#Keel Road

[hayleylovesjessica]

I'm well aware that classical music is so, so nerdy and that, among all the sub-genres within classical, chamber music has to be the nerdiest, but IDGAF! The Danish String Quartet are a top 5 ensemble worldwide, and one of the things that make them so special is the fact that they make not only outstanding recordings of the key string quartet repertoire but also drop-dead beautiful folk-inspired recordings of traditional Nordic music. Like, my partner couldn't care less about the Danish String Quartet's Beethoven or Shostakovich recordings, but she loves their previous folk album, Last Leaf. The folk album they made prior to Last Leaf, Wood Works, is really good, too! So, I'm really, really looking forward to putting on Keel Road when my partner gets home so that we can listen to it for the first time together.

[twasjane]

Me: Ever think about the fact that Young Sam Vimes is born on the Glorious 25th of May so that whenever Vimes celebrates his son's birthday a little part of him has to think about the fall of The Glorious Republic of Treacle Mine Road?

The cashier at Lidl: There's half a dozen people waiting behind you and you have five items. You are the reason I drink.

[jackandclairearesiblings]

Dean with emetophobia and Sam with chronic motion sickness

[nobodybetterlookatme]

🥰

[dimity-lawn]

Night Watch:

The mob: Let us see what you have there!

Vimes: *calmly sitting on the steps* a cup of cocoa

The Mob: NO!!!

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

ford goes through the portal potty and ends up meeting stan again while trying to hitchhike his way back to oregon

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

Sean Eduardo Diaz once again the prophet of our times.

[saltasaurus-loricatus]

Didn't want to do my homework, so I procrastinated by practicing drawing.

Behold. A shitty OC convo drawn on my favorite dinosaur sticky notes.

Kordin: Road trip with friends!!!!

Litton: We are literally on the run from the government!

[tojisun]

something about best friend simon not knowing any boundaries (or, deliberately bulldozing through boundaries)—

the way he’s the one who picks you up in the airport even though you and your boyfriend already made arrangements for the pick up, but simon just says he offered to take over because your parents needed help setting things up in their lake house and that your boyfriend offered to help them.

(simon made him offer to help. it’s hidden so well behind honest concern that your boyfriend didn’t notice that simon’s been pushing him into the role until simon's calling out his goodbye's, saying he's off to pick you up now.

"oh, i can-"

"don't sweat it, mate," simon replies with a pinched smile. "i'll drive carefully, promise. bring her back, all safe and lovely.")

you didn’t even know simon’s invited to the vacation, but you gladly murmured to him your thanks, too caught up in your exhaustion to notice the little mean grin that tugged his lips up.

you clamber to his rover messily, blinking slowly, and before you can reach over to buckle your seatbelt, simon leans over and does it for you.

"could've done it myself, y'know?" you whine.

"sure you can," he grunts as he pulls himself back to his seat. "not like y'were one blown wind away from keeling over, but sure."

you roll your eyes at him playfully before biting a giggle when he scrunches his nose at you in reply.

he takes the long route back.

"want anythin' to eat?" simon asks after a while.

"don't we—" you pause, yawning. "need to hurry back?"

"not really," he replies, eyes flicking to the side mirror before he rounds a sharp curve. your body jostles, falling to the side, slipping towards the gear, and simon's hand falls to your lap to steady you.

he doesn't remove it even when the road straightens.

"okay," you finally reply, tired eyes blinking at the size of his hand on your leg. "m'kinda hungry."

he huffs a fond laugh and says he knows a place close by.

it's a local burger joint, apparently known for their fries and milkshake. simon buys you one.

"aww," you croon, grabby hands pulling the cold cup closer to you. "thank you, si."

you two eat in his rover, too lazy to actually settle in the diner.

it's greasy and messy and delicious. simon says you look filthy, before reaching over to wipe the stray milkshake on the corner of your lips. you poke your tongue out to him in reply; he says to swallow that back in before he yanks it out.

you laugh, chucking a balled-up napkin towards him before jumping out of his SUV to run to the bathroom.

(you didn't notice the throngs of messages coming in from your boyfriend nor the way simon swiped your phone from your back pocket and kept it.

he remembers your passcode—still unchanged even after all these years—and reads the messages that your boyfriend sent.

he's asking if you've landed or if you and simon are on your way back. he says he also misses you dearly, and that he can't wait to finally be with you again.

simon deletes them all.)

the two of you return when it’s well into the night, and everyone's gone to sleep. you sigh, feeling the exhaustion hitting you harder now, and amble to your room where you know your boyfriend must be waiting for you, only to stop when simon holds your arm.

"wanna sleep with me?"

"what," you begin, turning your sleepy eyes up at him. "no that's alright. my boyfriend's—"

"asleep, already. probably got ordered 'round by your pa, huh?" he smiles, his thumb swiping along the side of your forearm. "y'might wake up the poor lad if you go there so why don't you sleep in my room just for tonight?"

simon's words wash over you and you know, somehow, there's something wrong with them, with him, but your mind is bogged down by your drowsiness. you can't rationalize what's going on, so you say yes.

that's all simon needed to pull you to his room and into his bed.

you slip out of your clothes, per simon's instructions—his words all muffled as you try to stay up awake—and slip into something loose and baggy—stretched in its overuse but so comfortable on your skin.

it's simon's shirt, you'll learn tomorrow, but for now, you drop to the bed, your eyes shut close, and fall in deep sleep.

the last thing you feel is the heavy dip on the mattress behind you before a thick arm is thrown over your side, pressing into the fat of your stomach to push you back and into simon's front.

limbs lay tangled together, breaths shared, and the summer heat buzzing as skin meets skin.

