Safekeeping.” She said. She didn’t tell you what that meant, or which corner your brother had been tucked away into.

But even gone, his presence never truly left you; he was always there as a cautionary tale for what could happen if you failed to live up to Ei’s expectations. He was the example, the proof that if you weren’t enough, you would be discarded like the simple puppet you were.

There wasn’t any love in her eyes when she looked at you, but she still spent time at your side. She’d sit with you for hours in the Plane of Euthymia—whether it be out of some misplaced sort of parental instinct, or a deeply rooted guilt at creating you in the first place, you wouldn’t know—not saying much, but content for you to exist within the same space as her.

The entire occurrence felt a touch too normal to feel natural. You were just two inhuman creatures, masquerading as mortals for each other’s sake. She kept the visits brief, and always dismissed you first.

(And if she embraced you as you left, a suspicious glossiness over her eyes, you didn’t comment on it.)

It was observing the humans themselves that made you realize how unlike them you truly were.

They lived so carelessly, talking loudly amongst themselves and living blissfully without the crushing weight of the world on their shoulders. Women would walk with children balanced on their hip or clinging to their hands. They’d ruffle their hair and laugh at their antics, and there was a distinct feeling that you couldn’t quite place. No heart lay in your chest, but there was a phantom heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be treated with such… what was it, love? You had never experienced such a thing, not from the person who acted as your ‘mother’. She could do the exact same things they did, but you would be able to tell there was no emotion behind it.

You were her puppet, her creation. You were born from parts of herself, cobbled together into something resembling a person. And no matter how tightly she held you, no matter how many times she looked at you with an unreadable look across her face, you wouldn’t truly be her child.

It wasn’t love. She made sure you didn’t get it mixed up, telling you bluntly that there wasn’t room for love in eternity.

That didn’t matter. As long as she still took care of you, you could pretend.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

#✒�� — writing #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #platonic genshin impact x reader #platonic genshin x reader #platonic x reader #ei x reader #genshin ei x reader #raiden ei x reader #platonic ei x reader #platonic raiden ei x reader

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tinietaehyun · 2 years ago

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The Case of The Detective’s Game [5]

[Detective!Taehyun x Assistant!Reader] [Part 5] [The Case Series]

Pairing: Detective!Taehyun x assistant!reader [ft. Beomgyu]

Genre(s): mystery, thriller, romance, angst, fluff, lovers to enemies!

Contains: mentions of blood, violence, gaslighting/manipulative behaviour, death.

Link: The Case [Series] Masterlist

Summary: His eyes gaze at the screen of the security footage on his laptop. Paranoia fills him. He had to investigate further. You were acting different, ever so slightly different. Perhaps a normal person wouldn’t have caught the subtle difference in behaviour, but he could. It was his job after all.

He watches as you scurry back to your seat before he enters into the office through the footage. The detective’s lips form a cruel smirk, “Oh, and here I thought you’d last way longer than Yeonjun.”

———

Note: This chapter is a lot more dialogue heavy! So apologies 😭 I hope it isn’t too draining to read!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Taehyun drags his nose against the curve of your neck and he inhales feeling comfort in the scent of your usual perfume. Your grip wasn’t as tight as usual. Your eyes definitely sparkled but it looked forced. Every conversation with you felt like a challenge nowadays.

This left the ace detective wandering what was going through your pretty little head? What was making you act ever so slightly different? The other employees in the detective’s office obviously couldn’t notice your difference but he could. Often times he could read you like a book; it was amusing how transparent you were.

Though nowadays, you seemed to keep your book closed; even to him. He didn’t like it. You’d tell him all about your day even the minor details that he didn’t care about. He thought it was absolutely endearing that you loved him that much. It was cute.

Taehyun was never fascinated by the concept of love. Sure, he’d felt lust before though he hadn’t much experience in relationships. He just… never had time. He didn’t like the idea of having to commit to someone; what if they betrayed him? What if they turn out just like his father and mother did? Perhaps not to that extreme but still. He was better off alone.

Perhaps he was merely being paranoid. After all a person always changes throughout time; it’s inevitable. Though, some small part of him thinks back to Yeonjun. It was the same with him; these minor little changes. Well, look how that turned out.

The so called best friend of his backstabbed him. Sure, what he was doing was a crime, he couldn’t deny that. Though, all he had to do was blissfully remain ignorant? Was that so hard?

Although Taehyun came off as cool and suave to his employees and the press, he himself knew he had perfected that facade to the maximum. The chivalrous and brooding ace detective of Seoul with the face of an angel. Hm, he loved hearing praises.

Though in reality, Taehyun was simply content with gaining success. Gaining money. Gaining power. His connections with the mafia left to him by his disgusting father made life much easier though he would never admit it to himself. He made sure to end the lives of those who dare threaten to tell everyone about his family’s link to the mafia and underground.

The young detective peers back as you unravel yourself from his grasp and give him a smile. His heart pangs, you were gleaming brightly at him but it didn’t feel the same as before.

Did he feel guilty about using you? No. Not at all, after all, emotions only get in the way. All Kang Taehyun sought was the thrill of being on top, controlling the city and its law like a puppet with strings. He also felt a strange contentment of having you wrapped around his fingers.

He was a coward when his father first gave him that gun to practice shooting on a poor recruit who didn’t listen to orders when he was nine. He still remembers that gunshot like it was yesterday.

He used that same pistol to put a bullet into his dastardly father’s brain one thunderous night. Taehyun smiles to himself.

Taehyun thought perhaps that was the day he got addicted to the adrenaline of holding the gun up and holding all the immense power over someone. Power that all his life he was denied.

He now had power over the law, the criminals below. He was walking on treacherous line of both justice and evil. He wore both masks.

All Taehyun had to do was keep the cycle of convictions and crimes going. Wipe out people who decided to do a little too much snooping in on the famous detective and make sure to have the police grovelling at his feet.

Taehyun was an incredibly sharp man, his intuition was his main weapon. His eyes pierce through you as he gazed at you aimlessly typing away on your laptop.

He just wanted to satiate his paranoia. He was sure it was a waste of time, after all you were hopelessly head over heels for him.

You had to be.

Taehyun had carefully crafted the perfect version of himself. Knew your details, your likes and dislikes. He knew just what to say and to do to make sure you were melting into his arms every time. That your precious head wouldn’t start wandering about unnecessary matters about his past.

Your question about his mother and his childhood was already too much in his eyes. Though he knew if he held back that information, it would seem suspicious to you. You were his beloved girlfriend and assistant after all. So he let you know despite the urge in him to keep his mouth shut.

Sometimes the young detective ponders from when did he cross the border of sanity to insanity? From out of necessity to sadism?

Perhaps he was just like his father after all. Not that he cares, of course. He only wanted to live for himself. Sure he was manipulative, but that was the only way he knew how to live.

Everything had to be within his control, everything had to be predictable. He has to be one step ahead of everyone, every time.

His mind races back to you. You were up to something and he didn’t like it. He was going to investigate regardless. It was in his nature after all. He was sure you weren’t stupid. Yeonjun had already planted the seed for everything. Surely you didn’t follow the path he had set now, had you?

After all, you promised him hand in hand that you’d never betray him. His eyes flicker to the CCTV in the corner of the room. He’d often check the cameras himself; there was a security guard for the office anyway but still he’d always check the cameras when he had time.

His glance is aimed back at you. He remembers seeing you rush out of the profiling room. What were you doing in there? It was from there his paranoia lit the flame of investigation. He had to find out what his precious girlfriend was up to.

His lips twist into an amused smile; it was careless of you to forget about the CCTV cameras installed. Though, it was more so to catch any theft, it happened to catch you. It was also what help him catch Yeonjun snooping around his desk. Though, he has to give you credit, you weren’t stupid enough to touch his desk. Or maybe you were just a coward.

His feet make a turn to the profiling room. It was a good thing his agency’s profiling software had a server backup. Only the heirs of the Kang family knew about the hard drive backup. His grip tightens on the pen drive in his clasp.

Let’s see what you were searching up about.

——-||||||——-

“I’ve got a meeting too, so I’ll close up. You’re meeting with a friend right?”

You nod awkwardly; I mean it wasn’t a complete lie. You considered Beomgyu a friend (mostly). You smile, “Yeah, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen them. I wanted to catch up for awhile after work.”

Beomgyu wanted to meet up claiming he had a few tasks of utmost importance for you to carry out. He wanted to personally brief you on it. With how serious he sounded over the phone you realised he wasn’t playing around.

Taehyun glances at you and gives you smile filled with warmth. His hand cups your cheek, “You want me to pick you up afterwards? My meeting isn’t very long anyway.”

You shake your head as you caress his hand on your cheek, “No, no Taehyun. You deserve to get home and rest. I’ll be taking the bus home anyway.” You let out a small laugh.

He leans in and you close your eyes. You hope he wouldn’t hear how fast your heart was beating right now. His breath ghosts over your lips and you have to refrain from stiffening up. Act natural.

Taehyun’s hand cups the back of your head tenderly and he places a delicate kiss atop your forehead before parting. His places his hands into the pockets of his brown long jacket with a playful smile, “Alright, love. Call me when you get home.”

You would have swooned before but now you weren’t sure if he was being genuine or was this simply all his facade. Nowadays it was getting harder and harder to tell. You had to remain focused. A tiny sliver of you still adored him. You had to crush that part of you.

You nod, “Hope your meeting goes well, Taehyun.” His eyes glimmer, “I’m sure it will; thanks.” A shiver goes through you as he gives you a smile. Why did that make you feel uneasy?

With that, you leave and go to meet up with Beomgyu. This time your meeting spot was another café in a more suburban spot. It had more of a indie/hipster aesthetic and you felt awfully awkward seeing all the teens there crowding to get a post for their Instagram feeds. I mean you would too, it’s a lovely place, it’s just that you didn’t have time.

Your eyes sparkle as you see a familiar dark brown haired man sat at one of the outdoor tables sucking on his drink straw aimlessly dreaming away. He sported a more casual look today- wearing a beige short puffer jacket with a white shirt underneath and baggy trousers. You smirk at him, “Not looking so professional today, officer.”

Beomgyu groans placing down his drink, “Ever since you found out you’re never gonna let that go are you.” You grin mischievously, “Nope.” He snorts, “Well to answer your observation, dear detective. I don’t think it’s a great idea to appear in my uniform when we’re trying to blend in.”

You roll your eyes, “I wasn’t serious you know.” Beomgyu pouts, “Yeah, I’m not being serious either.” You both end up laughing and you peer through the menu as he begins to talk. “I wanted you to collect Taehyun’s fingerprint. A few other things too.”

You almost choke on your own spit at the words. “I’m sorry?” He scoffs, “You heard what I said. I need his fingerprint.” You deadpan, “What you just want me to go up to him and ask: ‘Hey can I have your finger print for no particular reason?’” Beomgyu cackles, “Oh come on, you know I don’t mean like that.”

“I might as well tell him I’m investigating him.” You groan. Beomgyu snickers, “Oh come you majored in forensics. You just need his finger print off some surface he’s touched. Maybe get him to touch something of yours, like a file or something. Then you can use the dusting compound to transfer it onto the sheet.”

You glare unamused, “Yeah, well I know that duh. I’m talking about how the fuck do I get him to accidentally touch a surface. He’s not stupid.” Beomgyu innocently peers at you, “Well detective, that’s not my job. That’s yours. You work there after all. You’re also his girlfriend. He trusts you right?”

You think back to his interactions with you. You find yourself nodding, “…yeah he does. I think so at least.”

Beomgyu hums, “Great, try to get two full fledged fingerprints. Be careful though, don’t get caught.”You nod and you murmur seriously, “Why do you need them? Are you comparing them to anything?”

Beomgyu shakes his head, “Taehyun seems to know how to avoid the forensic eye. He most likely wears gloves when handling bodies or weapons.” You sigh in frustration; Taehyun was too detail-oriented. He doesn’t slip at all.

Beomgyu hums, “But, remember. His finger print is already on our database, as is everyone’s. However I want physical transfers. To add to the file. Additionally, I want you to try and get more evidence. Perhaps at his home or desk.” You groan, “I feel like I’m doing all the work. Dangerous work, no less.”

Beomgyu deadpans sarcastically, “Well you don’t expect me to just walk into your office and start snooping around do you?” You mutter, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

You both become startled as a car pulls up beside you both. Your face immediately drains into a pale colour. That car. That fucking car. No fucking way.

The sleek black car; an expensive model no less. The number plate which you knew far too well. Beomgyu stiffens up, “What?”

The indicator light turns off as the car smoothly parks next to the pavement. You feel extremely dizzy; you couldn’t even strike this off as someone else’s car. You knew that number plate like the back of your hand.

You shakily stammer peering at Beomgyu, “T-Taehyun…” Beomgyu’s eyes dilate exponentially and his jaw laws tightly. “The fuck?,” he whispers tensely.

You side eye the car that seems to be momentarily still. The car door opens revealing your boyfriend as suave as ever. His handsome looks turn heads from the other café customers and passer-by’s.

A nervous swirling and nausea hit you. How did he get here? Was he trailing you? Shit, you should have been more careful. Perhaps, you should have moved your conversation inside the café despite how crowded it was.

Taehyun peers around nonchalantly. His eyes lock onto yours and he gives you a bright smile. You feel Beomgyu’s energy change. The way his eyes darken; they showed rage. His friend’s killer was right in front of him. You couldn’t imagine how sickening this felt for him. His fists were clenched to the point where his knuckles turned white under the table.

Taehyun confidently walks over- his hands in his pockets. The star detective was delighted to grace your meeting. His murky eyes meet yours as he murmurs, “Hey love.” You had to keep your composure. You inhale as you say, “Hey, what a surprise, Taehyun? What are you doing here?” You leap up feigning adoration and taking his arm into yours.

A wretched look of disgust crosses Beomgyu’s face before he discreetly hides it with a cordial smile. Your heart pangs. Taehyun’s eyes swirl with various emotions as he intertwines his fingers with yours. His grip is tighter than usual.

To be honest with yourself, you had never felt so frightened in your life. You were so terrified right now. You felt like crying. Fear wrapped around you like a tightening vice making it difficult to breathe.

His honey tone cuts through the tense silence as he murmurs looking at you, “My meeting ended early, one of the officers I intended to meet with got called for an emergency dispatch. So, I decided to go I wanted to get my usual pastry before going home. I did say I have a new favourite café, no?”

Oh fuck, he did. He always gets breakfast from a café he always mentioned. Surely it wasn’t this one. It was too far away from work. Then again he does have a car… fuck; he must be lying right now. This is way too much of a coincidence. He had to be trailing you!

He peers at you with a cocky smile, “Fate really is something. What a coincidence to see you here.” You feel faint. Taehyun peers down at Beomgyu sitting, “This must be your friend. I didn’t know it was a guy.”

You clear your throat, “This, uh, yeah.” You hope he wouldn’t recognise Beomgyu from the park. It was improbable considering Beomgyu had a hood covering most of his face. You force a smile, “Yeah, we’ve known each other for awhile.”

Taehyun makes himself comfortable in the chair next to yours; you shakily sit back on your chair. Taehyun sat between you and Beomgyu. You see Taehyun’s eyes gleam as he reaches his hand out to Beomgyu, “Good evening, I apologise for intruding I hope it’s not too much trouble. My name is Taehyun, y/n’s boyfriend.”

Beomgyu takes his hand and shakes it. He murmurs, “It’s a pleasure. An honour in fact.” Your brows raise. Taehyun hums, “Why’s that?”

“Taehyun Kang right? It’s practically a household name. I never thought I’d get the chance to meet you personally,” Beomgyu smiles; his eyes dance with dark emotions. You could tell he was holding back with all his might.

Taehyun’s lips form a smirk making you want to throw up. His eyes suddenly pierce into you making your heart rate soar. “Love, I didn’t know you had such good connections.” You nervously laugh, “Huh?”

Taehyun’s grip tightens on Beomgyu’s hand as he shakes it and he murmurs, “The son of Busan’s police commissioner, quite impressive. It should be my honour, actually.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Beomgyu stiffens and he immediately plays it off as he laughs gleefully, “Ah yes, you recognised me. Impressive, I shouldn’t expect any less of you detective.” Taehyun smiles back, “Thank you. I’ve heard of some of your feats in Busan. Your sense of justice is rather profound.”

“I’d like to think so,” Beomgyu answers. Taehyun hums peering at you, “You never told me you had such a high profile friend, love.” Beomgyu laughs, “We haven’t known each other for that long.” You nod along, “Yes, you know I’d have introduced him to you sooner or later. We only met a few weeks ago.”

Beomgyu smiles, “Yeah, it was at the Blooming Café; we stood in the queue and complained about the wait times. Then we found out we both worked in law enforcement and hit it off.” Taehyun’s leans back crossing one leg over the other. He places his elbow onto the table with a nonchalant expression, “How lovely to hear. A police officer and a detective, a classic duo as old as time. I’m glad she has such good company.”

You hum pleasantly, “I remember not believing that you were the commissioner’s son for a few days straight.” Beomgyu laughs along, “Yeah, I had to even show her my ID card.” Taehyun hums, “How amusing, I suppose that’s the detective in her. Believes what she sees not what she hears.” You nod clasping your sweaty hands together. God, you just wanted to evaporate off the Earth.

Taehyun appears to have a bored expression before abruptly standing up. “Well, I don’t want to intrude for too long now. It was nice meeting you Beomgyu. I’ll be off to purchase my pastries and get home. I think I’ve gotten what I needed to get done today.” Beomgyu curtly nods slightly getting less tense. You stand up with a smile, “Alright Taehyun.”

Taehyun steps closer to you and places a hand on your back. His eyes gaze deeply into yours and his lips morph into a serene smile, “I’ll see you at work tomorrow. As I said, call me when you get home.” You nod, “Of course, bye Taehyun.”

He doesn’t return your goodbye as he walks past you. You slouch as Beomgyu stares at his retreating frame into the café.

Beomgyu slices through the silence brutally, “He knows.”

“What!” You harshly whisper. Beomgyu glares at you, “I-I don’t think he knows what exactly we’re up to but I think he can tell that we’re up to no good. There’s no fucking way he’s here by sheer coincidence.”

You nod, “For sure. This café is too far from work. Surely not right?” He nods, “It seems to suspicious. We have to move our meetings elsewhere. How about my apartment?” You nod immediately, “Anything but outside. That’s fine.”

Beomgyu sighs, “He definitely suspects something. This is going to make everything so much harder. You’re gonna have to be extra careful.” He looks at you tenderly, “Please look after yourself. We don’t know what conclusions he’s drawn from this.”

You murmur, “I think it’s better if we retreat and don’t meet up for awhile. I’ll continue the investigation on my own for now.” Beomgyu reluctantly huffs, “Shit, we’ve gotten too careless. I’ve monitored his patterns and routine, he shouldn’t really be in this part of the city that often. Fuck, this feels like we’re back to square one.”

You shake your heads determinedly, “There’s still a chance. As you said, he may just have a minor suspicion. I have to clear it. He’s not the only one who can wear a mask.”

An awful sense of dread fills you. You had to part ways with Beomgyu for a few weeks and continue the investigation on your own. Taehyun was far too intelligent for his own good. You weren’t sure if you had what it takes; though that wasn’t going to stop your efforts.