-

simon doesn't get any better after that. he gets so clingy, and intrudes in your space and forces your boyfriend out.

your boyfriend complained, of course he did, but what could you do? what could you say? simon's your childhood friend so there's nothing malicious between you two. there's nothing more into it.

he gave up fighting then, fists tucked close to his sides as you kissed his jaw and told him to trust you on your words.

but—

how can he calm down? how can he not burn in anger when he sees the way simon pulls you to his lap and you readily nuzzle close. granted it's all because the two of you are watching some game on your phone and the position must be the only way to watch it comfortably, whatever, but it rubs him so wrong how familiar you and simon fall into each other.

how can he not doubt your words when he catches simon's eyes narrowed at him in quiet delight, before deliberately curling his arm around your stomach, and throws the other one on your lap, so dangerously close to your crotch.

it's even worse when the family gathers to the lake, and you and simon are chasing each other, playfighting in front of everyone. simon picks you up with ease, big hands digging into the fat of your belly or your thighs or gripping your ass like simon's so intimately familiar with your body.

how can he not hate himself a little bit when he realizes that it was always you and simon. that that's the dynamic.

-

(and if simon successfully seduces you during this vacation, well—)

-

ext

[hayleylovesjessica]

Oh oh oh! One of my favorite string quartets, the Danish String Quartet, whom I've been lucky enough to see live two or three times, is releasing a new folk music album in August, Keel Road! For me, this is like when Taylor wins an award somewhere and announces her next album.

[a-pile-of-contented-ravens]

forever abnormal about young vetinari in night watch. He's 18(?). He failed his stealthy movement module because the teacher never saw him in his classes. he taught himself to stand still. He hid four copies of "some observation on the art of invisibility" in "anecdotes of the great accountants, vol. 3" and manipulated Downey into burning the fifth. He won't shut up about keel to his aunt. "I think i saw a genius at work" "he stares into shadows. Interesting." He killed Lord Winder in the middle of a crowded room. When he saw keel "die" he killed four men with a lilac held in his mouth. He becomes the man who implements the reforms the glorious Revolution of the peoples republic of treacle mine road fought for. "Do it now or receive an aunts curse!"

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: ily

England passes in beautiful shades of green, the last time you'll see it, so you soak it in. Rolling hills streak the landscape like scars. In the distance, you glimpse faded architecture, imagining people living and working there. An ivy-covered university appears, and you picture yourself dozing off in a lecture. These little fantasies entertain you for the next two hours, but Blue isn't distracted by the same game. When you look at her arm, you notice pink scratches just below where the friendship bracelet hugs her wrist, made by her nails mindlessly.

You tear your eyes from the window and nudge your shoulder against hers. "Hey. What do you call a cow with no legs?"

Her lips twitch at the broken silence and she lifts her azure eyes to yours, a bead of sunlight catching in them. "What?"

"Ground beef."

Those eyes roll. "That's stupid."

Nereida smiles from the other side of her. "Oh, I've got one. What did the ocean say to the beach?"

Blue sighs. "Ghost said that one before. Nothing—it just 'waved'."

A recoil passes over Nereid's kind eyes. "I apologize. That's the only one I know."

Quiet air fills the space again, and when you notice Blue's nails dig back into her wrist, you gently lace your fingers through hers and pull her hand to your lap, allowing her to scratch your thigh, instead. 

When an old theme park erects from the grass, Blue's interest piques. "Woah. What is that?"

"None of it works anymore," Ghost mutters, one hand on the wheel.

"It looks cool, though. I have to pee, anyway. Can we stop here?"

"I could use a little stretch for my legs," Nereida adds.

The pitstop is brief enough to allow Blue the chance to curiously look through the decrepit bumper cars, carousel, and even a small rollercoaster that still has the car sitting mid-track. She grabs Ari's hand to show him, but he doesn't seem as intrigued given the pale look on his face. He ends up rushing to a bush and keeling over.

"The back gets a bit bumpy," Kyle says when he notices your expression. "He'll be fine."

"I'll switch with him for the rest of the way."

"You don't have to."

"It's fine. He can probably entertain Blue better than I can."

Everyone uses the small break to eat a little lunch. You already had some of the beans Ghost packed, so you feel uncertain whether you should eat anymore of his food. You haven't even discussed sharing. Rather, you ration the jerky you made and save the rest. 

It is a small meal, so you eat it slowly to trick your stomach into feeling full. Just before getting back to the truck, you spot a tree by the entrance to Kettering Kastle. Hickory. Paul told you once they make for great arrows, a softer hardwood. Pliable yet strong. This excites you. Your sheath is only half-full, so you grab your serrated knife and cut a few midsized branches to take with you.

Sitting in the truck bed is far from pleasant. The tail wind makes it hard to breathe, and you have to grab the side of the truck to keep yourself from flying out. Kyle notices your struggle and seems amused, but reaches an arm over in offering. You hold onto him and it does some to keep you stable. 

The motorway passes through Kettering, which is a smaller city. The smell is retched, though the only Greys you spot don't take notice to you, trapped between buildings and toppled telephone poles. You make out a sign that reads A14 and figure it is headed to Cambridge. If you continue this pace, you'll reach the coastline by sundown.

Of course, things don't work out that way. The road becomes more obstructed with abandoned vehicles. Ghost has to weave through them like a maze, wasting time and fuel. The sun crawls higher in the sky. Finally, there are a few kilometers of straight road. Speed ticks up only to come to an abrupt halt when he reaches an underpass. You let go of Kyle and stand up to see what has caused the stop—a semi truck completely blocks the way through it.

"Jesus," you mutter.

Consecutive slams of the fronts doors indicate Price and Ghost are checking it out. Kyle hops out with them. After a few minutes, he returns and explains with a sigh, "We'll have to backtrack and find a side street that will lead to another motorway ramp."

"That's going to eat time. The sun will set soon."

He offers his arm again as Ghost begins reversing. "I know. It's fine, we'll just get to the water tomorrow. No rush, yeah?"

It adds an extra hour and a half. The sky turns a remarkable orange that would've had you gawking if not for your irritation of having to stop again. Ghost pulls over just before it gets too dark to set up the tents in a small market town called Haverhill. There's hardly anything here except fields of bright, yellow flowers and little shops with slanted CLOSED signs. It is actually pleasant and well-preserved, until you catch the distinguishable shape of a corpse hanging from one of the telephone poles, a black trash bag over its head.

"Don't look at it."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," you dismiss under your breath. 

A more forested patch of land at the edge of the town is where you make camp for the night.

They eat canned goods and you finish your last pieces of jerky. This means you'll have to find more food for yourself tomorrow, or ask Ghost for some. The thought makes you anxious. The last thing you want is to seem like an extra burden. Dead weight that they'd be better off leaving behind. But he also didn't comment when you ate the beans. The uncertainty of where you stand means you need to make yourself useful.

The men need rest, so you offer to keep watch.

Prices dismisses you. "You don't have to, Twix. The three of us can take turns."

"No, really. I'll keep watch and you guys can all get more sleep. I've just been sitting in a car all day, anyway."

He gives in, visibly fatigued after being up over twenty-four hours.

Ghost and Price sleep first.

That leaves you sitting with Kyle when the stars begin to flicker like bright, little heartbeats against the black night.

You pull out your smoother knife—the one you found back at that base—to carve the sticks you found, careful of your bandaged thumb. 

Kyle lays his rifle across his lap. "First time I am seeing you smile today and it's while carving sticks." 

"Arrows," you correct, holding one up and tapping your index lightly against the sharpened point. "And it's good wood. Hickory."

"You're an easy woman to please," he teases.

"My tastes have changed over the years."

"Really? I can't imagine you as one of those people who cared too much about nice things."

You flash him a raised brow. "Are you saying I was cheap?"

He nudges your knee. "Not what I'm saying. You just seem like someone who would prefer a little movie date over a fancy dinner."

"I liked sushi. Is that fancy?"

He hums. "There were some good cheap sushi spots in London—hole in the wall type places. When there was some kid doing their homework at one of the booths, that's when you knew it'd be good shit."

"You're making me hungry."

"Well, you should've eaten more." He looks at you knowingly. "You're scared to ask anyone for food, aren't you?"

Are you really that easy to read? You place the half-finish arrow across your knees and look at the ground, brushing your fingers absentmindedly through the soft grass. "I just—I am aware of my place here."

"Your place?"

Your hands tightens the grass into a fistful. "I am at the bottom."

"The bottom," he repeats slowly, and his voice lowers. "You really think that?"

You rip the grass and sprinkle it over your boot, glancing up at him. His eyes have darkened, or maybe they are simply mirroring the sky. "I am not complaining. I understand that everyone here has others who they would prefer to keep alive over me, that's all. I just don't want to stick out anymore than I already do."

He reels in your words. "You're forgetting that everyone here has their own perspective, their own wants. It is not as simple as you're making it seem." In a change of topic, he reaches for the arrow on your lap. "Here—let me help."

You hand him the knife and he begins carving expertly as a few minutes of silence ensue. You are lost in your thoughts, keeping your eyes on the surroundings, when he suddenly stops in his handiwork, holding up the knife. You watch him study the leather handle carefully, shake his head to himself, then look at you.

"Where did you get this?"

"Huh? Oh—I found it. At a military base actually."

Your answer seems to strike him, and he releases a disbelieving exhale. "The one near Manchester?"

You nod. 

"It was my brother's."

What?

Reading your expression, he shows you the handle and rubs his thumb over a small etching at the bottom that you can barely make out in the moonlight: PG.

"Patrick Garrick," he explains in a murmur, and your chest tightens. "I didn't even notice it at first. It's been years since I had it. The last time...the last time was when shit happened, and I lent it to a friend of mine at the base."

"Who?"

"Soap," he says, a memory taking over his expression as he rubs his jaw. "He was the other member of our spec ops unit."

"You... Someone mentioned him before. Ghost—he asked you guys about him when you arrived. You don't know what happened to him, right?"

Kyles nods. "He stayed back at the base to keep helping even when Price and I jumped ship. That was the Scottish in him—stubborn as hell. Soap was just his codename, of course. Like mine was Gaz." He looks up at you with a faint dimple. "And yours is Twix, huh?"

"I guess." You press your tongue to your teeth and grab the knife, frowning at it as you try to recall exactly where you grabbed it from. "What was his real name, then?"

"John MacTavish."

"I think—I think your friend is dead. I'm sorry." You gaze at him. "I remember now. I found it in one of the rooms, and there was a skeleton with that name. He... he had it quick, though."

The expression on his typically warm eyes turns unreadable and his shoulders stiffen in the slightest. You wonder if you should have bothered sharing this, but then he shrugs it off with a sigh. "It's okay. Figured as much. Many people have died. He's just another name to the list."

Instinct draws your hand to his shoulder, and the muscles softens beneath your touch. "I'm still sorry."

His eyes find yours. 

He smiles solemnly.

Then, somewhere in it all, he leans over and closes the gap. The sudden, foreign feel of lips pressed against your own stuns you. His lips move gently, cold and soft against yours, and only when he threads a hand through your hair to pull you closer do you fully register what he is doing. Your eyes fly open and you break away, leaping to your feet.

"Why did you—what was that?"

He stands up with you. "It felt right in the moment."

He tries to touch your shoulder but you flinch away. "I'm sorry. I just—I was just trying to comfort you."

"I misread the moment." His eyes are clouded. "So you didn't want it?"

Did you? Your mind feels fuzzy. "I don't know. I need to...I want to be alone right now."

You grab your knife and sticks, rushing around the tents to find solace by the truck, needing to process what just happened. As you move, you bump into a hard chest—Ghost. Somehow you failed to hear the jagged teeth of the tent's zipper. Avoiding his gaze, you try to slip past, but he grips your elbow, holding you in place.

"What is it?"

The lie wedges out of your lips. "Nothing. I just—thought I saw something so I am going to sit over there and keep an eye out."

The difference in height leads to his stare burning into your scalp. "What did you see?" 

"I don't know. Something. Maybe just an animal."

His hold doesn't soften. Stoicism forces itself on your face as you press your lips into a line.

You're easy to ready.

He finally lets go. "I'll take over now. You can sleep."

You find yourself nodding soundlessly, internally glad to be relieved of this duty. 