You wonder how you were going to get his finger print and rummage through his desk.

———||||||———-

Your eyes covertly peer up at the cameras in the office. You knew that the security guard could see if you rummaged through Taehyun’s desk. You weren’t stupid of course (perhaps a little oblivious at times,) but you had no idea how to snoop around Taehyun’s desk without getting caught by the cameras. It just wasn’t feasible and you weren’t willing to risk your entire investigation.

It had been a few days since Beomgyu and Taehyun’s encounter. You didn’t sleep that night. Just like you promised, you called him that evening. As usual, you talked and he uttered sweet nothings into your ears. He seemed unaffected at work too, treating you as he always did.

It was anxiety-inducing. How nonchalant he was. Did he truly not care or was he simply acting? Perhaps paranoia was getting to you.

Taehyun walks in finishing up a phone call and gives you a flirtatious smile making your weak heart skip a beat. You flash a smile back and murmur, “You’ve been busy today.” He hums pleased, “Indeed, I have. I’ve submitted some finished files to the police and also it seems the workload has decreased. Crime rate has dropped over the last month.”

You gleam, “I’m so happy to hear that!” He nods, “Petty crimes such as thievery and such are still the same but I’m talking about violent crimes of course.” You nod, “Right, right.”

His eyes twinkle at you and his face appears to have a charmingly playful expression, “I was thinking, you’ve not been to my place yet, and you’re birthday is coming up in two days. Why don’t I cook us up a romantic home dinner?”

Your cheeks warm up and you stammer, “Oh, T-Taehyun, you really don’t have to go that far. You’ve been working non-stop these days, it’s only fair you get rest.” He hums, “There you go again thinking about me instead of yourself. Allow your boyfriend to treat you. Plus, I’ve been thinking of wanting you over at my place for awhile.”

You splutter pathetically. What did he mean? He’s been thinking about this for awhile? He’s inviting you to his home; his most private sphere. This was the exact opportunity you needed!

You gleam at him and pull him into a hug. You needed to further earn his trust. He wraps his arms around you snuggling his face into the crook of your neck. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand. He murmurs, “Excited are we?”

You murmur wrapping your arms around his neck, “Of course, it’s the first time I get to see where the famous detective lives. Not only that, I get a whole dinner cooked by you.”

His lips curl into an attractive smirk, “Yeah? Dress up real pretty for me won’t you?” Your cheeks heat up at his seductive gaze as his fingers playfully tap at your waist. You murmur, “Mhm.”

You had to survey his home and see what you could find. This was an insane chance!

“Time?” You inquire. He hums thinking, “Around 6pm, I should be finished cooking by then and all dressed up.” You hum delighted, “Perfect.” You couldn’t let go of this chance.

Soon after your affectionate moment, you and Taehyun retreat back to work for the next few hours. You mostly end up doing administrative work (which was awfully boring by the way), whilst he was walking around and on the phone for awhile occasionally sitting down at his desk to write notes.

He frustratedly clicks his tongue as he ends up moving a pile of papers to the side. Taehyun had been out of the office a lot nowadays meaning he didn’t have time to clean up his desk as per usual. Thus, his papers and files were building up. He absolutely hated mess. You tentatively question, “Hey Taehyun? You need help?”

He peers at you, “With what?” You point at his desk. “It’s really messy. You seem frustrated. I know that desk has been bothering you for the last few days.” You couldn’t push too hard, you had to pressure him just right. He wasn’t an idiot.

Taehyun runs a hand through his maroon locks, “So much mess, it’s gotten so bad. Usually I don’t let it get like this. It’s atrocious.”

You giggle slightly, “You’ve been more outside the office than in, it’s only natural.” He hums, “I suppose.” His eyes peer across the messy desk and peers at the time on his phone, “My shift ended half an hour ago. Yet I’m still here, this is dreadful.” You smirk, “You shouldn’t be saying that detective. You should love your work.”

He mirrors your smirk and stands up abruptly making you startled; “Oh I do.” Though you had become more confident in your facade, sometimes Taehyun still scared the absolute shit out of you. Taehyun’s gaze sharpens as he hums, “Well, my dear assistant. Since I’m off schedule now, I happen to have a task for you.”

You raise a brow, “That is…?”

“Clear my desk, you’re staying until 6pm today right?”

Holy shit! He rummages into his pockets and tosses you a bunch of keys, “These are keys to some of the drawers in my desk. Make sure they’re locked. Any miscellaneous papers put them in the first drawer. Don’t snoop around too much, I’d prefer some privacy you know.”

“Are you going then?” You ask with precaution as you stand up. This was awfully convenient. You didn’t trust it. There had to be some sort of catch. Taehyun didn’t often let people touch his desk. He hesitated before when you touched his desk, so why now?

You didn’t want to get too cocky with your investigation. It could backfire. Already going to his home was a big step in your books. There was still the issue of the security cameras; although, on camera you’d have an alibi that you were clearing his desk (not snooping of course.)

Surely, the ace detective didn’t trust you that much did he?

Taehyun answers your question; “No, no. You don’t think I’d give you a chore like that and just leave right? I’ll be reorganising the files in the archive room. Not all of them, just section A. Can’t have you doing all the work now, can I? Plus, I can’t let any other employees in there except you and me.”

You slowly nod. You felt uneasy. You felt as though life was taunting you. It shouldn’t be this easy to get to Taehyun’s desk. “Are you sure? I know how particular you are about the placement of items on your desk.”

You were asking more so for your doubt than his. You felt scared. It was as if he was handing out a golden spoon to you. Taehyun smiles at you, “I trust you. I know you’re not foolish enough to snoop around.”

“….right, right.” You laugh awkwardly. He hums, “Even if you did, there would be no problem.” You feel yourself stiffening, “Why…?”

Taehyun gleams a little too brightly for your own comfort, “I have nothing to hide.”

So now you find yourself sat at his desk. You begin sorting through the papers and shredding unnecessary ones. You cautiously notice the camera and make sure you movements don’t look too suspicious. You begin to open the drawers one by one. Some were locked (to which you used his keys) and others were not.

There were various papers all from bills, post-it notes, receipts and mini notebooks. You covertly flick through the notebooks under the desk trying to spot anything of importance.

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. Some of the drawers were even empty! Wherever you looked, just useless information. Your eyes zone in on the last drawer and you spot nothing but a crinkled and creased map of Seoul. You fish it out and peer at it (not for too long though). Various circles were drawn on it. This had to mean something. These points were so random.

You quickly take a picture (albeit the quality was utter shit,) nonetheless it was somewhat clear. You finish tidying his desk and sit there basking in both your delight and fear. You suppose it wasn’t a total failure. You send the picture of the map to Beomgyu.

You wipe the sweat off your forehead. It was as if you were walking on a bed of needles. You smile as you decide to check up on Taehyun in the archive room. He peers over his shoulder and hums, “Finished?” You nod.

He goes out to have a look and releases a pleasant hum. “Much better, though I think have to move some of the stationary holders around.” Taehyun takes your hand delicately and places a kiss atop the back of it; “Thank you, love. You’ve done me a big service.” His intense eyes meet yours. You still feel uneasy yet you go along with it. You had a feeling he still hasn’t cleared you of suspicion.

——||||——

Two days pass by uneventfully. Your birthday was a day you should be eager for yet here you were sitting in Taehyun’s living room filled with anxiety. Something about being alone with Taehyun in such a private place would have made you brimming with joy but now, you were terrified.

You kept Beomgyu’s number and the police’s number on the ready. He told you he’d be up and ready to answer at all costs. He seemed more frightened than you were. You remember his words from the phone call yesterday night: “Don’t hesitate to call me at anytime. You hear me? Don’t ever think about hesitating. You feel you are in danger. I’ll be there.”

You shudder; you really hoped nothing bad would happen. It didn’t seem like it; Taehyun seemed to be in a happy mood. He was busily cooking away in the kitchen for the last half an hour as you awkwardly begin to look around his living room at the various items. Strange…he had no pictures anywhere. It was blank.

You peer cautiously in the hallway and the blood drains from your face. You spot a used pistol displayed on the wall; alongside a few of what seemed to be hunting knives. You peer up at the display. You mind runs into overdrive, this could have been a murder weapon. Perhaps not the knives. A pistol is what ended Yeonjun’s father. This pistol seemed well worn out and used. How many more guns did he have?

“Y/n! Where-?” You hear him call out and rush back to the living room. You awkwardly laugh, “Sorry, I was just wandering around. I’m so eager to see what your decorative taste is. Curiosity got the better of me.”

“What’s your verdict then?” He asks straight-faced. You stammer sitting down at the small dinner table, “Minimalist with touches of rustic decor.”

He smiles coldly whilst placing the food down, “You didn’t happen to see a pistol on display did you?”

You murmur, “Ah yes, I wanted to ask about that.” Taehyun settles down opposite you, “It was my father’s pistol. A beautiful model. Lots of noise however.” You nervously laugh, “Oh, right.”

He asks you to help yourself to the food and you both begin to eat in a heavy silence. You didn’t like the atmosphere one bit. Every bite of food felt weighty to swallow despite how amazing it tasted. You peer at the small cake with ‘Happy Birthday!’ written on it. You were definitely not happy.

Taehyun scrapes his fork against the plate as he watches you eat. The irking sounds irritates your ears. Your grip tightens on your own cutlery. He hums calmly, “Why did you come here?”

You stop chewing for a moment and peer up at him wide-eyed. You harshly swallow as you stammer, “What you do mean? To celebrate my birthday…with…you?”

Taehyun lets out a laugh; his brown strands fall across his forehead. It contrasted his pure white satin button-up shirt he wore tonight.

You felt awfully nauseous. He asks once again, “No, tell me why are you really here?” His eyes have a sliver of malevolence glossing over them. You drop your cutlery; you have to compose yourself. You slowly repeat your answer and his lips curl into a twisted smile, “So that’s how you want to play, love.”

Your heart palpitates at a rate you think is faster than light. “What do you mean?” You question trying your best to remain brave. Taehyun hums, “Okay, okay, I can play your game.”

You heart drops instantaneously. “Taehyun…what…” you stammer. Taehyun grins to himself, “I have to give you credit. You’re not a coward. You chose to play the game instead of running away like Yeonjun. In fact you were brave enough to set foot into my home by yourself.”

The world around you seems fuzzy. Adrenaline rushes into your system detecting the alarming danger of his tone. “I suppose it is that Beomgyu’s fault is it not? Instigating you and what not. I should have known Yeonjun’s legacy wouldn’t have died out so easy.”

You remain silent. How did he know? No, of course he would know; he’s Kang Taehyun. Your question should be why are you still alive right now?

“If you know why didn’t you stop me?” You murmur coldly.

“I find it amusing.” He responds. You splutter as rage fills you, “…what?”

“I find it endearing that someone as inexperienced as you, thinks they can bring me down.”

You clench your fists, “Fuck you.” He hums, “You’re lucky I didn’t poison your food, no?” You feel your entire body wretch.

“Why…? Are you toying with me?” You angrily snap.

Taehyun hums standing up and beginning to nonchalantly clear the table, “You’re rather special to me. You’ve outsmarted me, I thought I had you wrapped around my fingers but I guess not. I can say, I’ve grown oddly fond of you.”

You grit your teeth, “Aren’t you going to kill me off? Like you did Yeonjun?” He chuckles, “Ah, you’re still hung up about that?”

A sadistic expression crosses his face, “Why, are you scared?” You shake your head, (of course you were.)

You abruptly stand and snap, “Answer me!” Taehyun murmurs calmly, “I won’t kill you.” His tone was eery. “I won’t kill you, so no need to sleep with your eyes open, love.” You tremble in a mixture of rage and pure unadulterated fear.

Taehyun peers at you with a sickening smile, “Although, let’s keep playing this game, detective. Detective vs detective. I’m interested to see how far you’ll get.” He was confident in his abilities. Perhaps overly so.

“Oh, one more thing.” He taunts, using the knife to slice into the cake. He slides a small saucer with a cake slice over to you. It clatters loudly against your plate.

He leans across the table and gives you the coldest glare you’ve ever seen. A solemn expression that sends chills through your very being.

“For breaking your promise. Consider this your very last birthday.” Your legs buckle and tremble. Tears well up in your eyes.

“Oh and,” he sardonically smiles, “You’re fired.”

————————//////////////////////////////———————

[PART 6 COMING SOON!]

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turnupswritessometimes · 5 months ago

Text

Ricordami - Lies of P - P/Romeo - Ch3

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56555755/chapters/143738143

Summary: P decides to repair the king of puppets. It sends him on a journey to discover what happened to Carlo and Romeo - and to discover whether puppets can love, after all.

First | Previous | Next

P began dreaming about Carlo’s life. Half-vivid dreams of sparring in the Charity House Courtyard, of lessons in classrooms, of exploring the streets of the city with Romeo at his side. Of struggling to play the piano. P would wake, and for a moment, he wouldn’t remember who he was. Whether he was Carlo, or—

Or P. He felt like two people. Even more so, when he was around Romeo. He couldn’t tell where each of his selves ended, and where they began. He was not Carlo.

But Carlo was bleeding into him. Now that he’d begun to remember, he couldn’t stop the memories bleeding through.

His father performed maintenance, and P stared at the painting of the frowning boy. Carlo. The portrait Romeo had spoken about. He’d felt Carlo’s hatred for Geppetto; how much he’d despised his father, in those memories.

The same father who was treating him so gently now. Who brushed his hair from his face with careful fingers. He tilted his chin up to examine him for any damage. Was he seeing Carlo, in the puppet he’d built? The boy he’d rushed to save from the petrification disease, but was too late for? P looked back. He loved his father; his father who cared about him; who repaired him and worried about him going to fight. But Carlo hated him. The warring emotions clashed against each other; he fought to keep his expression neutral. To look like a puppet.

Geppetto smiled. “You’re a good boy.”

But he wasn’t. Because he was only waiting for everyone to retire for the evening, so that he could sneak back to the Krat Opera House. If he left by the back doors of the hotel then even Polendina and Pulcinella wouldn’t see him. He slipped out, crossing the streets in the pouring rain, much to Gemini’s complaint:

“I don’t see how any good can come of this, pal. Remembering only seems to make everything more complicated.”

And complicated was bad. P took a breath. He tapped his fingers on the lantern. “I want to remember."

"You only want to remember because the king of puppets wants you to remember.”

“Romeo is my friend,” he said. Insisted. Wanted it to be the truth.

“Are you just saying that because of the kisses?” Gemini asked. He waited, but P didn’t reply. He thought about those kisses; he could remember how it felt to have lips against his mouth. How it stirred his Ergo – perhaps stirred Carlo. “Because he pretends you’re Carlo?”

“You don’t know that,” P said. Sharply. “I do want to know. I want to know the truth. Even if it hurts.” It worked. Gemini chirped. His light dimmed, the yellow catching on the cobblestones of the street.

“Sorry, pal,” he said, quietly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

As if P could get hurt. He was only a puppet. Still, he smiled. He stroked the rim of Gemini’s lantern, to show he was forgiven, and Gemini chirped again.

There was the distant sound of a puppet’s shout. He hurried his step, until he reached the Opera House. Until he was meeting with Romeo again, and pulling another chunk of Ergo from his belt pouch. It would unlock more memories.

Romeo’s eyes darkened. “Are you sure?”

“I want to know what happened next,” P said. They sat in the same chairs, on the stage, facing each other. The Ergo was heavy in his hands. “I thought you did too.”

“I do.” Romeo traced his fingers over the chunk of Ergo. The blue light glowed against his porcelain skin. “But I also know it won’t have a happy ending. It’s going to hurt.”

P found himself smiling, ruefully. He ducked his chin, and his hair fell forward, like a curtain. “We shouldn’t be able to feel anything.”

“But I do,” Romeo replied. He touched P’s hair, but didn’t tuck it behind his ear. Just – touched it. “We do.”

P looked up. He did, and it was a comfort to know that he wasn’t alone; that Romeo also felt things puppets shouldn’t. And he knew this would hurt them both, but they couldn’t continue without knowing how they’d ended up here. Why Romeo was trapped like this; why P had been told to destroy him.

Without knowing what Geppetto had done – to them both.

Romeo held his gaze. He nodded.

They crushed the Ergo in their fingers.

And Carlo lay in bed. It was still summer; that same summer. There was still an unbearable heat coming from the window, and the air was still stifling. It tickled, all down Carlo’s throat, and he couldn’t stop coughing. It was a hacking cough that he felt in every one of his bones; that rattled against his ribcage. When he coughed, he brought blood up. His handkerchief was spotted with it.

He wouldn’t look at his hand. It was worse on his wrist. The scales. The mottling of his skin around them. His veins stood out – a vivid, dark blue. The petrification disease had settled there. Had made a home on his skin.

Geppetto had been too late, after all. By the time he’d arrived, the disease had already got into Carlo. It had just taken a little longer to show itself in the same way; the matron said it had settled in its respiratory state first. Geppetto had insisted on taking him home, and Romeo had talked him into agreeing.

“If you stay here, you really will die,” Romeo had said, as they sat at the window. “There’ll be no hope. If you go with him, you have some. And Carlo – I want you to live, rather than turn to stone next to me.”

Carlo had argued. “Maybe I want that. Maybe we can be two statues together.”

Achilles and Patroclus. Orestes and Pylades. Theseus and Herakles.

“Stop being a romantic,” Romeo had said. But his gaze had been soft. His voice had sounded tight. He reached his hand out, then drew it back. “This disease doesn’t make pretty statues.”

Carlo caught it anyway. His heart had been splitting itself in two – how could he leave this boy? This boy was the missing piece of him; made him into something good. He’d drawn Romeo’s hand to his mouth, and kissed the back of it. He’d gone to his father’s house.

Carlo was still staring at his hand, in a mixture of horror and fascination, when his father knocked on the door. It felt like divine irony, that it appeared there. The petrification disease was not spread by touch alone, but what were the chances?

His father drew in a sharp breath, when he saw it too. He wore leather gloves, as he examined Carlo’s hand. It did not seem like his own, anymore. It was a hand that belonged to a monster. And yet, the scales eventually turned to his own skin.

“This is fine,” his father said, though his tone was tight with panic. Though there was that look in his eye. “We can still fight off the disease.”

Carlo looked at him. Disdain flooded through him. All those years of not seeing his father – not even at Christmas, some years, and now he acted like he cared. His desperation, his panic, was pitiful. He was only here because Romeo asked him to be; because Romeo asked him to live.

“No. You can’t,” he said. “It’s not just there.”

He had to stop to cough, again, turning his face into his shoulder. He choked on his own spit. Spit and blood.

“You have to trust me, son.” His father held his hand so tightly it sent pain through his whole arm. “For once.”

“How can I?” Carlo snapped. It took the energy out of him. He sighed, and fell back into his pillows. It wasn’t worth fighting. “Please, just – let me go back to Romeo. I want us to be together, for the end.”

“I can fix this,” Geppetto repeated. “Let me fix this.”

“How?”

Geppetto hadn’t given him his hand back. He examined it, his finger running along the ruined veins. It was hard to move it away; he could already feel his muscles tightening from the disease. And that would spread; he didn’t want to think about it spreading.

“Some patients have found success in amputating effected limbs,” Geppetto said. Matter-of-factly.