Sleep offers peace of mind, at least until morning. 

Dawn breaks over the small town in a quiet clatter of spoons against cans and the shuffling of bags being packed up. The dream you wake up from was one of an old life—the last kiss you experienced. But it fizzles quickly from the recesses of your brain the moment your lids shutter open. 

Both you and Kyle seem keen on acting as though nothing happened. More than anything, you are confused. You try to search inside that box of yours for how you feel, but all you find is fear. You've barely been able to keep up with the fear. You busy yourself with helping get everything back in the truck, fitting the supplies like a jigsaw puzzle. You have nothing to eat. A day or two without food is doable until you can properly hunt for something—

"Here."

It is Nereida who catches you by the truck before leaving. She practically shoves a can of tuna into your hands and you look up at her in hesitant gratitude.

"We're all sharing food," she says. "That is how it should be."

"Thank you. Really, this is—"

"Don't thank me. There is plenty for everyone."

For now, your mind chides, but you swallow the thought while scarfing down the meal you pretend is London's finest sushi. 

Once everyone is ready, you head to the back of the truck, expecting an awkward encounter with Kyle, only to find Ghost sitting there beside the kayak, hands relaxed behind his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Needed a break from driving."

You glance at the front to see that Price is behind the wheel, and Kyle is in the passenger side. In a way, you're relieved. You breathe through your nose and hoist yourself up. The bumpy ride is quiet at first. His body takes up space so that each pothole nudges your shoulder or knee against his. The morning ages. You swear you can see there coast at one point, but it must be your imagination, because the passing sign reads Halstead. 

"You really need to work on lying better."

The brash accent registers low against the hum of the engine, and his eyes are closed when you look over. He is leaned back, one leg straight and one bent, seeming to enjoy the seat more than you are. 

"Fine. I'm bad at lying."

"Care to share the truth, then?"

He needn't elaborate for you to know what he is referring to. "I was...I was upset because I found out my knife—the one I took from the base—belonged to Kyle's brother."

His brow ticks.

You continue, "But he actually gave it to Soap, and I—I found his dog tag on a skeleton. John MacTavish. You were friends with him, weren't you?"

His eyes open, but they are too murky to decipher from just his profile. His jaw flexes. "I wasn't a man with friends, Twix."

"You know what I mean."

There is a pause, and then, "He was a sergeant under my command. A good man. Grating, at times. But good."

"Well, I'm sorry he didn't make it. If you of all people say he was a good guy, then he really must've been."

He hums in agreement. Thoughtful. Then—two gloved fingers touch your jaw, turning your eyes to his. "You are still lying, and still bad at it."

You wet your lips. "I wasn't—"

"Help!"

Ghost drops your chin and grabs the gun from his waist.

Your eyes flash around at the sound of a second plea. There is a man at the side of the road, leg draped in bloodied bandages, but there isn't a chance for you to register more of him when the truck takes a sudden, sharp left down a side street and you brace yourself by grabbing the edge with both arms. The small city-scape whirls by in a blur. Ghost swears under his breath, scanning the area as he bends on one knee and keeps the gun secure in his grip. Confused, you grab his arm.

"That man was injured."

His voice is harsh and alert. "He has fucking friends somewhere here. He was just trying to—"

A shattering sound. An audible pop. You're thrown against the truck bed even harder this time as it skids across the street, nearly slamming into a flipped-over car. Ghost covers you, the weight of him keeping you from flying out. The truck swerves to a halt. Everything is black until his weight lifts. He barks an order, jumps out, and pulls you with him.

Pressed against the side of the truck, the world becomes consumed by loud sounds and the distinct smell of gunpowder. Ghost rips open the passenger door and urgently pulls Blue, Ari, and Nereida out, ordering them to keep low. From the other side, you hear Price and Kyle shouting, followed by another series of gunshots.

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home.

The streets no longer know them. They do not seem to fit in their own bodies as they stroll the cobbles, Lucy’s hand tucked carefully into Peter’s, Edmund trailing watchfully behind Susan like a shadow. Their eyes are sharp, their smiles crooked, and those who see them cross to the opposite side of the road, afraid of the ancient gleam they see reflected back at them that does not belong in the eyes of a child.

Water murmurs to Lucy when she flits past, and lamplight follows her wherever she goes, even in broad daylight when the lamps are unlit. Their flames sputter into existence when she walks by, flickering at her in a way that seems to whisper I know you. Lucy looks at them with feral teeth and smiles, and vines twist from the cobbles at her feet. She laughs like a wild thing, eyes glowing, but a moment later she blinks and it is gone. Her feet hardly seem to touch the ground at all as she darts through the alleys.

The sky is clearer when Peter walks the streets, clouds vanishing like they were never there at all. His eyes are too much like a lion’s, struck through with gold and filled with a brooding fierceness, yet he laughs as he twirls Lucy around, and claps Edmund on the back as they share a stupid joke, and smiles with Susan when she tells him of the bow she plans to carve. He is all warmth and friendliness, but there is something about his eyes. There is something about all of their eyes.

The sun caresses Susan as she moves about, and she is graceful, too graceful, her hair seeming to be alive of its own accord as she steps lightly along the streets. Her skin is pale like ice, and sometimes her gaze appears almost silver as she stands by the river, gazing into its depths with a distant, siren-cold smile. She is gentle, but her fingers look a little too long sometimes. Her laugh is a little too unsettling.

Trees lean towards Edmund when he walks past, branches scraping his clothing, leaves showering around him. Books and journals and pages covered in notes perpetually fill his arms, spilling from his grasp but never quite falling. His voice is even-keeled, quiet, but there is something wild about it, something unhinged. He speaks of things none have ever heard before, dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth unsmiling and hands perfectly still, and for a moment he seems to be someone else, fangs beneath his lips, dirt on his tongue. He tilts his head just a little too far, sometimes.

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home. They do not fit their bodies. They do not fit the streets. People who encounter them cross to the other side of the road to avoid them, terrified of the oldness they see in the children’s faces. Such depth does not belong in the gaze of a child.

And yet four sets of eyes, ancient and deep and flickering like candlelight, stare out from the children’s faces, and their smiles are sharp, too sharp. Their laughter is a little too wild as they walk, the oldest and youngest hand-in-hand, the middle children trailing each other like shadows.

There is something about those children’s eyes.

There is something about those children.

[erwinsvow]

i can see the trio dangerously driving to or from a party. they’re speeding down the empty road, the new future album blasting from the speakers of topper’s jeep. kelce is up front, and reader and rafe are in the back. reader is a bit drunk and rafe is high out of his mind and can’t control his feelings for reader so he starts getting touchy with her, maybe trying to kiss her. since you’re just starting this au out, i’m curious to know how do you think reader would react and if she did kiss him back, how would topper and kelce react?

the last line of coke was a mistake—it made him lose the last bits of his self control. it was clear that he was way too high to drive, even though it seemed like rafe always drove clear-headed or not, so you were assigned babysitting duty in the back.

top was on a rager today, even worse than his usual ones. whenever him and sarah started fighting, he got like this, currently blasting some future song at the highest volume possible, speeding through the streets of kildare. you would be a little scared, except kelce is driving while topper nurses yet another beer in the passenger seat. you're deliciously drunk, still gone from the drinks you had at the party, not a care in the world except making sure rafe doesn't keel over in the back.

you mumble along the words to the song, pretty much engraved in your memory from how often it was played. you don't know how it happens, your fingers just find rafe's hair, brushing it out of his face while he talks to top and kelce in the front, amped up and loud, acting as crazy as you've ever seen him. you giggle, continuing your motions.

topper begins some rant about his girlfriend, or rather, his ex, while rafe locks eyes with you. it's hard to keep eye contact, looking away the second rafe shuts up and focuses on you completely. you're never shy around them but this might be the closest you've gotten.

you feel rafe's hands on your exposed thighs, your tiny skirt ridden up in the seat. his touch feels good, in your drunken state you don't think there's anything wrong with it. he's just being friendly, being touchy, being rafe. he strokes the soft skin of your legs, running his hands down to your ankles, while you shift around in the back. all it would take is one look from the boys in the front to see that something's going on back here.

"rafe, listen to top he's talkin-"

"shh," rafe says, noise completely overlooked by the others, nothing audible except the thump of the bass. he takes your face into his hand, leaning in close. "shut up for a second." he kisses you, briefly, barely, lips touching together and your eyes fluttering shut, when kelce slams on the brakes. the two of you fly apart, your heart thudding for an entirely different reason now.

"what the fuck, kelce, my brakes-" top starts.

"it was a deer, you idiot. you guys okay?" he turns to look at you and rafe in the back, your face flushed and rafe's hands still on your legs.

"fine," rafe mumbles. the four of you head back to tannyhill, you crashing on rafe's bed like always while top and kelce take the guest room down the ball. the two of you are out before you can bring it up, but rafe doesn't forget about it.

in the morning, you stretch, the oversized shirt of his you'd put on for the night riding up. rafe doesn't wait another minute.

"so, about last night. in the car." he looks at you, waiting for your response.

"oh, rafe, don't apologize. it's okay. we were both pretty gone."

"m'not apologizin', i-"

"and i mean, who hasn't been there once or twice-"

"once or twice?"

"and i kissed kelce that one time, so i guess-"

"you kissed kelce?" rafe looks at you like you've committed a crime.

"what? it was new years."

"where the hell was i?"

"i don't know, probably sucking some girl's face off. i was busy making out with kelce, remember?" you laugh, getting up and looking for your clothes. rafe lays back down on the bed, deciding he's never leaving you alone with kelce ever again.

[brbsoulnomming]

Heart On Your Sleeve Part 2

Part 1

written for steddiebigbang2024 and belatedly posting here!

---

"Hey, look, if this is some kind of Halloween prank-"

"It's not a prank!" Dustin insists. "Look-"

He fumbles at his chest, and Steve realizes what he's doing just before he pulls his heart out.

"Woah, hey, hey, don't go bringing that out with cat eating lizards around!" Steve tells him.

"It's not a lizard!" Dustin says.

It's dark, and Steve can't see the details of his heart all that well, but he can see the way it beats - racing a little, from the danger, but still steady. No hint of deception.

"See? Not a lizard, not a prank. It's one of those things again, Steve, only a baby one. A demodog."

Great.

"All right, I believe you, now just - put that away before it gets eaten."

Somewhat to Steve's surprise, Dustin obeys, tucking his heart back inside his chest.

"Now you," Dustin says.

"What? No way."

"Come on!" Dustin whines. "I showed you mine."

"Yeah, cause you're the one with something to prove," Steve reminds him. "I'm the one you suckered into this, and there's no way I'm taking my heart out with a demodog lurking around. Just stay up here, okay? I'll go take care of this."

—

Max Mayfield has her heart securely inside her chest even before she believes any of them about the Upside Down.

There's not that many reasons kids that young wouldn't wear their hearts pinned to their shirts, or poking out of one pocket or another, but Steve can think of a few.

He hadn't expected to get saddled with another kid when he let Dustin into his car, but she slides right in like she was one of them the whole time.

And if he makes sure he doesn't ask what she's doing here, if he just starts working on shoring up the bus and treats her like she belongs there right from the start, that's between him and her.

When she asks him if he's really fought one of these things before, for a moment he thinks about pulling his own heart out so she can see for herself.

But there's a monster prowling around outside, and getting caught with his heart out isn't going to help him protect these kids.

Besides, when he makes sure the demodogs target him, when he throws himself in front of the kids - he hopes that's more of an indication of who he is, who he wants to be, than his slightly battered heart could ever show.

—

If Steve's honest, he's not entirely sure how they get back to the Byers’ from the tunnels. He knows he drives, knows Max complains in his ear the whole time about how he drives like a grandma, knows every time he glances over at her there's a sullen, almost fearful expression on her face, like she's afraid he's going to yell at her or keel over and pass out in the middle of the road.

He's not ruling out the second one.