Carlo jerked away. So hard that he had to catch himself on his other elbow. His hair fell in front of his face, and he looked through the strands to his father. His father, who was serious. Serious, and much calmer, now. His heart raced. Thudded so heavily it hurt.

“You want to cut my arm off,” he said. Couldn’t believe he was saying that.

“Just the affected part,” Geppetto replied. “It may save you. It will save you, Carlo. And I will make you a new hand. A better hand.”

Carlo shook his head. Sitting up properly again. The sheets were thin, and yet still felt suffocating. He didn’t want a hand from his father – Geppetto, the puppet maker. He didn’t want anything from his father, but especially not a puppet hand.

And then he realised it. His father wanted to save his life – would do anything to save his life. There was a life Carlo wanted to save too. This could be his only chance to. And he would do anything to save that other life, even if it meant making his own miserable.

He brushed his hair from his face, and took a breath. He could feel sobs in the back of his throat. This was terrifying; the idea of losing his arm was terrifying. Beyond that was unthinkable – unimaginable.

“I’ll let you,” Carlo said. He stared at his infected hand. The fingers twitched, and he didn’t feel it. “You can do it, as long as you promise me something.”

“Anything, son.”

“Save Romeo.” He looked up. “I don’t care how you do it, but you have to save him.”

There was a long moment. Carlo didn’t let his father’s gaze go. Watched Geppetto regret saying that; it was in the set of his jaw, the twitch of his brow. Not until Geppetto closed his eyes, and gave a heavy nod.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

P looked at his own arm. His legion arm. The metal fingers, that had been turned into weapons; several different weapons, that he could switch out for each occasion. Fire or acid or electricity. It was a tool, to open doors or vaults.

Carlo had lost his arm. Had sacrificed it to save Romeo – however he could.

He was slumped in a chair. P became away of that, as he remembered his surroundings; who he was. Romeo knelt in front of him. He looked from his hand to Romeo’s face. His mismatched eyes watched him, his hair white-gold.

“Any way he could, huh?” Romeo asked. He looked at his own hands – did he also feel his springs move?

“Are you alright?” P asked.

Romeo laughed. A short, soft laugh. He stayed in front of the chair, his hands on the arms, looking up. His expression softened; his hazel eye warm. “I should be asking you that.”

P nodded. Carefully. He wasn’t too sure how he felt. Overloaded by information. He did not want to put the lens of what he just learnt about Geppetto over the same man who showed so much care in repairing him. But there was still that lingering resentment towards him. The man who wanted to desperately to cure him that he didn’t listen to what he did want. The man who didn’t think twice about amputating his son’s hand, because he could just make him a new one.

Did he think he could just make a new son?

Romeo didn’t look like he believed him. He reached up, brushing P’s hair back. His fingers trailed over his cheek, down to his jaw.

P found himself leaning into the touch. He liked Romeo touching him. There was the glimmer of a memory, there. Of how it made his chest feel warm, when Romeo did that.

“I still don’t understand,” he said. “Why he would turn you into the king of puppets.”

“Perhaps you could ask him,” Romeo replied. “He seems to like you more than Carlo.”

“I do what he asks,” P said. He caught Romeo’s wrist, lightly, keeping it close to his face. “He thinks I am obedient. That’s all he wanted Carlo to be.”

“But you’re not.” Romeo rose; so that he was the same height as P; could meet his eye. “Are you?”

P’s springs were reacting. They were very close, and he was starting to overheat again. Maybe it was Carlo, within him, reacting to Romeo. Maybe it was himself. He wasn’t sure anymore.

He shook his head; he was not obedient to Geppetto. Touched Romeo’s hair. Brushed strands of gold back behind his ear, and Romeo smiled at him.

“Good,” he murmured. He leant forward, and pressed his mouth against P’s forehead.

P’s fingers tightened in his hair. He tilted his head up, and met Romeo’s lips with his own, half slipping into another memory. There was a moment of pause; a moment of surprise; before Romeo kissed him back. He made a soft sound. For a moment, it seemed as though he was going to take it further – going to settle himself over P’s lap – but then he pulled away. He opened his mouth, looking over P’s face. Remembering that he wasn’t Carlo.

“He still thinks you’re obedient,” he said, with an air of finality. “Keep it that way. Maybe he'll reveal something to you."

He nodded. Though he didn’t move, not immediately. He watched Romeo, and the graceful way he moved. He did feel like he knew Romeo now; had a dozen fragmented memories of the boy he used to be. The kind boy who’d looked out for Carlo; had searched for him when he was feeling down; had saved chunks of his meals for the boys who didn’t get enough; had snuck down to the kitchen to make hot milk for the little ones. The boy with the bright smile and the shining light. Lampwick.

Romeo, who did not destroy him, even though P had fought against him.

He didn’t know what this feeling was.

But, he knew how Carlo had felt, now.

And, for the first time, wanted to be him.

Carlo didn't want to wake up. It felt as though he'd been buried under several thick pillows. His head felt very heavy, and yet there was a bright light that he couldn't block out. It blasted through his eyelids. He groaned, and his voice sounded very far away.

There was a cold cloth on his forehead.

He finally opened his eyes. His father was over him, his eyes soft and concerned.

"My boy," he said.

He wasn't a boy any longer, he wanted to say. He'd had a graduation. He was qualified to be a stalker. He was grown-up.

But his tongue was even heavier than his head. He could only look up at Geppetto, flinching at the cold of the cloth.

“It went well,” his father continued. “It went very well. It’s finished, son.”

Finished. Surgery. Carlo blinked at Geppetto. He made a sound in his throat. Tried to form words, but found they wouldn’t come. Just an embarrassing gargle of noise.

“Easy. Easy.” That cold cloth again, and he closed his eyes to it. Really, he wanted to shout and push his father away, but he didn’t have the strength. He didn’t dare. He was remembering, now. Remembering what the surgery was.

Carlo lay back. He hadn’t been able to feel his hand, before. The petrification disease had made it numb. But knowing it was not there at all – that was even worse.

He let his father nurse him. Drunk cold – freezing – water, and allowed his brow to be mopped, his hair brushed from his face. Watched his father’s face, for any sign of regret. There was none. He seemed satisfied.

It felt like years before he was well enough to sit. (Or perhaps, the small part of P, watching, thought, it was just the way the memory was playing out.) Eventually, though, he did, with his father’s help. He needed his father’s help – because he was a hand down.

He closed his eyes, and took a breath so deep his lungs creaked with protest.

Carlo looked.

It was bandaged. Heavily. Snow white bandages against snow white sheets. His father had said just his hand, but his forearm was gone, now. Just – not there. His mind couldn’t wrap around it. His hand, his wrist, was gone. There was his elbow, and then an end.

He felt strangely numb inside, too. Strangely braced for impact, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the shock and horror of what had happened to him.

Just – bandages.

“I cut the disease away,” his father said. Smoothed his hair again, and this time, Carlo twitched away. He couldn’t stand being petted, as though he was a little dog.

“I see that,” he said. He paused, waiting for his brain to see his hand again. “You think this will work.”

“It must.”

He still wasn’t sure he believed his father. He wanted to. He really wanted to think that everything would be alright now. But this was an experiment. Carlo looked up at Geppetto. Geppetto wanted it to work; he could see that in the lines at the corners of his mouth. At the furrow of his brow. His eyes were soft and sad behind his monocle. Proud, of his own work.

He felt sick.

“And what about Romeo?” he asked.

He caught his father’s sigh; his exasperation. “Your friend is very ill, my son.”

“You promised,” Carlo said. Lied. His father hadn’t promised, but if he said it with enough conviction, he knew his father would believe him. His father owed him his left hand.

“I’m doing what I can for him.” His father did smile, then. There was a different look in his eye. “You’ll reunite. That I can promise.”

“Well, he didn’t lie,” Romeo said.

P opened his eyes. He was propped against the stage, Romeo at his side. He looked down, to his legion arm. He’d never had that left arm, but he felt the loss of it now. That shock creeping up his spine.

“We were reunited,” Romeo continued.

P flexed his fingers, watching the springs move. Was this the very arm that his father had made for Carlo? To replace it? He twisted it, letting the metal catch the light.

“Hey.” Romeo’s voice was soft; the first few notes of piano music. His fingers landed on P’s knee; just a graze. “P? Are you alright?”

P felt his Ergo stirring; felt jittery. “He didn’t give my arm back.”

Romeo froze. He took a sharp breath. “Your arm?”

He realised what he’d said. Clenched his fist. His fist. Not Carlo’s. And yet – he’d said it was. He thought of it as his. He’d still felt like Carlo, even after he’d woken up. It was getting harder to separate the two of them.

“Carlo’s,” he corrected himself.

Romeo’s hand grazed his hair. Didn’t quite tuck it behind his ear. It fell away, but he could still feel him staring at him.

“Carlo?” he whispered. There was a note of hope in his voice.

P closed his eyes. His Ergo was still fluttering, like a swarm of butterflies. He pulled his knees to his chest, and shook his head.

“I’m not Carlo,” he murmured. He wasn’t. But he had Carlo’s memories. He had some of Carlo’s emotions – were they Carlo’s? He couldn’t tell, anymore.

“I know,” Romeo said. And his hand did land; it caught hold of P’s shoulder. “I know that, P.”

P tilted his head, so that his cheek brushed the back of Romeo’s hand. Cool, and smooth; a puppet’s hand. Not how Romeo’s used to be – he remembered that too. Remembered how Romeo’s hands were soft, and how tightly they’d grip his own. How they would fit so neatly against his own.

He felt as though he was trapped in a kaleidoscope, fragments of him and Carlo merging into each other.

“You can stop,” Romeo continued. “We can stop. It’s not important, what happened in the end.”

“It is.” P looked up at him, through strands of his dark hair. Romeo’s expression was soft, his hazel eye warm in the low lighting of the theatre, searching P’s face – looking for any sign that Carlo was still in there. “It was important enough for you to send that message.”

“That was when I…didn’t know it was you.” And not Carlo.

“We have to know,” P said. He pressed his palm to Romeo’s cheek; his thumb just under the red eye. “I have to know why you’re…”

“The king of puppets,” Romeo finished for him.

P nodded. He had to know what Geppetto had done next.

Romeo gave a small sigh. He leant into P’s hand, and sighed again, his eyes closing. He looked more like the boy he used to be, like that; with his puppet parts hidden. Like the boy Carlo had fallen asleep next to, so many times, in the charity house. They’d slipped into each other’s beds and laid next to each other.

“I wish I could feel you, properly.”

“I wouldn’t feel like him,” P replied.

“I know.” Romeo brushed his hair back, behind his ear, again. His touch lingered, his eyes tracing over P’s face. He was lost in those mismatched eyes. In looking for the boy beyond the king of puppets. He held that hand to his face. He could feel, a little, now, with his puppet arm. A little didn’t feel like enough, but it would have to do.

P leant forward. It had seemed so simple when Romeo had done it. A smooth, easy movement. But he’d had practice, and P hadn’t. He paused, a breath away from Romeo’s mouth, his eyes still fixed on those hazel and red eyes.

He kissed him. He held his face with one hand, and his hand with the other, and kissed Romeo as earnestly as he had the first time. It chased away some of the fear the vision had made him feel, deep in his core. It made him feel less splintered. He didn’t need to worry about who he was, like this.

Romeo didn’t kiss him back.

P pulled away, and Romeo turned his face away. Just slightly. Didn’t push P away; his other hand had a fistful of his coat, keeping him close.

“Because I’m not him?” P asked.

“Yes,” Romeo said. “But also because I can’t feel like I used to. It’s different. Here.”

He brought their joint hands to his chest, twisting them so that the back of P’s hand was against his shirt. He could feel the hum and whir of his gears, inside.

“You told me we still had emotions.”

Romeo paused. His hair fell forward in a golden sweep. “Not these kinds of emotions.”

P clenched their fingers more tightly. “Try.”

Romeo looked exasperated. But he did move forward. Did kiss P’s mouth again, moving his lips. It was like a dance. P followed the steps of his lips, leant into him, letting go of his hand to feel his shoulder; his chest. He could feel Romeo's springs whirring under his palm. Could feel the hand on his back, spreading its fingers as though Romeo wanted to feel all of him at once. Felt the hand brushing his hair back; burying itself there. Felt his hair snag in the joints, but welcomed the sparks of pain.

It made him feel alive. Just as alive as fighting.

Romeo settled his weight over him, straddling his lap, his mouth opening. P's did too. He had a spark of memory; of doing this before. Before, there had been heat. There had been breath. There had been blood roaring in his ears and a heart racing in his chest. Now, there was only an echo of those feelings.

Romeo kissed at his cheek; his jaw; P tilted his head back to let Romeo kiss his neck. Leant into the touch with the same instinct he'd had about fighting; his body remembered this. He stared at the great chandelier hanging from the ceiling, threading his fingers through gold strands. His legion arm snagged on Romeo's hair, but he only made a soft sound to acknowledge it. He tugged at P's waistcoat; his shirt, and then stopped. With a fistful of his shirt, over his heart.

P looked down. There was a dull blue glow, just under his skin. Where his Ergo sat. Its glow ebbed and flowed. He looked up to see the blue reflected in both of Romeo's eyes.

Romeo leant his head down, and pressed his mouth against the blue.

A hum went through all of P. He twitched with it, catching his breath, tightening his grip in Romeo's hair and pressed against him. He felt Romeo smile. He kept his mouth there, holding Carlo close to him.

Holding P close to him.

He stayed there for a long moment, before he drew away. He looked down at P, on the floor of the theatre, and brushed stray strands from his face. They snagged in his finger joints, and P winced.

"We're not built for this," Romeo murmured. "Not anymore."

P caught his hand, and kept it close to his face. Pressed his other against Romeo's chest.

"We could be."

He meant it. But perhaps he could only truly mean it because he had always been a puppet. He didn't know what it was like to be human – not really – only the memories. Perhaps he could never really understand in the same way Carlo would. And perhaps that was why Romeo moved away, gently unlacing himself from P and standing, as though it took a great effort.

P stayed laying down, for a moment.

There was more to the story. Something had happened, after Carlo had lost his arm. Something had happened, to turn Romeo into this. He wanted to know.

He had to know what happened to his Lampwick.

#lies of p #fanfiction #promeo #carmeo #lies of p romeo #king of puppets #fanfic #multichap #p/romeo #p x romeo #turnupswrites #please do leave comments or send a message

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izumi-07 · 11 months ago

Text

PUPPET - 1

Yandere!Stepbro Sakusa x Yandere!Brothers Best-friend Atsumu x brown coded Y/n

TW! : emotional manipulation, power dynamics, obsession, dark themes, emotional abuse, isolation, degradation, intimidation.

Sometimes it’s better to be silent in the face of adversity, when no ones in your corner it’s hard to stand against storms without being pushed down easily my stepbrother was that storm. Sakusa Kiyoomi the prodigal son, first in everything he pursued it was like he was praised for merely existing, and I would love to say it’s an exaggeration, but it wasn’t people fawned over him like it was a competition to earn his favour the few minutes of his notice was like it’s own reward to most. Kiyoomi was bashful in front of the people that mattered in terms of opinion and who could be useful to him, always a front with the humble golden boy exterior, too shy to string his appreciation together and oh did people eat it up, he was cruel too in a strange, unsettling way when it came to the people he loathed, I was one of those people. At least I assumed I was.

Kiyoomi's father was the old money wealth, people always dream of becoming but this was the sort of thing your born into and when you marry these sorts of men you just know that leaving them isn’t an option anymore be it your own greed or self-importance it didn’t matter what made you stay only that leaving was stupidity, the new diamond shackles they sung songs around your head where so strong that it was a matter of a year to a few months since he managed to swoon my mother into his arms, he had that same look his son had completely hungry when he watched her, slowly he became obsessed with my mother they married when I was just old enough to understand he would be taking us away from our home, we would then leave for Japan for good, new culture a fresh start in his domain of control, they started out as online friends and then he coincidentally happened to be the same philanthropist investing in my mother’s old companies new technology he then just so happened to be staying in our country for a while longer then usual, he knew too much; all her tells and favourite things she was dancing happily into his arms in record time.

I was young and had survived a horribly isolated and desolate childhood of course I had been happy enough to see my mother laugh more than she ever had when we had been in that house with my father and his family who had dominated every second of her life prior to divorce who always had something terrible to say about both of us I needed this promise of peace even if it wasn’t real. Maybe that’s why I was so weary around Kiyoomi before the emotional abuse and minor attempts of physical harm started, he reminded me of my father, cruel and precise he did everything meticulously and every time he did it, he’d get away with it and I’d be left to endure the reality. Mom used to believe everything I said she was my defender, protector and had fought so long and hard to keep us safe for so long I had to understand that kind of endurance took its toll on her and she slipped into the web of lies Kiyoomi trapped everyone else in, over time she grew to love him more than me and I didn’t even feel like faulting her for any of it anymore of course I was angry I was so angry for so long but I knew how Sakusa men worked I had a feeling my step-father was about as worse as his manipulative son both of them lorded over the household neither had any tolerance for my opinions.

Volleyball was a common topic at home, he was one of Japan’s rising stars after all why wouldn’t it be spoken about? and because no sport or activity I ever did could compare Kiyoomi liked to 'playfully mock' how lazy and stupid I was. I never laughed at the things he said the way my mother and step-father did he knew I was aware of his insults too and I guess that irritated him even more he could never get me to break. He’s four years older than me so during high school all I’d ever hear were things related to Kiyoomi, it made sense he was the ace of his team for any high-schooler any in with the popular crowd was a good chance to widen connections why would they pass up the opportunity to approach any siblings of said popular kid and Ace to get in his good books? If only they knew it didn’t matter how hard they sucked up, Kiyoomi had a select group of friends, and he was anything but kind to outsiders poking around where they didn’t belong.

High-school is where I met the only person I could ever trust he was probably the only person I ever felt safe enough to relax around, Katsuki Mitsunari sleep deprived Mitsu who had met me in the clinic when Kiyoomi’s girl friends of his little inner circle took a joke too far and I’d gotten hurt enough to cry trying to fight off the pain, Mitsu who patched up my knee and offered me his energy drinks and went straight back to sleeping in one of the cots bundled up like a cat. He knew about Kiyoomi and was blunt about the situation he warned me that it would only get worse the more I stuck it out and that if he were me, he’d find a way to leave for good and quickly. Eighth grade had been so long ago and I’d called him silly saying it wouldn’t be this way forever that Kiyoomi was just having a hard time accepting the new changes, it’s only now at eighteen on my final year in high school did I realize nothing was going to change the more I endured the more hurt I was going to get and by the way Kiyoomi has been behaving I knew something terrible was going to come from waiting this long to finally leave.

"Did you apply for college yet imouto?", I lift my head up from the plate of food I’d been mindlessly pushing around while the conversation carried around me, I hadn’t expected to actually participate today in whatever was being spoken about, Kiyoomi was home after all why would anyone even ask me anything? "y/n your Oniisan's asking you a question are you purposely ignoring him?", I gave my mother a look of confusion that got an eye roll in return to which Kiyoomi and my step- father laughed lightly at her words, “Obaasan you shouldn’t be so hard on her, y/n’s always been a bit slower than most", more laughter I resumed eating quietly and could almost feel his stare on me the entire time, “Well I just hope she manages to get into your college Omi, she’s been so set on the others when ideally she could save herself so much trouble if she just moved to were you were studying", of course that’s what my parents were hoping for it would give Kiyoomi more control over me if I studied in Tokyo with him, the thought of being isolated and dependent on Kiyoomi was terrifying, “We’ll just have to pray you get in the right imouto?", I nodded like I always did I didn’t want to meet his face didn’t need him to see the disdain in my eyes that I could never hide.