But they make it, and they beat everyone else back. Billy's still unconscious in the living room, and the house is eerily silent for about a minute before Steve catches himself.

“Hands washed, everyone,” he calls out. “Hands and arms and any exposed skin. And make sure you gargle with mouthwash.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Mouthwash?”

Steve points at him. “Mouthwash has alcohol in it, you little shit, it might kill any gross Upside Down bacteria you breathed in. But hey, you want to be tasting that place for a week, be my guest.”

There's a moment of silence, then everyone scurries to fight over one of the sinks.

Steve waits until they're all done before following his own advice, then finally sinks down onto the couch with a groan.

Dustin hands him a bag of mostly still frozen vegetables, probably picked up from the kitchen where they'd dumped everything to put the demodog in the freezer. Steve grimaces at the thought of Mrs. Byers coming home to that, but slaps the bag on his head anyway.

It helps, a little.

There's an argument about what to do with Billy that Steve only half listens to. Max apparently threatened him with Steve's bat after she snuck up and stabbed him with the syringe, which - shit, good for her. Steve's guessing that'll make Billy think twice before he messes with her.

He stays out of the argument, though. He already knows the only answer is going to be let Hopper deal with it.

Admittedly, when Hopper and everyone else does come back, Steve's a little out of it. He's on his feet at the sound of cars approaching, baseball bat in his hand and urgently gesturing for the gremlins to stay the fuck behind him.

If his reflexes were any less dulled by the aching pain at the back of his head, he might have taken a swing when the door opened before he realized who it was.

But fortunately, he just sags with relief, and returns to his spot on the couch with the bat resting against his knee.

It's only when he hears the kids all trying to talk over each other that he realizes someone must have asked them what happened.

Steve pries his eyes open - unsure when he even closed them, shit - to find Mrs. Byers staring at him, clearly concerned. He jolts with the surprise of seeing her so close, and doesn't quite manage to hide his wince of pain, judging by her expression.

“Steve, honey?” she asks.

It sounds like a prompt to answer the question he didn't hear, and he grimaces.

“I'm the babysitter,” is what manages to make its way out of his mouth. “Nothing is getting at those little gremlins without going through me.”

Mrs. Byers looks at him in a way he doesn't really recognize, something between soft and sad and - proud, maybe? Like maybe he did something right, even though it makes her sad.

She holds out her hands, and helps pull him to his feet when he takes them.

“Let's get you patched up,” she says, leading him back to the master bedroom.

He sits on the bed while she gets a first aid kit from the bathroom, watching her through a faint, blurry haze as she takes a closer look at him.

“I didn't win,” he says, feeling a little bit ashamed.

Her eyes go a little bit wet, and she makes a soft tsk noise. “Oh, honey. Winning doesn't matter.”

That throws him so badly that he just stares up at her.

“It doesn't?” he asks, once he's accepted that he's probably not going to get his thoughts in any kind of order.

“That sounds like your father talking,” she says, but her voice is gentle as she starts cleaning up the blood on his face.

“You don't think he's right? That I should be more like him?” The question is out before Steve really realizes - out before he really thinks about it, out before he can admit that he doesn't want to know the answer.

Mrs. Byers pulls back a little, looking at him. “Can I see your heart?”

His hands are at his chest so quick that he fumbles with it, and by the time he pulls it out - it's the same dark red as always, despite the deep, jagged crack running through it, and it pulses unsteadily with his uncertainty.

“No one's asked to see it in a long time,” he says, awkwardly trying to explain away the wobbly beat of his heart in his hands.

She looks sad again, for a moment, then she pulls her own out. It's a slightly paler red, lined with thin silver scars, and it's beating a little fast - adrenaline, he thinks - but it's steady, and it's redder than any adult he's ever seen.

“What happened tonight, Steve?” she asks softly.

“They were in danger,” he replies, because it's the simplest, truest explanation.

“And you protected them.” It's half a statement, half a question, and he tears his gaze away from her heart to find her still looking at him, her eyes dark and warm.

“Yeah,” he says, his heart starting to pump a little more steady against his palms.

Like he said to Nancy - he might have been a shitty boyfriend, but he's a damn good babysitter. Those kids are his.

“Might not be much,” he admits, fully aware she's just coming back from fighting some being from an alternate dimension trying to get her son, and there's a whole girl with super powers out there getting dog piled by her friends. “But it's me between them and anything else, Upside Down or whatever. All of them.”

Just in case she wasn't sure if that included Will or not.

Her eyes drop down to his heart, beating steady and sure - and then she leans in, pressing their foreheads together for a moment before she pulls back.

“You're a good kid,” she says, and her heart beats strong, saying true, true, true. “You're as much like your father as Jonathan is like his, and that's a good thing.”

His heart spasms in his hands, and he curls his fingers in a little like he can hide it, though he doesn't even attempt to put it away.

“I was mean to him,” he admits in a rush. “Last year.”

Mrs. Byers snorts. “You were sixteen,” she informs him. She tucks her heart back into her chest, and gets back to work on patching him up. “He said you apologized, and he's forgiven you.”

Steve doesn't stop her, still doesn't try to put his heart back in his chest. “I didn't finish apologizing, though. It doesn't mean anything if you just say you're sorry, and you don't say what for.”

He knows, because before his dad stopped apologizing at all - he'd always say he was sorry, but he'd never say why. Like he knew his mom or Steve were upset at him, and he knew he had to apologize to get them to not be upset, but he didn't actually give enough of a shit to figure out the why.

Or to stop doing it, but at least Steve managed that one.

“I think your actions were a little more important to him than your words,” Mrs. Byers says, like she can read his mind.

Steve doesn't know what to say to that, so he just lets her finish patching him up.

—

“Kids say Billy Hargrove put his hands on Lucas first,” Hopper says.

Steve scoffs. “Yeah, that's one way of putting it.”

Hopper looks at him, long enough that Steve feels his stomach start to squirm a little. “What's your way of putting it, then?”

“Hargrove's a piece of shit,” Steve says bluntly, too tired and in pain to care. “Come on, Hopper, you know exactly why he targeted Lucas out of all of them.”

Hopper's jaw sets. “I do. And Lucas doesn't want to press charges. So. How do we convince Hargrove to stay the hell away?”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it again, and swallows roughly. “You want me to help figure it out? Why?”

Hopper raises his eyebrows at him. “Seems like you've already been doing a pretty good job at it.”

It's a good thing he'd put his heart back in his chest, because Steve wouldn't want Hopper to see the way it beats a little quicker.

It's strange, having this much adult attention on him. Having people who ask to see his heart, who tell him that he did a good job, who give a shit, even if it's only because Steve's gotten himself involved in all of this mess.

He likes it, he thinks. He likes being seen as someone who can be counted on, someone who can help protect the kids, more than he'd ever liked being seen as popular.

“I could arrest him, easy,” Hopper says. “But something tells me he's used to getting in trouble with the police, and it'll just make him more pissed off.”

“We don't want to get him in trouble,” Steve says slowly, thinking it over. “We want to make sure he knows we're the only reason he's not in trouble.”

Hopper grunts, looking at him expectantly, and Steve realizes it's a silent encouragement to continue.

“If it seems like you're going to arrest both of us, he'll be more willing to work with me on something that'll keep us both out of trouble. He knows I won't want it to get back to my dad or to Coach, but he won't want it to get back to his dad even more. We just have to make sure he knows he has just a little bit more to lose than I do.”

Hopper's looking at him still, in a way that Steve can't figure out.

“It's high school,” he says, feeling the need to - to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of excuse for why he knows how to do this.

“It's politics,” Hopper says, a little wry, a little bitter.

“It's bullshit,” Steve spits out, the word tasting like a chewed up rubber band.

“Damn straight it is,” Hopper agrees. “But it's reality. Sometimes - sometimes you have to play by other people's rules, do things you know are bullshit, make some deals.”

His eyes flicker, back towards the living room, and Steve wonders what deals he's had to make to keep the government off their backs, to keep El hidden and safe.

“I hate it,” Steve says, soft and raw.

He's never admitted that to anyone else, and he has no idea why he says it now, but it makes Hopper's mouth twist a little, something like understanding in his eyes.

“Me too, kid. Me too.”

That's why it's him and Hopper out here, Steve thinks. Sometimes you have to do things you don't want to, sometimes you have to play their bullshit game to get what you want. Something slides a little bit into place - knowing that he isn't alone, that what he wants isn't any of the pointless things he used to do this for.

It's to protect this weird little group that, somehow, have become the most important people in his life.

“You're our babysitter now, right?” Hopper asks after a few minutes. “Make sure he knows that. Knows it's my kid that he's messing with if he comes after them or you again.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a nod. “Yeah, that'll work.”

—

Billy wakes up next to him in the backseat of Hopper's car, hands cuffed behind him. It takes him a minute to clock onto where he is, and a minute longer to realize that Steve's next to him, also in cuffs.

“Who the fuck called the cops?” he hisses at Steve.

Steve shrugs. “How the hell should I know? Neither of us were exactly conscious at the time, thanks to you.”

Billy sneers at him. Steve can see him trying to collect himself through the haze of the sedative wearing off. “Here's how this is going to go. You want to keep it from happening again, you do exactly what I-”

Steve laughs at him. “Dude. They did a drug test already. Where did you even get the stuff you were on?”

Billy goes still. It sets Steve's teeth on edge - it's the same still he'd felt sitting in the junkyard, waiting for Dart. But he knows what he has to do now just as much as he did then, and he lets himself sulk as he leans back against the seat and watches Billy think.

If he says Max drugged him against his will - one, he's admitting to the fact that a thirteen year old girl got the best of him, and two, he has to be smart enough to know that Max would never admit to that, and the kids would all back her up. Billy was the one who showed up looking for a fight, Billy was the one who threw the first punch, Billy was the one who smashed a plate over Steve's head - no way in hell the cops believe him over the kids.

Billy scoffs. “Guess I better spread the word that the Freak is lacing his shit with who the fuck knows what.”

Shit, of course that's where Billy goes. Steve scrambles for a moment, then fixes him with an unimpressed look.

He can salvage this. Munson is pretty much the only supplier around, most of the guys aren't willing to mess with him too much - and if Billy does try to spread it around, it won't be too hard to add onto the rumor that it's just because Billy did something to piss Munson off.

“Maybe you should be nicer to him,” he says with a snort. “Munson always gives me the good stuff.”

Billy just snarls at him. It's clear he's got his story, and he's going to go with it.

Steve shrugs - or as best as he can, with his injuries and his hands cuffed behind his back. “Your funeral, man.”

“The fuck are you talking about,” Billy grumbles.

“You're going to tell the cops that you bought shitty drugs from the Freak, went on a bender, tried to attack some little kids, and beat the shit out of a teammate?” Steve asks.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Harrington, I'm going to-” he pauses, and Steve sees the moment that he clocks what Steve is saying.

It doesn't matter how Billy tries to phrase it to the cops to make himself look better - that isn't the story that's going to get around.

“You breathe one word of that around school, and you're dead,” Billy says.

Steve takes it back. This is nothing like that junkyard - Billy may actually try to kill him, but he has nothing on demogorgons and demodogs. Steve isn't scared of him.

“Yeah, because that won't prove any of it true.” Steve smirks, unconcerned that it makes his lip split open. “You put one hand on me and it just backs it all up.”

“Can't exactly gloat about that from a hospital bed. You'll be the one taking a beating that makes this seem like a walk in the park,” Billy replies, his tone low and menacing.

Steve thinks of the sound of the kids screaming on that bus, the sound of flesh splitting open when the demodog peeled its face apart, the endless fangs dripping saliva as it shrieked at him. He meets Billy's gaze and holds it. “I look like I give a shit, Hargrove?”

Billy looks at him - really looks, and Steve sees a flicker of something in his eyes. It isn't jealousy, it isn't recognition, it isn't fear, it isn't hate, it isn't want - Or maybe it is, maybe it's all of them. Maybe Steve is too tired and far too concussed for this.