The next day I had expected to come home to an empty house, when Kiyoomi was home he never was present during the day when my parents were at work which I was grateful for what I didn’t expect was to hear voices and see people I didn’t know crowding around the living room there was the smell of food from the kitchen that made my stomach growl as I’d left early to not have to have breakfast and ruin my morning. "Oi Omi-Omi! There’s a chick at the door I think you forgot to ditch from Kuroo-sans party and she followed you home!", the cackling blond was familiar to me seeing an identical black haired twin walk out of the kitchen with Kiyoomi refreshed my memory of the Miya twins, they hadn’t gone to my high school but once when Kiyoomi had forced me to attend one of his games I’d been awe struck at the raw athleticism performed by the duo brothers on the opposing side.

“That’s my step-sister idiot like I’d ever be stupid enough to give some random whore my parents’ home address", when I was younger I’d been intimidated and easily frightened by the way Kiyoomi spoke when my parents backs were turned it was like the threat of violence without any direction, now I don’t even bother being surprised by anything he says, “Your home late, what are you waiting for standing there like a house plant come say hello", it’s a demand not a suggestion his friends where probably on his college team or old friends from his glory days in high-school, all of them looked at me curiously and some grinned in a mocking sort of way like they knew exactly who I was.

"I actually seem to have forgotten I have extra classes today, I’ll be back in an hour or two so-", I hastily began slipping my shoes back on every second I wasted was another he’d find a way to make me stay, maybe humiliate me and there were strangers in this house men I didn’t know or wished to know. "Y/n come here", no I didn’t want too, the silence was deafening and I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t heard him, his heavy footsteps slap against the wooden floors as I count his steps to the erratic speed of my heart banging against my chest, “Are you ignoring me imouto?", my hand was gripping the door knob he was right beside me it was just a matter of who was faster and even if I did make it out the door he was a fuckin volleyball player I had no chance outrunning him, it was enough to make me cry I didn’t want to be here stuck with the worst person in my world. "I can hear your heart from here Y/n what’s the matter? Is something wrong did something happen Y/n? Are you scared?", his fingers began to shackle around my arm long slender digits grip harshly and pull me away from the door and into his chest blocking me from everyone else’s view.

"Take your shoes off and come inside if you run, I’ll just catch you and tell mom and dad what you did how you embarrassed them it’s honestly so annoying how you act like someone is going to fuckin kill you every time your around us, I just wanted to spend time with you is that so fuckin hard? Do I disgust you that much?", there had been times I wanted to make the stupid attempt to try and understand him, why did he insist on hurting me what did it gain him in the end? Some people didn’t need some life changing reason to behave the way they did some just did it and some were just born with that twisted intent to seek out something, somewhere, someone to take the anger out on what Kiyoomi had to be angry about just didn’t make any sense to me he’s perfect he’s loved he’s seen and yet I still, like an idiot heed his words slip off my shoes and make the embarrassing walk across the living room to the corridors leading to my room.

Spending time with Kiyoomi and his guests just meant being the in-house maid, I’d been washing the dishes since I was pulled away from my homework after an hour passed and I didn’t come out of my room and honestly it could have been worse he could have made me entertain his friends and that would have been even more embarrassing. This would have been an easy thing to do in order to avoid having to interact with him had I not had the unnerving feeling of the blond Miya twin currently watching me while his spoon scrapped the bottom of the bowl every few minutes. He’s been leaning against the back of the counter opposite me his height a little below Kiyoomi’s and yet still more than enough over my own, he was staring at me, and it was creepy like something slimy crawling up my shirt. "Yer in fifth year aren’t yer?", I nodded and plunged the dish into the soapy water on one side before rinsing it in the other, “Omi wasn’t kidding you’re an actual mute? Are you that dumb is that why you can’t talk? Yikes yer parents must be in debt trying to put you through school aye sweetheart?".

Heard it before, Kiyoomi’s friends sort of picked up the confidence to push me around like he did it made sense someone like Miya Atsumu wouldn’t have a problem pushing around someone his friend deemed as insignificant. He leaned in to my space taking me by surprise and dropping his empty bowl into the soapy dish water his face right in front of mine as his big hand took hold of my soapy one gripping the steel surface. "It’s okay though if yer kinda dumb with a face like yours bet you’d get by if yer gave up yer ass for a couple bucks", this had never occurred to me that even if Kiyoomi said hurtful things and pushed me around in general that I’d ever feel like I was in real danger if his friends decided to take it to the extreme would Kiyoomi even help me? "What’s going on?". He gives me one last long stare and licks his lips grinning and leaving my side hands in the pockets of his jeans as he walked away towards Kiyoomi who side eyed him I turned away as they exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear and I tried to finish up so I could head to my room I hadn’t eaten yet either and with people around especially Kiyoomi and his friends I doubt I’d be able to take anything that was left without getting bullied out of eating at all, I didn’t care what him and his shit friends would say it still bothered me despite there being no truth to it. "What were you talking about?", "School", he snorts and I feel a painful flick to the side of my head, “He must have done most the talking never shuts up that one but maybe you could learn something from him people like him because he’s got a good personality and he’s not a dead brained idiot who does everything’s he’s told", the smell of fruit scented air expels beside me in thick white visible waves enough for me to choke by the sweetness of the smell, he doesn’t use the pen when our parents are around but he always smokes it when he’s home sometimes he’ll force himself into my room and blow out enough air in my enclosed space for me to choke on it.

"Finish up and come join us I said I wanted to spend some time with you I meant it.....you know that right?", I nodded and he laughs again I resist the urge to gasp when he stands behind me pressing into me his hands come from beneath me and guide my own towards the hand wash, “When we were kids I’d help wash your hands just like this, you’d always smile while I helped and back then you were just learning how to speak Japanese your accent was so cute but do you know what word I loved hearing from you the most?", he squeezing drops of sticky pink washing soap into his hands before taking my own and gently threading his fingers through my own, I was crushed against the sink it’s too close, too much, “Oniisan you’d say it when you were upset, when you were happy whenever you saw me that’s what you’d call me and then you just decided to stop one day", he put pressure on my hands till I began to fidget and then he stopped going back to soaping bother our hands up, “You just woke up one day and decided to be an idiot you just stopped listening to me and I let it go on too long but that’s okay because soon you’ll go back to being that cute little imouto you just need to do well and then once you get accepted I’ll start taking care of you again away from all this nonsense that’s gotten into your head".

I don’t cry till he’s gone, and I feel like scrubbing skin raw......

#darkromance #smut #yandere #haikyuu!!#haikyuu smut #atsumu x reader #sakusa x reader #polyamory #dark themes

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writer-in-theory · 2 years ago

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All This and Heaven Too — harringrove.

Summary: When Billy is forced into a contract with the devil after becoming a Victor of the Hunger Games, Steve is there, always. Prompt: C3 - Star-Crossed Lovers // C2 - Hidden Injuries Pairing: Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove Rating: Mature (due to content matter) Word Count: 6.2k Content Warnings: Mild Language, Implied Forced/Coerced Prostitution, Implied Rape/Noncon, Somewhat Ambiguous Ending Read On AO3: Here A/N: This is another fill for @billyhargrovebingo and @harringroveson-bingo !! This is my final fill on my Harringroveson Bingo card, and I have to say I have had an absolutely wonderful time participating in this event. As for this fic, it references plot points from Catching Fire so it may be helpful to be aware of the general plot of it (particularly for why those content warnings are there) but otherwise can be understood without having read The Hunger Games.

Harringroveson Bingo Masterlist // Billy Hargrove Bingo Masterlist

The lights on the stage were bright, heating up Billy’s face until he was sure Steve’s hard work on his makeup was ruined. The feel of the sun warming his skin was a comfort, but this artificial light now only tensed his shoulders and put him on edge like he was still in the arena. He ached to be back home, to sit on the beach under natural heat and disappear from the public’s eyes.

“Billy Hargrove,” Caesar crooned, dramatically sweeping his hands out in a large show of himself. The man was decked out in all blue, from hair to shoes, in celebration of the District Four win. It was gaudy and awful, making Billy ache to be home by the sea. On any normal year, he and Max would have sat on the couch making fun of the grotesque outfit. “Did you ever expect to find yourself here, in the Victor’s chair?”

Yes, he did, because like hell he’d die in the arena so far from the ocean, from his home. He refused to return home in a cheap wooden box to be given ceremonial rights by the entire district, another martyr sacrificed and mourned. After eighteen years of fearing the very slip of paper that had been pulled that year, Billy couldn’t imagine going out without proving to everyone, to himself, that he was more of a force than anyone could have predicted.

“No, Caesar,” Billy chuckled, pulling on the charming smile he’d practiced with his mentor team. Put on a show, and give the people what they want no matter how much bile was summoned to his throat by the sickly sweet warmth. “It’s what I’d hoped for, of course, but I have to thank all of the people from the Capitol who sponsored me. I couldn’t have done it without their generosity.”

The wink Billy sent the crowd shot a wave of nausea through his stomach, rising up in his throat and stopping his improv-ed speech. Give them a show, but at what cost? Was this what he was expected to be each time a camera was forced into his face? When would the games be over?

“Did you know, Billy, that you raised the most money out of any tribute in any Games? That’s remarkable! You should be proud, my dear boy!”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask for anything better. It’s a dream come true, honestly.”

The roaring crowd felt a little more like a death sentence than a celebration.

“Oh, Billy, c’mere,” Steve spoke the second he opened his door. The man standing in front of him looked like a ghost—tanned face as pale as he’d ever seen it, lips pressed flat and blue eyes staring unseeingly over Steve’s shoulder. “Come here, Bee, I’ve got you.”

The moment Steve got his arms around Billy it was like his puppet strings had been cut, the man falling forward into the embrace. He tucked his face close into Steve’s neck, holding onto the back of his shirt like a lifeline. He didn’t cry—he hadn’t in years, ever since the first few nights—but he did sniff harshly against Steve’s skin like he was physically fighting back the surge of emotions.

They fell into a familiar routine then, one designed through trial and error, and far too many nights spent recovering like this. Steve coaxed Billy into the large bathroom connected to his bedroom, carefully stripping away the clothes that Billy had to wear for his ‘appointment’, as President Snow had insisted he calls them. Steve had prepared a bath just before Billy had arrived, still as hot and full of bubbles as the man liked it. These baths were a luxury the man hadn’t experienced until coming to the Capitol, where he was allowed to indulge in the life he and his district mates bled for.

Steve helped Billy into the tub, sitting on a small chair behind him so he could carefully and gently wash Billy’s hair. Steve took his time, massaging the man’s scalp and brushing soap through each lock of hair. He could see the moment Billy relaxed—knees slipping down away from his chest and head leaning back against the edge of the tub. His eyes remained closed for a while and neither of them spoke, leaving Steve to fill the air with the soft humming of a song his mother used to sing to him at bedtime. He’d long since forgotten the words, only clinging to the feeling of comfort the tune brought.

“We could do it, you know.” Billy’s voice was rough and low, yet still echoed off of the high ceilings of the luxurious bathroom.

It was dangerous, speaking so plainly here. Steve’s hands paused in Billy’s hair, slipping down to rest on either shoulder. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles into the skin there as Steve considered the words carefully.

“Have you ever thought about running away?” a much younger Steve asked from the rooftop of the Tributes Center, arms bracing his body against the railing.

“No,” Billy answered quickly, sternly.

“They can’t hear us up here. It’s too windy to put cameras or microphones.” It was impossible to miss the sudden relaxation of Billy’s shoulders at the realization that Steve had considered this, that it wasn’t all some elaborate trap. “It’s the one place we can be real.”

“I’ve never thought about running,” Billy insisted, looking to the side so he could watch Steve’s profile. “I’d consider running with you, though.”

“If that’s what you wanted,” Steve told him once he sparked back to the present, hoping their words were vague enough. It would be silly to think they weren’t being watched at every moment, that nothing was getting back to Snow about the youngest Stylist in the history of the Games and one of the most beloved Victors to date. “If you wanted, we could. I would.”

“You really would?” Billy turned in the tub then so he could look at Steve, leaning up and pressing his hands to Steve’s knees, not caring about the way it soaked his pants. “Even with...everything?”

They’d talked about it before. The wealth, the fame, and the apartment that was more extravagant than anything that existed in Billy’s home District. The life of luxury he’d been born into that Billy had never even had the option to have.

“Without a single second thought,” Steve promised, “I’m going where you’re going, Bee.”

Billy nodded once, relaxing into his new position. He crossed his arms over Steve’s lap, letting his head rest sideways on them so Steve could still run his fingers through blond curls. They stayed like that until the water grew cold, neither of them speaking but never really needing to. It was simply enough to have this time together, even when they knew it wouldn’t last. There would always be a sunrise, and they would always have to get out of bed and pretend they weren’t so close. Steve would have to give bright, praising interviews for Games that made him sick to his stomach, and Billy would continue to do the unthinkable if only to protect his sister.

They would always have nights like these, though. The rest of the world would fall away and they weren’t in the Capitol, they weren’t anything more than Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove, two people who loved each other more than they’d ever loved anyone before.

Steve held onto Billy all night, hoping his gentle fingers might erase every harsh grip his body had been forced to endure.

“Hey, good to finally meet you,” Steve spoke the second he entered the room, hands wringing themselves together to keep from messing with his hair habitually. He didn’t dare look at the tribute until he sat in the soft velvet chair waiting for him—blue, because the designers of the building assumed everything on the District 4 floor ought to be ocean-colored. “I’m Steve Harrington, I’ll be your Stylist for the Games.”

“You,” the tribute clarified, pure amusement in his voice. “That’s a good one, pretty boy. You getting school credit for this?”

“I’m 18, asshole,” Steve snapped immediately. This was the attitude he’d dealt with ever since being chosen for the job—the youngest to ever receive the honor. He was aware that all eyes were on him now, either wishing for him to fail or waiting with anticipation to see what the new generation of designers could bring to the annual honored Games. Steve let his eyes lift from his design book to get his first look at the tribute he’d be working for.

Blue. Blue was all Steve saw, so deep he thought he might drown in it. With curls the color of the sand and freckles splashed across his cheeks as evidence of time spent under the sun, Steve is sure this man was the personification of the beach.

The tribute also looked smug, like he’d won some secret competition with Steve. “What? Become an Avox over there, pretty boy?”

“My name is Steve,” he insisted, forcing himself to look down at his sketchbook the moment he felt his cheeks heat up. “This is my first year styling for the Games but I am not inexperienced. If you were smart, you’d listen to me.”

“That so?” Billy leaned forward in his chair, smirk turning feral enough that it nearly took Steve’s breath away. His brain sparked with the idea to run, to edge away from this man that looked ready to fight. “I don’t make it a habit to listen to people who call me an asshole.”

“And I don’t make it a habit to save the ass of pompous pricks, but maybe we can both try something new,” Steve snapped before he leaned back in his chair, head tilted back long enough that he could close his eyes and compose himself. No one had ever managed to irritate him as quickly as this tribute did. If they couldn’t figure themselves out, Steve was in for a long few weeks trying to make this man appear charming enough to the Capitol.

It was only once he felt his heart rate coming down that Steve refocused on Billy. “Listen, we don’t have to like each other. But I want to be the youngest Stylist on a Victor team and you want to not die in a month, so I suggest we work together.”

“Not if you’ll dress me up like a fuckin’ fish,” Billy answered, pure annoyance gathered around every word.

Steve winced at the callback to the Stylist who came before him—an aging man who’d reused the same design year after year with only a few slight color modifications. It was overdone and tacky, doing nothing other than to make District 4 and their tributes look like laughingstocks.

“I’d rather step into the arena myself than have that mess represent my work,” Steve said bitterly, drawing a shocked burst of laughter from Billy. “No, I have a better idea. And seeing you...it’s perfect.”

Billy raised a brow, shoulders relaxing some after a few sentences of less painful conversation. “Like something you see?”

“You’re terrible,” Steve hissed without the same anger from before. “I was sketching out ideas based on some of the ancient stories that came out of District 4. I’m sure you’re familiar with the God called Triton?”

Something in what Steve said both shocked and softened Billy. He watched the process unfold in front of him—first complete astonishment waking up Billy’s face and then something near fondness settling in on his once harsh features.

“You read the stories?” Billy asked.

“I...yes?” Steve questioned, tilting his head to the side as if that might help figure out the situation. “How am I supposed to represent a District if I don’t know your history?”

“Right,” Billy breathed, shaking his head with wide eyes as if the very thought alone was something perfectly unbelievable. “Let’s get to work then.”

Something was wrong.

Billy didn’t show up after his ‘appointment’. After the first time, barely a year after his victory, when Billy showed up crying, crumpling into Steve’s arms talking about duty, responsibility, and protecting Max, it was all to protect Max, he had shown up every night it happened.

Steve knew the days the Victor was expected to be in the Capitol—it was impossible to miss the buzzing from men and women alike who all wanted a glimpse of the most successful, most popular Victor to date. None of them knew that it didn’t matter how many looks they stole, how many brief touches and paid-for nights they got, it was Steve that Billy would always return home to at the end of the day.

Until this time, when Steve was left sitting in his entryway waiting by a closed door.

Steve didn’t sleep that night.

Something was wrong.

“How are you feeling?”

It was cold, on the rooftop of the Tribute Center. Still, it was their place, carved out of a dangerous world only meant to harm, a sanctuary they could find peace for a fleeting moment. Billy was still in his interview outfit, all blues meant to pull out the color of his eyes and remind the people of his warmth. He was stood just at the walled railing, bent forward onto his arms resting against the top of the half-wall. The man had pulled his hair down out of the perfectly styled bun Steve had created, leaving golden curls blowing around his shoulders in the wind. He looked perfectly God-like, more reminiscent of Triton than he had been in costume.

Billy shrugged at the question, not taking his eyes off the lights of the Capitol. No one would sleep on a night like this—Steve could remember every all-nighter on Hunger Games Eve, everyone drinking and celebrating, placing bets on who would be a part of the Bloodbath and who would make it out of the first day set up well to win. He could hear the beginnings of said celebrations down below, practically on another planet from how distanced Steve felt from it now.

There wasn’t much to celebrate, tonight.

“Feelin’ fine,” Billy answered simply.

“Really?” Steve stepped forward next to him, close enough their shoulders were barely brushing. “It’s okay if you’re not. I couldn’t imagine what you’re feeling now, stepping into...this.”

“I know you can’t.” It was said so simply, so matter-of-factly it made Steve wince. There was nothing factually incorrect, nothing particularly cruel or disparaging, just the simple acknowledgment that Steve truly would never understand what Billy was facing, what he would be forced to do in less than 24 hours.

“I’m sorry.”

Billy scoffed then, as though a mere apology were the thing that could make him angry. “What the hell’re you sorry for?”

When Steve didn’t answer right away, he finally turned to face him. His blue eyes were alight with more than just the moon’s reflection, something more powerful lingering underneath. “What. Are you. Sorry for?”