Maybe his lack of ability to give a single fucking shit about Billy Hargrove and his threats is what gets him through this.

“So what's the play?” Billy asks, biting the words out as though it physically pains him to say them.

“We were blowing off steam, got a little too carried away. But it's all good now. You and me, we're square.”

Billy considers that, and he looks - comfortable. He looks like this is something he's done before, and briefly Steve wonders how many times Billy's gotten into fights, gone way too far, and had to hash out something like this to keep from getting busted.

“Yeah, all right,” Billy says. “Stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours.”

“And stay the fuck away from the little shits I babysit,” Steve says. “I hear from any of them that you've been giving them trouble, and the deal's off.”

Billy sneers at him again. “No one told me King Steve spends his free time babysitting.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, bet no one told you that one of them belongs to the chief of police, either.”

Billy's eyes narrow. “You're watching Hopper's kid?”

Steve shrugs, nonchalant in a way that he knows will work better than trying to lie.

“Fine,” Billy says, sounding pissed as hell about it. You've got a deal.”

–

Billy gets released and peels out in his Camaro, loud music already blaring from the window.

Steve, on the other hand, gets a ride home from Hopper himself.

He doesn't hate it.

“Second time in less than two years that I've seen you with a busted up lip.”

Steve's got a hell of a lot more than a busted up lip right now, but he's not gonna say that. “Yeah, well. I deserved the one last year.”

Hopper raises his eyebrows at him.

Steve resists the urge to slouch in his seat. “I was angry, and hurt, so I got mean. I wanted Jonathan to fight me.”

Hopper snorts something that sounds like teenagers.

It's quiet for a moment, then Steve says, “But I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to be mean when I'm angry.”

Hopper's looking at him in a way Steve can't make out, not in just the muted light of the streetlamp. That seems to be a theme for the night - Steve'd thought he was a little off last year when Jonathan socked him in the face, but apparently that has nothing on a concussion like this.

“So… I'm trying,” Steve adds softly.

Hopper shakes his head. “If I'd have figured that out when I was your age, who knows where I'd be?”

He sounds - proud, or something like it. He sounds like Steve's favorite coach, when Steve'd done well.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “But I think we all like you right here.”

Hopper snorts. “Jesus, kid, get out of here. Go put something better on that head than a bag of half frozen peas.”

This is already written, and my plan is to post one part a day until it's all up here!

-----

Part 3

Taglist (always happy to add more to this if anyone wants): @fairytalesreality @lostonceandneverfound @wheneverfeasible @awkwardgravity1 @theintrovertedintrovert

[revelboo]

Over it Now

Jazz x Reader- hurt

• Tires screaming on wet asphalt, Jazz rounds a lazy curving stretch of country road, pushing his speed into the redline in frustration. Because it’s his fault and this is the only way he can vent out the poisonous taste of failure. He’s supposed to know everything, be one step ahead of the Decepticons all the time. Optimus won’t say a word, but he has to be disappointed. He’s disappointed in himself. He speeds up, losing himself in reckless anger.

• Elbow deep in soapy water, you hesitate when you hear the crash. It sounds too close and you grab a towel, heading outside. For a moment all you can hear is the sound of frogs in the woods, the world peaceful. Then you see it.

• Breath locking in your lungs, you stare at the distant, fitful glow. People always take the curve too fast, but this lunatic was going so fast his car is down inside the woods well off the road for you to be able to see it from your porch. And then without really thinking, you’re running down the hill, feeling the rain-wet grass soaking your sneakers through.

• You fight your way through the brambles and undergrowth. Even with the swollen moon overhead, you can’t really see much except that glow. Headlights? It can’t be fire, it’s blue. “You okay?” Yelling as you keep pushing forward, you hear something. The sound of groaning metal and a loud crack.

• Fantastic, just a perfect end to a perfect day. Transforming so he can shove against the small tree that is partially on top of him, Jazz groans. But at least it can’t possibly get worse he decides, pushing clear of the tree to send it rolling. A sharp, pained cry is the universe’s response. Because of course it can.

• You’d frozen, staring at the impossibility of the wrecked car unfolding itself into a huge robot and then heaving the downed tree away like it’s a stick. There’s no time dodge, as it rolls into your leg and you crumple with a scream. Tears streaming down your face, you try to drag yourself away as the monstrous robot looms over you, big hands reaching for you. And you black out before the horror looming over you can tear you limb from limb.

• When you come to in the hospital, you lunge and nearly roll yourself right out of the bed as panic sparks through you. Your mind is a confused tangle of fear and pain and monsters. A nurse appears to push you gently, but firmly back down. Apparently your leg is broken and someone dropped you off, dumped you, unconscious at the ER entrance. It’s a miracle an ambulance didn’t run you over. You can only stare at the woman, whole heartedly agreeing with the censure in her voice as she fusses with your IV. What had really happened?

• Certainly not what your brain was insistently screaming happened, because that’s crazy. There hadn’t been a giant robot. You get an Uber to bring you home as soon as they clear you, and your hands won’t stop shaking the whole ride. Pretending you’re not about to have a nervous breakdown when the driver helps you with your new crutches, you struggle to the front door and let yourself in.

• Making your awkward, undignified way through the house, your skin prickles as you pass the French doors in the living room. There’s a car you don’t recognize parked beside yours, a sporty looking thing. White with blue and red stripes that scream not only speed, but money.

• And pity joins the guilt as the little human unlocks the glass doors and limps outside to stare at him. He hasn’t meant to hurt anyone and he’s broken you. Hadn’t even known you were there. Well, this is his fault. He can own up to it. Transforming, he just manages to catch the human in his servos as they keel over. Again. Scrap.

• Groaning, your head lolls back against a hard and warm surface. Something else shifts against you, under you, touching your jaw to gently turn your head. Your world moving like you’re on a boat. Squinting against the throbbing in your head, you stare up at a huge face staring right back at you from way too close. And you scream.

Next