“I—” Steve chuckled with only the barest breath, running his fingers sharply through his hair when the understanding came rushing toward him. “For having what I have, I guess. For...being born where I was. It’s kinda stupid, isn’t it?”

“Not stupid, pretty boy,” Billy answered, eyes narrowing just enough to get his seriousness across. His lips parted to say something, but the words couldn’t escape before the man was turning his head to look out at the city again. “I’ll miss this the most, I think.”

“The view’s gorgeous,” Steve agreed, forcing his eyes away from Billy’s profile and out at the skyline.

“Not the view,” Billy corrected as gently as Steve had ever heard him. “You. I’m gonna miss you.”

“You say that like you won’t make it out.”

Another shrug again, this one sending a sharp spike into Steve’s heart. Billy was saying it so casually, so simply like the thought of his death wasn’t a new one. Steve supposed for the people of the Districts, it wasn’t.

“One in twenty-four.”

“One in twenty-four,” Steve repeated, daring to reach out a hand to rest on Billy’s arm. “That’s not zero. You have to come back. For Max, for your friends, for...for me.”

“For you?” Billy asked then, turning his head to reveal the soft amusement glittering in his eyes. “Can’t let you go 0-1, right?”

It wasn’t what he meant, and Steve is sure Billy knows it. He can almost see the request in Billy’s features now, though, the reminder that for Billy everything could be over in a few short weeks. Even as soon as tomorrow, they just didn’t know. Don’t leave him yearning for what he might not get, and don’t leave him distracted tomorrow, Steve can practically hear it yelled between them.

So as much as he wants to say the truth, Steve nods. “You better not ruin my record, Billy. I’ll never forgive you.”

If Billy noticed the slight wobble in Steve’s voice, he didn’t say a word.

Steve nearly cried when a knock on the door sounded the next day.

Any other time he might’ve felt embarrassment course through him at the speed with which he yanked the door open, but now all he felt was sheer relief that Billy had come back.

It was a dangerous game they were playing, and at any second Snow could make his checkmate move to end the whole show.

“Billy,” Steve breathed, reaching out for a hug but stopping short at the other man’s wince. “Oh.” He allowed his hands to hover uselessly in the air before his mind sparked to life with the memory of their routine. “Right. Let’s get you a bath, okay?”

“No.” Billy’s voice was tight like he was fighting off either pain or tears or maybe all of the above. “No bath, just need you tonight.”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve said softly, moving aside so Billy could step into the apartment. Billy moved like he was on auto-pilot, ghosting through the place until he reached the bedroom. All Steve could do was follow helplessly behind, something dark and cold settling uncomfortably in his stomach. It had never been this bad before, and Steve felt the sharp pang of guilt flood him at the realization that he had no idea what to do to fix it. “Billy, what do you need? Please, what can I do?”

“Just need you,” Billy repeated, voice gruff as he barely waited to slip off his shoes before collapsing into the bed.

There had to be more. There was no way it was only him that Billy needed, that there really was nothing more obvious Steve could do to help than be beside him. And yet, that was what Billy requested and so it would be what he got. So Steve complied, slipping off his shirt and crawling into bed behind Billy. He pressed as close as possible, wrapping his arms around the man’s body and holding tight. Some appointments were worse than others, some with arrogant Capitolites who seemed to want to win over a Victor themselves. It was never like this though, pulling Billy tight like a rope and seemingly sucking every ounce of fight from his body. They didn’t talk for a long time, Steve simply holding on until he felt Billy begin to relax against him, pushing further back into his hold. When Billy’s fingers traced over the hand Steve had pressed to his chest, Steve knew that he’d come back from wherever his mind had been since the previous evening.

“Who was it?” Steve murmured into the back of Billy’s neck.

“Brenner,” Billy breathed back, a hand squeezing tight to hold onto the one Steve had pressed against Billy’s clothed chest. “Hey, I’m fine, pretty boy, don’t worry about me.”

Steve sucked in a sharp breath at that one. Brenner was known to be nasty and cruel, even before Steve had been enlightened to the true horrors of the Games. He was Head Gamemaker, popular with the Capitolites for coming up with new and disturbing creatures to stick on the tributes each year. Every year they grew more horrific, more deadly until they almost did more damage than the tributes themselves. He didn’t think the man’s reputation could be any more sinister, and yet he’d managed to surpass any and all expectations.

“I’ll kill him.” Fear lurched in Steve’s chest when he found the sentiment wasn’t entirely false. No, the next time he was in the same room with the Gamemakers he’d have to steer clear of the man lest he makes the news for becoming the first murderer in the Capitol since its creation. He would though, if it meant Billy never had to hurt like this again, if the man only ever knew peace after this night.

“How was your day?” Billy insisted.

“Terrible and boring, better now that you’re here,” Steve spoke quickly, distractedly. All he wanted was to focus on Billy, to make sure that he was okay. It didn’t matter what tedium his day consisted of, not when something far more disturbing had befallen Billy. “Are you hurt?”

“Why was it terrible?”

“Billy.” Steve wanted to cry. The back of Billy’s neck was wet, so maybe he already was crying. It was hard to be aware of anything beyond the anguished panic setting deep into Steve’s bones. “Please.”

“What made your day so terrible, Steve?”

Steve sighed, defeated. He knew this game too well and knew better than to go toe-to-toe at it with the Victor. “The Quarter Quell announcement is next week. Promotions for the Games have started back up. Having to be in a room with them all, pretending like all of it is just o—”

“Steve.” Billy’s voice was gentle, though the squeeze of his hand was not. A reminder.

“It’s boring, meeting with these men. Worse now that I know what they did to you. I just want to ki—,” Steve finished, knowing Billy was aware of what he’d meant. It was cruel, to pretend that he was still in love with these Games when all they’d done was torture one of the most brilliant men Steve had ever met, the only man who had ever made Steve feel alive. “Wanted to be with you instead.”

“Me too,” Billy said, “Thought about our place.” And that, alone, was enough to account for a million words. There was something to talk about, something that needed to be said away from the prying eyes and ears of the Capitol. In a week, Steve could hear what Billy wanted to say.

Maybe they were really running away together.

Every thought was halted the moment Billy tried to shift in Steve’s arms, though. He moved his hips first, unable to stop the pained whimper that slipped at the movement, exacerbated by the jolt from his abdomen.

Billy was hurt. He was hurt, maybe had been since yesterday, and he hadn’t told Steve. They’d been laying in bed for ages and all he’d done was let Steve hold on, never minding how much it must have ached.

Billy was hurt.

“Billy,” Steve spoke then, voice more insistent as he lifted himself up to look at him properly. “Please, let me see. I need to take care of you.”

“It’s fine,” Billy grunted out, turning his face to hide it further into the pillow.

“It’s not fine,” Steve insisted. “You’re hurt and you’re hiding it. Fucking Brenner, he hurt you and I almost didn’t—you could’ve—”

Billy at least was ready to put Steve out of his misery. He sat up and pulled his shirt off, revealing miles of tanned skin once perfected by the repair process all victorious tributes go through now mottled harshly with bruises. Around his ribs, across his chest—where Steve’s hand had once dug in, how much that must have ached—all the way down his sides where dark bruises in the shape of fingers were pressed deeply into the skin around Billy’s hips and—

God, Steve thought he might be sick.

“Billy,” he breathed, fingers reaching out to brush idly over one of the marks, tears clinging to his cheeks as the Victor grabbed his hand and placed it on Billy’s cheek instead. The man’s tears ran over Steve’s thumb, gathering there in the space between thumb and forefinger. “Is this everything? Are you hurt anywhere else? Did he—”

“Steve.” Billy’s voice was pained, tightened with every ounce of emotion coursing through him. “I don’t want you to see that. Let me keep it separate, who I am with you and what I am for them.”

Nothing else would hurt quite like this. Knowing Billy was in pain, knowing deep down what other injuries Billy was begging to keep concealed from him, knowing it was Steve’s people that were doing this to him, and if he were to do anything about it they would both be doomed. Steve had never felt so helpless, so completely and utterly defeated by the world around them.

“Okay,” Steve conceded, wishing the acceptance wasn’t the only thing he could do to help Billy now. “Okay, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Don’t do anything, Steve,” Billy told him as Steve gathered him back up in his arms, now more aware of where his hands rested. “You can’t.”

“I could,” Steve whispered to the darkened room. “They all love you. If they knew what was happening. If they knew that we...they’d put a stop to it for us.”

“I’ll be okay,” Billy told him, turning gingerly so he could face Steve. They were so close Steve couldn’t really see him, could barely focus his eyes on that button nose he loved so much. “Steve, things are...it’s dangerous, talking like that. Things are changing, you can’t...I need you safe.”

Billy was speaking barely over a whisper, barely audible even in the silent bedroom. It was all so strange, too oddly worded to make even a bit of sense.

“What are you saying? Billy, what are you doing?” This was dangerous. Each move could be their last, every misstep carefully marked down by Snow until enough strikes were gathered to doom them. Even this, allowing themselves the time to hold each other, could be enough and yet there Billy was, talking about danger and change and—oh.

“The girl from Eleven,” Steve mouthed, didn’t even dare to breathe the words to life for all the weight they carried. Jane from District Eleven was barely twelve years old and still, she’d been reaped. Still, she had fought the odds and won, and still, she’d forced the gamemakers to change the rules for her. She’d refused to kill the final boy, refused to be the harbinger of death that Brenner and the rest of the Capitol had demanded she be. She’d changed the rules of the Games—did Billy mean she was meant to change the rules of Panem?

“Our place,” Billy promised instead of answering, reaching out to press gentle lips to Steve’s. “Then.”

The summons from President Snow wasn’t a surprise after the Quarter Quell announcement.

When Snow had stood at the podium and announced this year’s tributes would be Reaped only from previous Victors, Steve couldn’t help but feel those cold gray eyes had stared directly at him, that every emotionless damnation of the people who’d come out of the gauntlet alive was meant simply to punish him and Billy.

Steve considered not attending, though the thought only lasted a fleeting moment before he considered what his execution might do to Billy’s focus.

Because Steve knew his love, knew that Billy would sooner volunteer himself for death before he allowed anyone else to take the fall.

So Steve dressed up in his newest suit—a silver thing, with sparkling accents that screamed the elegance associated with the Harrington name. He accepted the escort car to the President’s manor and composed himself for a full minute before stepping into Snow’s office. This would be the most dangerous game he ever played, stepping directly into the lion’s den and expecting to be let back out at the end.

“Mr. Harrington, I was pleased you accepted my invitation for tea,” the president spoke, standing by a little wooden table set up by the large window in the corner. Already prepared were two cups of tea, waiting like dark omens of what was to come.

Steve wasn’t naive to what this meeting was—he may be young, but he was a Harrington. He’d been involved in these games from the time he could speak, attending meetings with the most influential people in the Capitol and learning every secret they were willing to divulge. He knew what happened to those marked an enemy by Snow, and knew what was expected of him now.

“How could I refuse such a generous offer?” Steve kept to the script, waiting until President Snow sat down until he slid into his own seat. He let his fingers rest on the handle of the cup but didn’t move it to his lips yet, waiting. “Though I have to admit, I’m not sure I should be wasting the president’s precious time.”

“No? The youngest Stylist in Hunger Games history, the youngest Stylist to produce a Victor, I must say, you’ve impressed me, Mr. Harrington.”

“Please, sir, Steve is fine. Mr. Harrington was my father,” Steve said, polite smile cold on his lips. “You’re too kind, I could hardly take credit for being on a Victor’s team. That was all Billy.”

“Yes, Mr. Hargrove. He’s something of a marvel, isn’t he?”

Snow’s words were still polite, and gentle, but his expression was anything but. There was a coldness in his eyes, a hardness that reminded Steve of all the rumors he’d been told about people on this side of the table from him. Snow was a snake, and had the venom to match.

“He is,” Steve agreed slowly, fingers tightening around his cup of tea. “I imagine we won’t have a Victor quite like him for some time.”

“I’ve heard reports of you becoming close with Mr. Hargrove. Quite unconventional for a Stylist, yes?”

Steve nodded, tongue re-wetting his lips while he stalled for an answer befitting his image. “I don’t tend to stick to normal convention, sir.”

“No, you don’t, do you?” Snow chuckled before his expression dropped, revealing every ounce of danger that Steve had been warned of all at once. “Tell me, Steve, what is it that you and Mr. Hargrove talk about? After all, you can’t have that much in common with the man.”

“That’s exactly what we talk about,” Steve lied. “He tells me about District 4, and I tell him about growing up in the Capitol. It’s fascinating, hearing how different it is.”

Snow hummed, clearly displeased by the answer. “Steve, I must admit I do hate liars. If this conversation is to continue I do ask that you provide me the truth.”

The truth meant certain death. Though, Steve supposed that the opposite was also true now. This was an Execution Trap, meant simply to lure Steve in. No choice would be enough now, he knew it.

It had to be about protecting Billy now, and whatever change he was sure Jane from District Eleven could bring.

“Well, I have to admit I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Steve answered, allowing his voice to sharpen. “I’m nothing if not honest.”

“What are you willing to do for him, Steve?” Snow asked, shoulders calm and voice relaxed like he did this every day. He likely did. “You could have everything you dreamed of. Your choice of Districts to style for, every interview you could imagine. You would never want for anything if you gave up this silly game now.”

“I’m actually pretty fond of the silliness. I haven’t gotten to experience much of that before.” Steve smirked at the quick flash of anger that cracked Snow’s perfectly constructed mask.

“You know what they’re planning, Steve. You would give up everything for them? For him?”

Steve hummed then too, sitting back in his seat. “I would give all this and more for him. That is your greatest weakness, sir: you can’t understand why I would.”

“Then I believe this conversation is over. You haven’t even touched your tea, you should finish it before you leave.”

Steve understood the demand for what it was. Pride swelled in his chest when his hand didn’t shake as he brought the cup to his lips. The tea tasted bitter on his tongue as he downed the cup in one go.

The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth by the time he set the cup back down.

Checkmate.

“This is your beach?”

Steve had never seen a place quite like District 4. He’d never been outside of the pristine cityscape of the Capitol, never having a reason to before Billy became a Victor.

“This is the one,” Billy said, grabbing onto Steve’s hand to guide him through the sand. The Victory Tour would begin tomorrow, where the near-nineteen-year-old would have to give speeches for all the tributes he killed or who tried to kill him. For this moment, however, all that existed in Steve’s mind was this: the beach, the gentle crash of the waves on the sand, the sun warming Steve’s shoulders and face, the feel of Billy’s large hand over his own with every callous carefully built through years of fishing erased in a moment. “Used to come here every day with my mom, then with Max or a friend. It’s peaceful.”

“It is,” Steve agreed, wishing he’d been able to see the water sooner. “I’d like to live here. You and I, get a little house by the beach. Can you imagine it?”

“Yeah,” Billy breathed. “Yeah, I can. No one knows who we are.”

“No one knows where we are.”

“Just you and I.”

“None of these dangerous games, no careful moves and strategies lies. Just the beach.”

“We’ll have it someday,” Billy spoke, more sure than Steve could ever think to be about it.

“You promise?”

Billy smiled, looking far happier under the sun here than he’d ever looked in the Capitol. He was alive here.

“I promise, pretty boy. We’ll have this.”

“So tell me, Billy,” Caesar began, shifting in his seat to cross one leg over the other. “You’re twenty-six. You were eighteen when you won your Games, how do you feel about being back in the arena now?”

“You want my honest answer?”

Caesar laughed, clapping his hands dramatically. “Of course! We wouldn’t want to hear any less from the fan favorite.”

“Well,” Billy started, glancing off to the front row of the crowd where Steve was sitting with the other Stylists. Steve knew the Victors had some plan, knew they were trying to get these Games stopped before they had to protect Jane in the arena. He knew whatever it was had to be risky, and could topple down everything that the Victors who’d volunteered were trying to create. “I wish I could say something good, Caesar, but I admit I’m heartbroken.”

“Heartbroken!” Caesar exclaimed, clutching his hand over where his own might have once rested. “What could have our shining star so heartbroken?”

“What else, Caesar? Love. I’m in love and because of these Games I might never get to tell them.”

Oh fuck.

“Love,” Casesar glanced off-screen with an air of nervousness. The other seven tributes before Billy had done much of the same, trying to pit emotions against the Capitol. After all, they’d been taught to fall in love with each of these Victors and now were being forced to watch them kill each other in a few short weeks. No one was quite as successful as Billy yet, though, who was already sparking murmurs throughout the crowd. “I wouldn’t count yourself out just yet, Billy. This lucky girl is waiting for you back home, surely that’s motivation enough to win.”

“Oh no, Caesar,” Billy said, turning to stare directly at Steve with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. We could change everything.

“He isn’t waiting for me back home. He’s been here this whole time. I’m afraid Steve’s going to have to dress me up for slaughter again, right when we thought we had the happy ending promised to us, to me.”

The crowd was nothing less than explosive. Loud shouts of shock, horror, brief elation at the fact that two of the most popular young men in Panem were in love, and screams for the Games to end, rippled through the crowd. It didn’t stop at Billy, either. With each new Victor, another claim was made, another push for the Games to be halted. The crowd was restless around Steve, agitated beyond belief.

They might really do this.

It may not be enough to stop the Games, or even to allow Steve and Billy the peaceful ending they’d wished so hard for. Steve didn’t know if this would be enough to give him and Billy their beach, but it sparked the starter fire that would take over Panem. Finally, finally, the Capitol was beginning to see and could understand the blood that painted their hands with each new year.

As the crowd raged around him, Steve looked up at President Snow’s viewing box and smirked.

The stage lights went dark.

TAGLIST: @alessiamargaux @minispice-1 @shadetea @emily19990 @alexxavicry @raven2008 @whoringrove @strangerleaves @blackpanzy @goodproofingwater @greetings-and-salutations @doralovesit @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @steddiemunsonharrington @magellan-88 @sideblogforcrimpy-plus @dreamdancerdotfile @lonesomewitchkingg @mrs-fanfiction-2001 @lancedrawsdrawings @cherry-sorry @dragonflylady77

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#harringrove #billy hargrove #stranger things #steve harrington #hunger games au #harringrove fanfiction #billy x steve #jay writes in theory

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commanderhorncleaver · 1 year ago

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apologies in the sun

“You already apologized,” Sigmund sighed. His voice was hoarse, and Augustus passed him the waterskin. That electric hum thrummed across the gap between their fingertips, from claw to claw, as he took it. He tried not to worry about the dragon–the dragon wasn’t his priority, not at this moment–but he wondered if it might make things harder for Sig.

“I know that, but it doesn’t make me feel better about it.” The sun beat down on them from a shockingly cloudless sky, and Augustus looked out over the stretch of sand that surrounded them. Gaius and Oberon had split off to find a spot they could contact Taimi, and once again August fretted about the consequences of his outburst the day before. He hadn’t been paying attention to where Gaius had sent Brimstone, though he knew the tribune’s separation from the group was intentional.

Sigmund leaned against him; their fur mingled together pleasantly, and Augustus felt his tail lash. “I already said I forgave you.”

“I know that, too,” Augustus started. Gaius and Oberon hadn’t broached the topic of what had happened–but it wasn’t out of character for either of them to do so. Gaius was as business-oriented as ever, and though he hadn’t voiced it, Sigmund’s sire hadn’t seemed particularly torn up about being puppeted to attack Rytlock. Rather, the older soldier had almost seemed disappointed at losing the opportunity to tear out the tribune’s throat, which in fact was another reason for why the group had separated again.

Augustus wondered if, perhaps, there was some deeper cause of Oberon’s malice towards Rytlock, but given he had no intention of asking, and less intention of skimming it from his mind, he’d likely never know.

“It’s just that–”

“So what’s the problem?” Sigmund asked at the same time.

Augustus breathed in the scents of the desert, a slow and calming action, the start of an exercise he’d been taught years ago to keep his emotions in check. There wasn’t any threat of an outburst now, but it let him arrange his thoughts and push them into order like ants in a line to figure out what it was he wanted to say. In the distance, some mile or so from them, he watched a hyena attack a choya.

“I shouldn’t have done it in the first place,” he breathed. He could feel Sig’s eyes on him, waiting for him to finish the thought. Memories of Gaius asking him if he understood why it was wrong threatened to overlap with memories of his mentor in Ash teaching him why he should, and he nudged at them to remain where they belonged. His teachings were oil and water; they didn’t mix, didn’t belong anywhere near one another.

“It isn’t just because it was you, but I can’t kick the thought that you’ll worry I’ll do it again. If we’re comfortable with it, why would I stop? How would that make me any different from–” he paused, and considered his words. Instead of who I used to be, he heard himself finish the thought as from Flame?

Sigmund’s answer was quick as he snaked his paw into Augustus’, intertwining their fingers. “You’re different because you know it’s wrong, and because I trust you to be responsible.”

Sig’s voice had deepened since he’d found the first of Vlast’s crystals, and now that he was the dead Scion’s champion, if August paid attention, he sometimes heard both their voices when Sigmund spoke. He tried not to worry about that–even if he didn’t like the idea of it, the dragon had made Sigmund hardier, healthier. He still needed breaks, only less frequent; he still leaned on Augustus for comfort and support, but now he seemed more confident in that. Augustus was glad for it, even if sometimes Vlast felt like an unwanted intruder in these moments–even if he couldn’t hear him, he knew the dragon spoke.

In the quiet, Sigmund continued, “I wouldn’t have volunteered for it, but I would have taken the shot for you, August. You know Obie would have, too. We’re not mad at you.”

A stiff and hot wind blew into Augustus’ face–he turned away and found himself gazing into Sig’s mostly-gray eyes; the yellow of Vlast’s brand flecked them now, bursts of sunlight behind a shelter of clouds. Augustus exhaled. The doubts hadn’t quieted, but looking at his mate, it was harder for them to run amok. He squeezed Sigmund’s paw.

“I’ll be mad at you if you don’t kiss me right now, though,” Sigmund grinned through sharp teeth.

Augustus obliged, pressing his muzzle against Sigmund’s and bringing his other paw up to hold him there as their rough, flat tongues mashed against one another for a long, sunbleached moment.

“I’ll do my best, then. Thank you, Sig.”

#horncleaver content #horncleaver fic #augustus silverhorn #sigmund shieldhorn #sigmund brighthorn #art courtesy of @dangerouspancakes #I've been asked to assure you all that sigmund is wearing shorts #gw2 oc #gw2 #charr oc #sobs mobile wouldn't let me put a title on it #takes place some few days after The Departing in PoF but contains no actual spoilers

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idlebeks · 2 years ago

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Steddie Fic Recs

I took a left turn on Tumblr somehow and ended up falling face first into the Stranger Things Steddie fandom. So here, have some fic recs.

chat with you, baby (flirt a little, maybe) by desiccatedwithering (acornsofthemind)

“Hey, shitheads!” Steve “the hair” Harrington barks, looming in the doorway like a monster from the Abyss. “What the fuck are you doing in here? Get your asses down to the gym right fucking now.”

Eddie gapes. First of all, the audacity— Second, he’s never been much for physical fights, but if this douchebag thinks he can bully any of Eddie’s kids, he’ll have to go through Eddie first.

“Let’s go! Move it!” Harrington snaps, making an impatient gesture down the hall.

The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting. by badpancake

It’s the first time in a while that he doesn’t know what comes next. He’s dove into the water hundreds of times. Screamed as his flesh was torn apart, heard Master of Puppets in the distance and held back tears. Felt Max’s cold, small hand in his as she laid in the hospital bed. There are things that always happen, no matter how hard he tries: El doesn’t arrive in time. Eddie dies. Max is put in a coma.

Steve fails. They lose.

“Steve, how many loops have you been through?”

His head is nodding, and his eyes are watery, and Eddie has approached him like a spooked animal.

“I lost count.”

AKA: The one where Steve Harrington is stuck in a time loop, and Eddie Munson is really fucking hard to save, or: fuck Volume 2, these bitches are in love.

don't go wastin your emotions by kissesforcas

"Steve 'the Hair' Harrington, a rage-filled barbarian, who knew?" Eddie says, like its a compliment, like Steve has ANY idea what that means.

"Uh, I knew. Obviously." Steve says, wisely, even though he clearly didn't. "Anyway, do you think we could eat a demobat? Or would we turn into some kind of monstrous freak? I'm starving, and Dustin's cheese crackers are not enough to get me on my feet again."

"What difference does it make to me if I'm a human freak or a monster one?" Eddie shrugs, and Steve butts his shoulder up against Eddie. It's meant to be brotherly, maybe friendly, but it's too soft. Felt like something he might have done before slinging an arm around a girl's shoulders.

"You're not a freak." Steve says, and finds he means it.

Eddie's eyes, when he looks at Steve, are curious. "No?"

"No."

Sanctuary by SpicedSage

After Steve Harrington goes missing, Eddie Munson gets exposed to the secret dangers of Hawkins, Indiana in 1985 instead of 1986.

Will a different first meeting lead to a change in his fate?

wouldn't it be nice (if we could wake up) by kissesforcas

Steve finds his pulse. He carries Eddie out of the Upside Down, he keeps his heart beating until they get to the hospital.

And then the government intervenes, that shady part of the government? With Sullivan? And he and Eddie wind up locked up, together, in a cell. There's one bed, and glass walls, and it turns out that he and Eddie? Might need each other more than either of them thought they might.

Steve Harrington's Guide To Planning a Party (Without Blowing Up) by Anonymous

In a way, Steve was kind of grateful for the swift intervention. He knew now, after all, that most people in the world didn't have the ability to pick out people's emotions, and in a town like Hawkins he wouldn't have lasted long if he commented on every feeling he encountered. It was the reason why despite everything, he had turned out normal, despite all of life's attempts to turn him into something other than a popular somewhat dim-witted jock.

And then one day he’d walked into the Byers household and been slapped in the face with the most godawful aura he'd ever experienced in his life, and he just knew he wasn’t going to be coming back from this. or: Steve has secret powers, which isn't really an issue except he's now dealing with his unexpected feelings(tm) for one Eddie Munson and suddenly things just got a lot more complicated. Also, he has the nasty habit of blowing shit up when he gets stressed which makes the whole 'secret' part of his powers hard. The situation is totally and completely under his control, he just has to plan this stupid 'We saved the world (again)' party and he should be fine. Totally fine.

The Jester's Gambit by GreenQueenofClubs

The thing was, these popular types, the Royalty of High School Society? They just wanted to be entertained. They wanted something to break though the dull monotony of life at the top of the food chain, and if nothing happened to catch their interest, they made their own fun. Good thing Eddie was unparalleled at keeping little sheeps entertained.

smoking guns (hot to the touch) by fivecenturiesverse

Sure, they've saved the world, but the best part of that really is that it doesn't end there and in a town where everyone thinks he murdered a girl, he's at least got Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley. It's really not his fault he accidentally starts living at Steve's house, he was invited, after all. There's a mystery too, about Barbara Holland and Steve's pool.

Star of the Masquerade by glorious_spoon

Steve jerks awake, sitting up so quickly that Robin almost topples over and staring wildly around the room. When his gaze lands on Eddie, he blanches visibly.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters. “Come on, no. Come on. Not again.”

“Harrington?” Eddie asks slowly. He does not love the way that Steve is staring at him right now. He really doesn’t. Steve looks like he’s staring at a ghost, a bloodied monster, like Eddie is something that should not exist in the light of day. “You good, dude?”

off the beaten path by pukner

"I'm saying this," says Steve, loudly, cutting him off, "because someone I love is, uh, gay. And I love them, but like, platonically. And also me calling you a queer might've been a little hypocritical, in restrospect."

There is a long, baffled pause.

"What," says Jonathan, "Steve, are you--are you coming out to me?"

Steve frowns, "Oh, yeah, I guess I am. Cool."

Or, post season 3, Steve manages to figure out that he's bisexual, despite his best efforts to repress it, comes out to Robin and Jonathan Byers of all people, and figures himself out. Also, there's a cute guy who might be actually insane running the kids' dnd club and he's got his eye on him. And his bandana.

Too bad Eddie Munson hasn't had a similar revelation. He's still under the impression that he's a straight man obsessing over Steve Harrington for normal, extremely heterosexual reasons.

OR: Steve figures out he's bi before Eddie figures out that he's gay. Eddie still manages to fall first.

you are young and life is long (and there is time to kill today) by heartofwinterfell

Eddie Munson’s no hero. Too bad the universe—or whatever’s gonna be left of it—didn’t get the memo.

[or, eddie is going to save himself and his friends or die trying. many, many times.]

let's do the time (loop) again by alchemystique

“Did you, uh… did you sing to me, once?” Eddie asks, sitting on the hood of Steve’s car and staring up at the sky so he doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t desperate for everything promised in the eyes that haven’t left Eddie since Eddie woke up in that hospital bed. It’s just –

Time loops, and the King of Hawkins High going back over and over and over again just to stop Eddie Munson from dying, and –

“Fuck,” Steve says, and Eddie doesn’t remember, but there’s a song that won’t leave his head, and the voice is soft and warm just like the way Steve smiles at him and – “I didn’t think you remembered any of it.”

---

Eddie died in a time loop a hundred times and all Steve got was this tee-shirt.

On The Frozen Lake, Jagged and Beautiful by kayeslin

Steve Harrington is a background character in Eddie’s life, one who he only knows because it’s a small town and everyone knows everyone. Everyone has some distant connection, some oddly personal anecdote about everyone else in town.

Eddie’s connection is that he’s been slowly falling in love with the guy for years before ever getting to know the real him. When he does, it only makes it worse.

- (or: Eddie lives out a queer teen RomCom while the Upside Down goes 'hehehe' out of frame)

wishbone by greatunironic

"So when Stevie noticed Eddie wasn’t dicking around with Dustin out in the field anymore, she’d run herd on her precious little shitheads before deciding to go look for him; because she remembered what it was like, she knew what it was like, the first few days after, during, and he probably, maybe needed someone to talk to so she thought probably, maybe that someone could be her. And that was what she set out to do, Jesus Christ, Robin, she didn’t always think with her snatch, okay?" In which Stevie Harrington has a habit of making out with people at the end of the world.

dogfish by greatunironic

“Sorry, little brother,” he says. His thumbs trace the muscles in his neck. “You know. It was a neat trick. But I’m afraid you just aren’t that special, in the end.”

Or: In a world where after Eight escapes, and before Eleven, another child makes it out of the lab.

Space Age Love Song by bicetea

In the dark space of the boat house, dust motes twirling around her, she asked time a question. And time said yes.

Or: Steve Harrington is given a chance to save Eddie months before all the shit with Vecna goes down.

a plain and indestructible thing by phonemicengineer

“This is us, huh?” Steve asks her, reaching out to lay a hand between her ears. His face aches, and she has a bit of blood matted in the fur around her left eye; matching wounds. There’s black ichor and gore coated up her muzzle and down her ruff, and when she opens her mouth her teeth are large and wicked looking.

“Do you even have to ask?” she mutters, leaning her full weight against him.

the feeling that you give me, wanna give it right back by QueerOnTilMorning

“You’re talking out of your ass, Harrington. You have no basis for comparison whatsoever.” He’s perched on the edge of the couch cushion, leaning forward so he can more effectively yell at Steve, who’s sprawled out on his elbows on the floor.

“I have a dick, don’t I?” Steve snaps back. Eddie thanks his personal pantheon of indifferent gods that his face is already pink with annoyance, so he doesn’t humiliate himself by blushing over nothing more than an oblique reference to Steve Harrington’s dick.

“Just because you have one doesn’t mean–”

"You're the one who has no basis for comparison! I at least have some kind of experience with blow jobs. Lots of experience, in fact."

"Yes, we all know you're a huge slut, Steve," Eddie says. "No need to brag."

Every time Steve comes over to Eddie's to smoke up, they end up in some kind of stupid argument. Usually it's about music, or movies, or whether Dustin should ever be allowed to have a pet again. But tonight, somehow–Eddie can't remember exactly how it got started, but he definitely blames Steve–they're in each other's faces about which of them gives better head.

#stranger things fic recs #steddie fic recs #fic recs #i dont know how this happened #i dont even go here #but somehow i have done nothing but consume steddie fics for the last several weeks

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whoneedsapublisher · 1 year ago

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Alchemy

For the last day of @nasuversepromptweeks's Nasuverse Femslash Week, we have a free space prompt, so I wrote some more Kohaku x Akiha.

Words: ~1000

Summary: A doll is a lifeless object. You can't make it a person anymore than you can make a toaster into a person.

Also on Ao3

************************

Shiki had a date today.

Akiha had been in a foul mood every since she’d found out, but, Kohaku noted, she hadn’t actually tried to stop Shiki from going. She had been even more frosty than usual at breakfast, despite Shiki getting up at a proper time for once. Or maybe because of that. Surely Akiha couldn’t be happy that it was because of another girl that Shiki’s sleeping habits were finally improving.

Kohaku was sweeping out front when he left the house.

“Goodbye, Shiki!” she called cheerfully.

Shiki waved to her, and then paused, snapping his fingers.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” he said, digging around in his pocket.

He pulled out a white ribbon. A white ribbon that was very familiar.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into Kohaku’s hands. “Sorry, it took me a little while to remember, but I’m returning this. Alright, I’ll see you tonight!”

And with that, he was gone. Leaving Kohaku staring, dumbfounded, at the ribbon in her hands.

It was like her whole world had come grinding to a halt. How did he know? How much did he know? He hadn’t started acting any differently. He hadn’t said anything. And then, out of nowhere, he’d returned the ribbon. And to her, not to Hisui.

…She’d lost her bet. Somehow, impossibly, he’d realized that she was quiet girl at the window.

Which meant that everything was over.

It had already been a longshot. With SHIKI dead, it would have been difficult to kill Akiha. But far from impossible. She’d been plotting quietly. Moving pieces. And now the entire board had been kicked over.

She felt her knees give out as she collapsed gently onto the stones of the courtyard, staring up at the sky.

She felt… numb. Which wasn’t unexpected. Why would she feel anything else? She was a doll. A doll couldn’t feel disappointed, or angry. She operated by certain conditions that made her keep moving. But the failsafe had been activated. The strings that controlled her were cut.

But something was wrong. She should have started to shut down at that point. Should have stopped thinking anything. Her plan was over. Her plan was all she had. There was nothing left for her but to die. But beneath the numbness, she could feel something. A feeling she shouldn’t have. Something un-doll-like, pushing against the sheet of numb blankness she’d pulled across herself.

She tried to repress it. To shove it back down. But it kept returning.

The doors burst open behind her.

“Kohaku? What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t turn her head. Her body wouldn’t move. A puppet couldn’t move without strings. But she recognized Akiha’s voice all the same.

“...He figured it out,” Kohaku said, as Akiha’s face filled her vision as she looked down, at Kohaku, concerned.. “I promised myself. I’d stop all this if he figured it out. My revenge…”

Akiha’s face stiffened. But she didn’t look surprised. How long had she known? How much did she know? Had Kohaku been overestimating herself this whole time? How much of her plans had been found out, after all? Shiki and Akiha both knew things they shouldn’t. Did Hisui, too? Did they all know what she had been planning? Did they all know what she was?

Well, what did it matter to her now?

An empty smile crossed her face.

“...It’s all over now, anyway… this is the end…”

And then that un-doll-like emotion pushed against the stillness in her heart again. Harder. Harder. So much that Kohaku’s breath hitched. It hurt. It hurt. A doll shouldn’t feel this. A doll couldn’t feel this.

A doll couldn’t be relieved. Relieved that her revenge was ruined. Relieved that Akiha would live. Relieved that she could stop plotting against her.

A doll shouldn’t feel those things.

She lifted her hands to her head, as if she could physically push the thoughts back in, and then stared at her own arms in horror.

A doll’s body shouldn’t move without a goal. Without something to drive it.

“It’s not the end,” Akiha said.

Kohaku looked blankly at her.

“...I can never give back what you’ve had taken from you by the Tohno family,” Akiha said. “I can never undo the evil this family has done to you. That was why… why I didn’t care what you did to me. I… we… deserved it. But no matter what happens to me, I won’t let it end here. I can at least give you more of a life than that.”

“I tried to get you killed,” Kohaku said. “I succeeded at killing SHIKI.”

“Even still.”

Kohaku’s hands were trembling. Jittering like her strings were being shaken wildly.

“I’m just a doll. There’s no point in trying to give me life.”

Akiha’s face hardened. “That,” she said. “I will never accept.”

“What?”

“Makihisa Tohno did not abuse a doll,” Akiha said, her voice fierce. “The crimes and evil he committed were against a human. I won’t let his acts be brushed aside as only damaging a doll. And I will never let him take your humanity from you along with everything else he stole. Even if I have to drag him out of Hell and steal it back from him with these eyes.”

Kohaku slumped, burying her face in her hands. “I have to be a doll,” she said. “It’s too painful to be a human.”

“Then as punishment for trying to kill me, I order you to experience that pain,” Akiha said.

Kohaku’s doll joints were softening. Tubes painfully turned to veins once more. Blood flowed through a heart that started beat again.

“You’re horribly cruel, Lady Akiha,” she managed.

“Isn’t that how the Tohnos have always been?” Akiha said. “As penance, I’ll do all I can to ease your pain. I’ll stay by your side until you can smile again.”

Kohaku felt Akiha’s arms around her. Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time.

She sobbed. Being a human was painful.

What a terrible curse that Akiha Tohno had put on her.

#tsukhime #kohakiha #nasufemslashweek

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zorkaya-moved · 2 years ago

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❝ what am i to you truly ? a puppet to be used to get what you want? ❞

@al-hazen

No one was allowed to ever sully her feelings for the one who had her heart, her soul, and her humanity. Not even the one whom she loved more than she loved the world. Al-Haytham did not know how vital [love] was for Zarina Sokolova; he did not understand the intense depth it dug itself into her whole being and how intensely she loved him. No one in centuries and thousands of years will ever come close to her feelings of love for him, the only pure aspect of her she’ll never abandon or allow anyone to doubt. Not even Haytham himself. The Scribe was smart, intelligent, and beyond everyone else, but even he was not allowed to ever insult her feelings towards him. And right now? It was an insult. An insult to how she truly loved him, how she adored him, and how she truly wanted him to live, to have a future, to be protected from the Abyssal curse.

In a blink of an eye, she’s by the jars, the shackles clink as her left hand grabs the bars and her face closer to him than he’d ever allow a convict to get closer. However, it must be the first time he sees this flicker of anger in her gaze. It’s cold yet heated, she will not allow him to call her love for him something like this. It does not matter, it doesn’t matter what he’d think of her and what he’d tell her, but he will not dare to speak of her love for him in this manner. She will not allow it, even if it means letting him discover how much more he means to her than she’d ever allowed him to see.

“Do not dare to turn my feelings for you into manipulation and simple theater play,” her voice had never been this cold and this sharp; she did not look away from him, and if a gaze could harm - he’d be. Her fangs are seen better as she speaks so close to him; the serpentine gaze gleams with danger and the ability to consume, to kill, to destroy. Her voice had never sounded so cold and rough before him. All because he never deserved this anger and agitation; she would’ve never allowed herself to bite him verbally like this. However, he must not overstep his line in writing her feelings off. “If you were a puppet, I would’ve never called you my family. I would’ve never cared for you so much. I would’ve never given you everything I’ve learned about the Abyss.”

Oh, but did he notice that the shackle that kept her hand to the wall was broken? The chain dangled on her wrist as she held onto the bar of the jail cell. She would not hesitate to prove how much he meant to her if he wished to see it. This gaze, this voice, this warmth, this intelligence, this safety. He was her home. He was her heart. He was her humanity. He was her reason to contribute everything she learned to Sumeru instead of selling it elsewhere. He was the reason she gave everything she learned to the [good guys] instead of profiting off it. He meant more than anyone would ever understand, and Lesser Lord Kusanali knew it just as much from their interactions.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s someone else, and it doesn’t matter if it’s you, but I will not allow my love for you to be meshed with trickery and deception. It’s the only emotion I’ll never allow anyone to sully, even if it’s you,” there is a crack in the bar where she holds it as she tells him. It’s obvious, she meant every single word. There was no hurt in her eyes when he spoke about it, but she was not happy. It was the only time he’ll see her lose her cool. “If you were not important, I wouldn’t have loved you, protected you, and adored you. If you were just a puppet, I would not have called you my home…”

Zarina sighs, letting go of the bar and stepping back. In a second, her anger disappears and disappointment takes over as she looks at her gloved hand. Beneath her glove and beneath the sleeves of her outfit, she knows the corruption of the Abyss made its way to show itself off, but as she calmed down, it would disappear.

The Dendro Archon did ask her, worriedly: What will happen when you no longer have what keeps you in control?

That is a good question and an answer he’ll never learn. Just how capable is she of holding the Abyss inside her? As long as her love blooms, she will never let the flame of the Abyss take over her mind. She will not put him in such danger, never. No matter what, even if she has to seal all of the Abyss in herself and become the embodiment of that dark environment, she will not falter. The Abyssal Serpent is afraid of her, and she’ll make the gods of the darkest abyss fear her just as much.

She has no other choice. No one else will ever do this step. No one else will have the courage and the insanity to do this. No one else will be able to have the same level of control as she did, the dominance everlasting.

“Everything I treasure, I leave with you,” she would confess, giving him one last look before turning around and returning to where her ‘bed’ and ‘chair’ were. Her book remained closed, but a bookmark could be seen there. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. There is only one truth when it comes to what I feel about you, the only … purity I’ve ever experienced. And the only one that’ll never be sullied. Not by Sages, not by scholars, not by you.”

Her heart’s home. Her most beloved. The one and only she’d give a ring to, a forgotten gift resting in the drawers next to her bed with a pretty emerald stone to reflect his gaze and an engraving within it that speaks of her eternal devotion. A ring she’ll never be able to give to him. Hah, who knows, maybe the Matra will find it after they’ll run through her house to find if there is anything else needed to understand what she learned without knowing that Al-Haytham already had all the answers… yet he had not opened the true trove of secrets and knowledge. What a shame.

“Leave. I have nothing to speak to you about anymore. The answers to your questions are already given. If you wish to understand the [truth] then you have to open your eyes, Scribe.”

Perhaps, if the trial goes according to plan… He’ll never have to worry about speaking with her ever again.

But would it be for the better or for the worse?

She could not tell.

After all, her love letter was her research diary, coded only for the Scribe to open and understand.

“Do not let your emotions take over the rightful punishment you’ll think I deserve after the trial, but… if it’s possible, execute me yourself. If such comes to it. I’ll accept it with a smile.”

#hi calis <3 #❄ ― IN CHARACTER. ╱ you breathe by the sun，i breathe by the moon.#al-hazen

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marvelmaniac715 · 2 years ago

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This is the penultimate instalment of my Chucky fanfiction advent calendar, day 23! This is the first and only part that contains Nica Pierce, one of my favourite characters in the Chucky franchise. It’s from her perspective, but Chucky is very much in it, because he’s inside her body. It takes place in the year that Tiffany had Nica trapped inside her house, so it could be canon compliant for all we know.

————————————————————

Nica couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, whimpering with fear every few minutes. From the outside, she was calm, but on the inside, she was being assaulted with horrific imagery.

A man having nails launched at his face. A woman in a building that looked like a school being beaten with a ruler. A man breaking his neck after falling from an upside down position in what looked like a basement. Explosions, blood, screaming. And through it all, that laugh.

Then it got more personal. Her father’s drowning, his helpless gurgles as his head was held underwater haunted Nica to her core. Her mother, first being tied up whilst heavily pregnant and then being stabbed. Alice’s nanny Jill getting electrocuted, each spark and jolt tattooing itself into the creases of her brain.

Barbie having her eye gouged out, a look of horror permanently fixed on her face, with no relief or comfort in her final moments. Ian with his hacked off jaw, tongue lolling out of his mouth in a grotesque fashion.

Finally, Nica was faced with the worst sights of all. Sweet little Alice being used as a puppet to kill people in gruesome ways. Her innocent face twisted into a malevolent smirk as she (no, he) watched the murders with a grim fascination. She must have seen a dozen of these murders, all of them bloody and foul. Then the killing spree came to an end.

One of the victims had more strength than anticipated. In the end, Alice’s death could almost be seen as humane. A quick snap of the neck. She wasn’t in control, she probably couldn’t feel it anyway, not anymore. But she must have been so scared, she was so small, and she would have been able to see all of it, unable to use her own body.

Her musings were cut off by a familiar cackle.

“So, did you like your present?”

Chucky. The monster who had hurt all of those people. Innocent victims slaughtered for his amusement. That bastard probably didn’t know how to feel any emotions besides rage and euphoria at the sight of gore. But he was a damn good actor. He’d sucked in so many people, because he was so charismatic, then he’d killed then and thought nothing of it. Nica hated even having to talk to him, but she had no other choice.

“Why did you show me all of that shit?”

She was able to feel his emotions at the back of her mind. So she felt his dark sense of glee the minute it’s shadowy tendrils caressed her spine. She shivered in fear as he chuckled again, almost mocking her. As if speaking to a young child, Chucky explained why she’d been forced to sit through that horror show.

“To show you that I can and am capable of doing so much worse to you, but I choose not to. Merry Christmas, Nica.”

#chucky #chucky series #bride of chucky #childs play #childs play 2 #curse of chucky #cult of chucky #charles lee ray #tiffany valentine #nica pierce #horror #christmas #fanfiction

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fashionablyenigmatic · 2 months ago

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Cutting a puppets strings.

Cadmus smiled at Jake. He really was a good boyfriend—sweet, kind, attentive, and they shared all the same interests. Not to mention, he had a killer body. But despite all of this, Cadmus had come to a painful realization. Jake looked at him with love in his eyes, his gaze vacant, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. Cadmus was going to break up with him—or, more accurately, have his father do it for him.

“So, where are we going, babe?” Jake asked, his expression as innocent and eager as a puppy's.

“We’re going to meet my parents tonight. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Cadmus replied, forcing a smile as he fastened his seatbelt. Jake followed suit, the sound of both locks clicking in unison.

Cadmus hadn’t meant to control Jake—not intentionally, at least. It was something that happened every now and then, without Cadmus even realizing it. After all, being a teenager was hard enough, let alone a gay teenager at an all-boys boarding school. You meet a boy, develop a crush, and then, like magic, they notice you. You hope, you wish, you pray for them to see you, and suddenly, they do. Before you know it, you're bonding over shared interests, and everything feels effortless. A sweet little romance blossoms.

But the thing is, real relationships are supposed to have bumps in the road. Silly fights, intense emotions, moments of doubt. Yet with Jake, none of that had ever happened. Everything was too perfect, too easy. And that’s when Cadmus knew—this wasn’t real love.

If Cadmus had to guess, the first sign something was wrong was how Jake’s friends reacted when they started dating. Comments like, “He’s not acting like himself,” or, “He doesn’t normally like theatre, but I guess you showed him another side of it?” kept cropping up. As Cadmus drove, the pit in his stomach grew heavier, guilt gnawing at him. He had taken Jake’s free will. One single, fractured thought had splintered into overwhelming voices: “I’m going to miss him,” “This is wrong; I can’t have him,” “Am I bad? Will I ever find real love?” “Why can’t I keep him?”

Eventually, they pulled into the grand driveway of Monroe Manor.

“Woah! Dude, you’re loaded!” Jake exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Cadmus laughed lightly, though it felt hollow. “My dad is, yeah. Come on, I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

He led Jake inside, where Alphonse greeted them with his usual air of magnanimous grace. “Jake! How wonderful to meet you! Cadmus has spoken highly of you. Please, come in.”

Cadmus smiled, but the tightness in his chest remained. Leaning in, he whispered to Jake, “I’m just going to freshen up. You hang out with him for a bit.”

As Jake walked off with Alphonse, carefree and oblivious, Cadmus took one last look at him—at the face that should have meant everything to him but somehow didn’t. Then, instead of heading to the bathroom, he quietly slipped into his bedroom and let the tears he’d been holding back finally fall.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Alphonse guided Jake to a comfortable chair and smiled warmly. “Jake, I hope you have a taste for tea. I’ve just made a new blend, and I’d love for you to try it. See if you can tell me what flavors you pick up.” He carefully poured the tea into a delicate porcelain cup and handed it to Jake.

This would be the third time Alphonse had offered one of Cadmus’s crushes a forgetting potion. The process was simple—Jake would drink the tea, and the subtle magic would begin to take effect. Alphonse would then serve him a hearty dinner, offer pleasant conversation, and finally call him a cab back to his dorm at the academy. By the time Jake woke up the next morning, his memories of Cadmus would be fuzzy, reduced to a close friendship rather than a romantic connection.

While Jake's memory of Cadmus would fade, Alphonse knew the real work would begin afterward—dealing with his heartbroken son. He had done it before, and he would do it again, all to protect Cadmus from the pain his abilities had a tendency to cause.

#Drabble #Young Cadmus

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griffin-black · 1 year ago

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'My Ordinary Life' (Chap. VII)

Author’s Note: I recommend reading this on Ao3 or Quotev.

Chapter Seven

Crucified

VII

'I stand before my maker like Moses on the hill . . . The first of reciters, I saw eternal light . . . Where thorns are a teaser, I've played a double jeux.'

Fleshy, beige, steaming and grotesque. Toby was gutting Mrs. Frazier. Like a fish. Someone’s Mother. Like his own. Probably a better Mother, a Mother whose daughter clearly loved her, cared about her enough to make her own life forfeit at the hands of three serial murderers, who cherished her, maybe even worshiped her . . . and he had assisted in her death, and he was desecrating her corpse. Numbly.

Even when hearing her scream and beg for mercy, and feeling her own flesh and blood pounding against the door which he held shut, even when he had simulated a choked apology, “It’s better this way.”

He felt nothing.

Face as blank as a limp puppet’s, eyes as dull and unpresent as fish and body pressed plainly enough, though with devastating effect, against the door, refusing to let the girl out though not trying particularly hard, thoughts of sowing even more trouble spun flirtatiously around his mind, and he wondered what should happen if he were to simply step away from the door, and let fate take its course.

Toby’s head fell back against the door, taking on an aloof air.

Would she run? Or would she fight, heading straight towards the chaos in an attempt to save her parents? He could see himself now. Pinning her arms behind her back like an officer of the law after letting her run a few feet into the hall, allowing false hope to marinate, then forcing her to stand in the doorway of her parent’s bedroom and have the house seat to the horrors. An experience of a lifetime.

He would hold her forehead back so she couldn’t look away from her parents being slaughtered like pigs as the hot blood streaked across her face and clothes. And he would bask in her shrill shrieks, the power he held.

A shiver would tingle up his spine like the cold claws of death trailing his back and he was simply enthralled by it all.

Yet as he fondled the entrails of her Mother weaved between his fingers, sliding over the bloodied creases and folds with a morbid curiosity, he felt reproachful. This wasn’t what he’d expected. This was disappointing. All the emotion he felt before, just at the thought of killing and now . . . nothing at all.

He was a monster. Monsters should still feel, but he did not. Therefore he had ascended beyond the realm of just a ‘monster’ and had breached something else entirely. Demon? Or better yet Devil?

The guts splattered back into the concave abdomen of the cadaver. Tim’s knife ended up in his hands, though at the moment he had no recollection of how, and adjusted himself, leaning in closer and closer still, to the stiff remains until he was practically nose to nose with the dead woman. He had expected something greater, something more, something enthralling. Watery eyes trailed over her blue-hued skin, drained of blood, and over her blonde hair that swam through the air from an incoming breeze from the broken window. For a moment Toby almost felt remorse for taking part in ending this woman’s life. He thought she looked nymphish, like something of the sea. Magical, pure and untouched by death’s cold hands. He could smell the salt in the air.

The memory of killing her husband was hazy and muted. Toby couldn’t remember what had happened, how it happened or even how he felt. It was like watching himself through someone else’s eyes. Was killing him satisfactory and enthralling?

Hunched over the woman, he made a shallow cut with the knife along the length of her cheekbone and watched quizzically as the wound failed to bleed for a long time. Maneuvering the knife so the blade stuck away from the corpse, he placed a gentle hand on her face; thumb on her cheek, palm caressing the back of her head, knife handle against her jaw. The blood from the cut seeped slowly like molasses until it had pooled enough to form a drop and Toby swiped at the cut with his thumb, finding it unsightly, and stared into her eyes.

She coughed out a gurgle suddenly, but Toby didn’t jump.

She wasn’t dead, not yet. She— was— HIS.

With a peculiar, audible gasp Toby fell forward, and in one swift movement his forehead hit the carpet, his face touching hers, and raised the hunting knife.

“Goodbye.” He croaked softly.

He plunged the blade back into her open abdomen, just above the pelvic bone, and pulled upwards, finishing the gutting. Leaving the knife at her sternum, he switched to strangling her, his hand shaking from the sheer force it took to choke her and her weak form began to retort, thwarting and scratching at his back, neck and wrist. Toby made another sound, like he was the victim of strangulation and tears streamed down his face. A mirthless smile stretched at his skin, burning like he was being torn apart from the inside and he gripped the knife once again, letting go of her throat as she was now clearly dead, and stabbed her chest over and over again. Each sound escaping his lips more pitiful, desperate and primal than the last. He couldn’t stop, but she had. Her arms fell, dead weighted, with a macabre thud.

Toby’s chest expanded and caved, his entire body quivering, and he grabbed a lock of her hair, feathering it in his hands.

Uh, oh. Looks like you’ve really killed her now. How naughty. Naughty, naughty, naughty. Do you think she deserved it? What was your motive, Mr. Ripper?

Toby managed to struggle out a weak, “It doesn’t matter.”

I’m sure it matters to her. Her family. Her daughter. Don’t you? Then why did you do it, Gein?

“Because— Because I . . . I have to.” He whimpered.

Hm. Because of him you have to, you mean?

But are you certain?

Toby sat up, finally peeling himself away from the now certainly dead woman and sat on his knees, hugging himself. He brushed his own hair from his face, leaving behind a streak of red across the bridge of his nose then tilted his head. From her neck to spilling over gut he dragged his hand down and slowly rose to his wobbling feet. His jacket and jeans were drenched and clung to his skin as he bent down to grab Tim’s knife from her chest. It made an awful sound. He cleaned it against his thigh.

How do you feel right now?

He paused, not expecting to think about that. He felt . . . He felt . . .

“Electric.”

The adrenaline coursing through his system felt amazing, like some kind of high. His heart was beating fast and heavy, but it wasn’t painful or shortening his breaths. He closed his eyes, enjoying every violent pulse echoing throughout his limbs. Toby felt something. Really, truly felt something. And it was almost too much.

It wasn’t that manic kind of emotion. The type that comes in hard and fades in a matter of minutes, like nothing happened, like the fear and confusion he’d felt the past week that had made him question his grasp on reality. He had felt so little, so shallowly, yet so manically. Neurotically. Then it’d disappear in a snap. Perhaps he was desensitized to the point of numbness.

Nothing stuck, nothing clung. So he felt nothing mattered. He didn’t even have memory of the emotion. Nothing could kick it back up again, like kicking up dust. No actions had consequences if emotion failed to resonate. He hadn’t felt real emotion ever. Only the watered-down, numb yet stirring beneath the surface, festering like a rotting, infected wound, “emotion.”

But this was real. So real.

He was shaking from the thrill, the high. He stared at the dead woman, admiring what he’d done to her, what she’d done to him and rolled his neck. He’d had enough of fear. This one moment wasn’t enough to completely snuff out the terrified little boy he still was nor completely override the immense pleasure of the crime he’d just committed, but he was done with fear, just for that night. He knew tomorrow he’d be in the exact same place as he always was, scared and shaking with his knees up to his chin, but not then. At that moment, he was someone else. He had ascended above whatever “Toby” was and reached something he thought was intangible. Greatness.

But as he basked in thought, something began to spill from between his lips and nose, something that wasn’t blood. It was pitch black like tar, but slick like blood and thicker. Toby hardly paid any attention to this, instead still smiling while his shoulders trembled from silent laughter. The mystery substance continued to leak from his face in massive waves that, should they have been blood, would’ve killed him from hemorrhaging.

He fell to his knees, something crawling up his throat and his skull was pulsating, banging beneath his skin. Every breath traveled instantly into his head. Something was worming around in his mind, swimming around, shifting everything like an incorporeal lobotomy, pulverizing it all to sludge. Toby’s hands went to his temples, gripping at his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling.

Whatever this was wasn’t going to stop him. He held his sleeve to the lower half of his face and made his way to the master bathroom, stumbling inside. Toby wasn’t sure if he was swaying from “blood-loss,” adrenaline or plain clumsiness, but he had a hard time walking in a straight line.

The bathroom was as pristine and perfect as the rest of the house. Grotesquely “white-picket fence” which made Toby all the more proud of the owner’s deaths. Looking into the mirror he was almost shocked with what he was greeted with. Soaked in blood, black as ink mess all over his upper-half, eyes dilated and unfocused, body trembling. He removed his hand which caused a flood of the black to splatter onto the white countertops and flooring and stared at himself. Toby gagged once more, placing his hands around his neck as he coughed, and slammed his fist into the counter, rattling the various toiletries. However, this caused him to notice a strange marking on his tongue, something black, something . . . familiar.

His heart dropped to his feet, melting into the tile.

Another symbol.

He shut his mouth and glared at the mirror.

He didn’t care. The Operator was helping him. That much was obvious. The Master was allowing him to do all of this, to feel again, so it wasn’t his place to question it. He was loyal. He had killed for it. There was no turning back now. That’s what the symbol meant.

It owned him.

Toby left the bathroom when something, he didn’t know what, came over him. He didn’t know if he was even himself, then, but using the copious amounts of blood that spilled from Mrs. Frazier, and even then still needing some from the dead dog, he painted on the wall of the bedroom using his sleeve. Pulling it over his hand, he moved it back and forth over the blood pool allowing the cloth to absorb the lukewarm liquid and marked on the wall the same symbol that had now been branded three times into his skin. His symbol.

When he was finished, he stepped back, taking a moment to appreciate his work. His shoulder ticked, causing him to realize how long it had been since his tourette’s acted up, then sighed.

“Thank you.”

Toby stepped over Mrs. Frazier, using his Taylor’s to turn her cheek and see her dead face one last time, then carelessly let her head fall back and ambled out of the room. As he made his way to the other Proxies, he had heard them making noise in the den, it was then he understood why Tim smoked. He was instantly addicted to the excitement of killing, feeling dependent on that feeling. Toby knew he could never go back after he’d had his taste. But with any addiction came withdrawals, and he was already feeling it. Adrenaline withdrawals.

The young Proxy stumbled into the den, seeing Tim and Brian occupied in their own right and he jutted both of his arms out, using the archway to support himself. He thought he might faint.

Toby felt giddy, like a child during a sugar rush, and restlessly tapped his shoe. Brian finally noticed him and tore off his hood with wide eyes.

A murderer that’s not used to a murderer? Toby wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t afraid of him or Tim.

Brian continued to glare at him, looking him up and down no doubt due to the sheer amount of blood covering him, and Tim sighed. Mr. Frazier’s body was propped up against the wall, and from the path of blood leading from the backyard Toby could tell they had dragged him inside. Brian had taken one of Toby’s hatchets, the newer, sharper one, after he had killed Mr. Frazier and Toby now saw it attached to his belt.

“The girl ran off. No idea where she is now.” Brian said, though still eyeing him.

Waltzing over, Toby snatched the hatchet from him and walked past, not caring to see his expression.

“Looks like the kid had to do your job this time.” He spat, leaving the house through the screen door.

He heard footsteps behind him, but continued walking. Someone grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at them.

“What was that?” Brian hissed. Tim slowly made his way to them, though he was completely different, once again. He was quiet, almost reserved, and small in his movements.

“What was—” Toby looked directly into his eyes, trying to be serious, “What was what—” but burst out laughing. His arms were wrapped around his gut as he could hardly contain himself, and he fell to the dirt. It felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Brian merely watched him, shocked and slightly disgusted. “He’s crazy.”

Tim arrived silently next to him, crossing his arms, both watching Toby.

As Toby rolled on the floor, giggling like a manic toddler, he landed on his side and suddenly felt his insides twist, teeth bare and eyes squint. For a moment the laughter ceased, making Tim and Brian believe it was over, until, it started as a hiccup, a strained inhale, scarcely something miserable. Arms still holding himself in a pitiful hug, Toby couldn’t stop the stream of tears which soon cascaded down his face. He rolled onto his back, palms pressing harshly against his eyes and cried.

And sobbed.

And screamed.

Tim and Brian reacted severely, pulling Toby from the ground, only for him to fall back down or pull the hair from his scalp, or try to quiet him in every possible way. With anger, compassion, violence, threats. Nothing could quiet him. They were starting to panic.

Toby was between his legs, pulling at his hair and screaming nonstop. Though he didn’t show it, Brian was terrified of his reaction. Tim, however, seemed nonexistent, like nothing that was happening was happening before him. He was virtually catatonic.

Brian understood this, and realized quickly he was now alone in this. That no amount of reasoning would get either of his partners to snap out of it and shouted a curse.

He decided to deal with Tim first. Grabbing his arm and dragging him back to his truck, Brian locked him in the passenger seat so he couldn’t leave, which took just under twenty minutes due to how far away he had left the vehicle. Then, when he finally came within earshot of Toby, his throat was absolutely shredded from the primal shouting. Brian came up to him and sighed. Toby looked on the verge of passing out from the strain he’d put himself through and as he grabbed Toby’s hand, hoping that taking a gentler approach wouldn’t arouse him back to screaming and further incapacitating himself, he heard the sound he had dreaded.

Police sirens.

“Shit.” Brian pulled his junior from the ground and gripped his shoulder, then placed a comforting hand on his face. “Listen, Toby. Y’here that? Not good. So we’ve gotta get outta here, alright, kiddo? C’mon, Toby, gimme something . . . “

Toby was far gone, but managed to give Brian a subtle nod.

“Okay, good. Now, run with me before we become cop food.”

The two remaining Proxies sprinted from the house, the sirens getting closer before they could make distance. Jumping over logs, rocks and nearly tripping a few times on tree roots, the two made it to Brian’s truck without much of a battle, though a few branches had whipped across their faces, but other than that, mostly unharmed.

Brian forced Toby into the backseat, then sat in the front himself and started the engine, before taking off into the night.

******

Trees like beams of wooden light zoomed past the vehicle, blurring to darkness once the headlights moved on down the road. A hazy radio blurted out bytes of music, static-y and gravelly from the ill reception caused by the extreme winds that battered through the trees and against the car’s sides. The sky was moonless and cloudless, but the feeling of an impending storm permeated the air.

Brian sat behind the wheel gripping it tightly with one hand. He blinked slowly, fighting sleep in the dreary yet restful atmosphere. The wind continued to whistle and howl which only dampened his attempts at remaining awake, as the sound was a sound he had always associated with sleep since he was a young boy.

A finger landed over his lip as he reached forward and blasted the A/C to full. Cold could keep him awake a little longer. Though the air stung his eyes, they were already bloodshot from the stress of the Proxies’ most recent job. He had taken to performing something like dissociating during their jobs. Brian imagined it like his soul, his shadow self, escaping from his body for those few minutes of evil, then slowly taping itself back to him once the deed was done, and the adrenaline kick diminished. But each time he did so his shadow was a little more torn than before and it was taking longer and longer for him to return to lucidity, as the shadow was fading and becoming more translucent with every murder.

Toby had taken him out of it, his shadow self had sewn itself back together in record time, and he was beginning to see the problems that would arise with the addition of the young Proxy. Outside stressors was the last thing he or Tim needed. They were already too fragile, and Toby was the greatest possible stressor. He was easily the most mentally handicapped on top of being the youngest, he brought down the duo’s strength immensely. The Proxies were only as strong as their weakest link, and at the moment Toby was that rusting chain.

But that freakout . . . Brian wasn’t sure how he would deal with that in the future. He hoped it was just a one time thing, but he wasn’t the type to just sit back and hope. He was a planner, and probably the only reason the team was still together. Even if they were only held together with brittle string and loose stitches.

He felt a kind of jealousy towards Toby. He had two older partners to take care of him whilst they had nothing. Brian wasn't granted the privilege of breaking down and screaming and crying and losing his mind for a moment. He had to be the glue to hold the Proxies together, and it was a thankless job. At least from the kid it was.

Tim was useless against himself, so he was the exception. He was much easier to forgive than Toby, and even then Brian couldn’t hate the boy. He felt . . . paternal towards him. Like an older brother. He resonated with him, after all they were in the same situation, but all parts of their relationship’s short lifespan were conflicting. Brian felt the need to take care of him, but also hated him for making him responsible for his well being. He hated Toby’s brutality, and his mental issues were a whole other problem and constant irritability, but Brian had to wonder how much he was responsible for. He already knew the important bits of the boy’s life, knew that God seemed to hate him for whatever reason, but how much was mental disorders and how much was their Master, he didn’t know.

Brian glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Toby spread across the backseat, fast asleep. The hood of his jacket rose and fell with his shoulders after every deep breath, and his light hair gently waved from the A/C. Blood covered nearly every part of him, and usually the thought of the blood hitting his car seats would’ve bugged Brian, but in that moment he didn’t care. Toby actually looked peaceful then. Almost like how he imagined he would normally appear if all of this hadn’t happened to him.

But it did.

Toby Rogers was a murderer and so was he. Even flirting with the thought of hating him for being a killer was irrational and he knew as much, but it was tempting. Brian was insatiable when it came to pondering right and wrong. His life at the moment was all consumed by good and evil, morality. And it felt to him, especially recently, that every second was spent contemplating not only himself, but his colleagues as well.

Was he innocent or guilty? But, he supposed the terms and differentiation wasn’t between innocent or guilty, it was guilty or not guilty. Was he not guilty? Was Tim? Was Toby?

Could any of them be pardoned for what they had done? He looked back at Toby, and for a split second became the ultimate judge and decided that the boy was in fact guilty on all charges, sentenced to death, but willed that thought away. Toby needed him, just as much as he needed Toby. Even if for different reasons.

He could prove to be a valuable asset just like Tim, but Brian had to take control of himself and stop being so impulsive. One too many times he’d let insults shoot out of him out of pure animosity, and that would be damaging to their relationship. He had to play nice, even if he wanted to be anything but, since he could already tell Toby and Tim have a rocky relationship, neither fully understanding the other, and he didn’t feel the need to bridge that gap of understanding. They’d either figure it out or they wouldn’t. As long as he was the common denominator shared by the two, things would work out.

He blinked, feeling the weight of his eyelids as they remained shut for just a moment too long, then jumped back awake. His elbow accidentally struck Tim who was asleep next to him, causing him to stir awake.

Tim sat up and zipped up his jacket.

“Sorry.” Brian said shortly. “It’s to keep me awake.”

“Where’s the fire?” Tim asked groggily. Brian figured out he was not fully awake and shook his head.

“No fire. Just go back to sleep.”

It was moments like these. Moments of utter normalcy that drove him mad. They didn’t deserve normal, or quiet, or peaceful. Only chaos and pandemonium. But he, along with them, was completely selfish. He still craved these moments where nothing was happening and it was almost like they were average, everyday, good people. He still believed he deserved something like shelter, warmth, a hot meal, music, maybe even a little fun. And he allowed himself those privileges when they presented themselves, but deep down he always knew he was no longer deserving of them, but he was still selfish and felt as though he was.

******

Chief Detective Lincoln didn’t know what to make of this case. The sheer brutality of it had led a few of his senior officers to leave the scene with their hands over their mouths. They had never seen anything like this. Not in their small town. Not in Veilwood.

The Detective scoffed, rubbing his bald head in the middle of the Frazier’s den, which was covered in blood, photographers and markers, as an EMT team rolled a black body bag past him.

“God damn it.” He sighed, tired from the 4AM emergency call. A woman stood next to him holding a clipboard and a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand. She had curled blonde hair and perfectly manicured nails and a pair of sleek glasses rested on the bridge of her nose. Even at the early hour her makeup was flawless and clothes neatly pressed. She handed the cup to the Detective who took it without thinking, then tightened her ponytail.

“What a mess, Dr. Kelley. What a mess.” He lamented.

“Seems like ever since that Rogers kid made Pompeii of his neighborhood Veilwood’s been in murky waters.”

Detective Lincoln nodded absentmindedly, taking a sip of the hot coffee and relishing its warmth. “You can’t possibly think he has something to do with this? Do you?”

His associate shrugged. “It checks out.”

“And she’d be right to think so.” A man’s voice piped up from the front door. “She was his Psychiatrist, after all.”

“Clark.” Lincoln groaned. The Detective and his associate turned around and saw exactly who they had suspected pulling on a pair of black latex gloves.

“Special Agent Ashton L. Clark. The FBI has control over this scene now, please tell the rest of your men to leave before they pollute the crime scene.”

“Fine.” Detective Lincoln said. Pollute. Typical choice of words from him. He whistled and instantly all the officers, EMTs, and photographers left the house in an orderly fashion.

The Agent was tall, standing at just over six feet, and wore a perfectly tailored suit and trench coat. Though Lincoln would never admit it out of pride, the Agent was in better shape than any of his men and likely better looking. Clark’s hair was dark and always parted to the side and his misty, grey eyes were always shielded with a pair of glasses. But the salt to the wound, the one thing that insulted Lincoln the most, was the Special Agent’s age. Twenty six. Way too young for an FBI Agent, even for their own requirements. But Clark was something like their pet, their champion athlete piece de resistance, so rules and laws didn’t seem to apply to him.

The Detective had met Agent Clark many times and he was always as disagreeable to be around as the last chance encounter. He was haughty, arrogant, and snarky. He had something like an ego, though it was in proper balance with his feats, but he was also irreparably dark, tempered and quick to violence. The amount of times the FBI had assisted in covering up his brutality Lincoln couldn’t count on his fingers or toes, but every ill natured action Clark had made was always swept under the rug.

He was a genius. He was young. He was good looking. And he was intimidating. He had everything going for him and the government was willing to pardon him over and over for his crimes, no matter how vicious and malaise. At sixteen the Agent had solved every major cold case the Pasadena PD had on record, then went on to solve the two biggest cases in NYC in living memory. Clark was something like an unstoppable force amidst the FBI Intelligence Branch and always, without fail, had their blessing. He had the government on their knees for him. So he could act as much like a vigilante as he wanted, with the government’s money.

Detective Lincoln seemed to be the only one that didn’t fear the Special Agent even slightly. Everyone else quivered at the mere mention of his name. Lincoln inspected his attire and rolled his eyes.

“I see daddy government spares no expense when it comes to darling Clark.”

The Agent stepped into the house, taking a wide perusal of the space and smiled grimly, though no ounce of happiness flashed behind his cold eyes. He didn’t bother looking at Lincoln, likely thinking he was wasting his time, but shot back with a remark nonetheless.

“And I see the small town Detective still can’t keep his city in order. How . . . exactly has the rebound of Tobias Erin Rogers’ case been? Do your men still question your authority after your temporary suspension?” He tutted. “Six more teenagers died under your careful watch.”

“You bastard!” The Detective marched towards the Agent, getting right in his face. The Agent didn’t even reel. Clark adjusted his glasses. “Anger never did suit you, Detective. I’d try reading some more. We all know your intellect needs further advancement. Maybe then your temper will actually cause something like . . . mild discomfort?” The Agent said with a stern expression.

Detective Lincoln sputtered in fury so Dr. Kelley placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Now if you don’t mind, Detective. My men need this crime scene completely void of contamination. So if you would . . .”

Dr. Kelley guided the Detective out of the home with a quick meeting of the Agent’s eyes, and nearly crashed into a reckless force in the doorway.

“Ash!” The force shouted.

“Grant, I don’t even want to ask what you’re doing here.” The Agent said, still inspecting the house.

“Heard you got called out here. Got Mueller to swap my assignment with Richards’. I am from Colorado, y’know.” Grant stood beside Clark, crossing his arms. He was an Agent like Clark but specialized in forensics and violent encounters. “Maybe you need someone who knows this state. Details?”

“So,” The Agent sighed, annoyed. “Are you officially on the case, or did Mueller just send you here to ‘assist’ me?”

“I’m officially on the case, Ash, when did that ever matter to you? You always hand me the files of your cases regardless.” Clark grit his teeth, lost in thought. Then, “Two dead. Husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Frazier. They have a daughter, Sylvia, who is currently missing. Police were called a few times by neighbors after hearing screaming coming from their backyard, though it doesn’t seem to fit the timeframe of when Mr. Frazier was still alive. He was killed in the backyard, then dragged in here.”

“God. It’s soup in here.” Grant gasped, finally seeing the hellish state the house was in.

“Believe it or not this isn’t nearly as bad.”

“Compared to?”

The Agent motioned for his partner to follow him upstairs then led him to the master bedroom where the highly brutalized corpse of Mrs. Frazier lay, parallel to a bloodied painting on the wall. Clark scanned the room, lips pulled into a line. Blood was everywhere.

“I . . . The Operator killer?” Grant remained in the doorway, hesitant as he always was to step further in and potentially contaminate the scene. “So that’s why you were called out here . .. But I don’t understand. What is he doing in Colorado?”

“Killers.” Clark corrected, crouching down to get a better look at the body. “This feels different. I was starting to think the Operator Killer could actually be more than one person, but this actually confirms it.”

“And the higher-ups forced you out here or?”

“That. And I asked to be here.” Clark paused. “I think Toby Erin Rogers had his hand in this murder.”

Grant made a face, taken aback by the Agent’s theory. “That’s a leap.”

“Is it? I guess we’ll see. When forensics determines the weapons used to slice up Mr. Frazier, a hatchet is going to be among them and probably a knife.”

“So either Toby Erin Rogers is a copycat killer or he’s been . . . recruited? Ashton this is a stretch. And even if it was Toby, which is still very unlikely, what would the Operator Killer want with him? As far as we know Paul Jacobsen was a crime of passion. A revenge kill. He’s not the type to go serial.”

“Why not? What if there was something we missed with Toby? Like those—”

“Like those teenagers. You still think that was him?”

“Six dead kids from his high school?” Clark scoffed. “Grant, I know it was him.”

Grant sighed and crossed his arms. “I don’t think a seventeen year old, mentally disturbed boy is capable of something like that.”

“That’s another thing. Why does everyone call him a seventeen year old boy? I hear it all the time on the news and from our colleagues. Seventeen year old boy. That doesn’t sound odd to you? He’s practically a man— a few months from being a man, actually. Everyone treats him like an innocent party or a victim.”

“Because he is.”

“No. Toby Rogers may appear small and weak and too naïve to perform such heinous acts, but I know better.” Clark walked around the room, completely at home amidst the death, blood and gore. “He’s a monster. A Bundy, Dahmer, or Gein in the making. Our only saving grace is he’s more intelligent than even he knows, so people better start believing me and fast cause in time he’ll see how smart he is, and by then he’ll be impossible to catch.”

“Okay. Let’s say he was recruited and go back to what I asked. What would the Operator Killer want with him? You’re a profiler! You said the Operator killer is likely a white, middle-aged, intelligent psychopath. What does he want with an emotional teenager?”

Clark sighed, feeling frustrated with his partner. “Well, for one thing, I’m beginning to think the Operator Killer is younger than middle-aged, like twenties or thirties and— Oh, I don’t know. A friend? A partner in crime? Fresh meat? Someone to toy with? Family? There’s many reasons serial killers team up. A shared delusion, maybe?” The Agent already knew the answer to this, he just wanted to see his partner’s reaction.

“Absolutely impossible, genius. A shared delusion? They didn’t even know each other before how could—”

The Agent fiddled with his cellular and pulled up a photo from the crime scene of Paul Jacobsen. It was small on the screen, but easy to make out as a bedroom even amidst the piles of ash and fire damage. Grant squinted to get a better look.

“Tobias’ room. The drawing in the sketchbook on his bed. That look familiar to you?” Clark snapped.

There on the bed, a sketchbook laid open with a symbol crudely drawn in red ink on the exposed page. The same symbol that was painted on the wall next to them and carved into Rodney and Eliza Schuart’s bodies, the Operator Killer’s first known victims.

Grant sighed in disbelief. “Shit!”

#creepypasta #horror #slenderman #slenderverse #masky #hoody #marble hornets #ticci toby #toby rogers #the proxies #the operator #proxy #fanfiction #fanfic #my ordinary life #chapter seven

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