#Season 4 canon divergence

[echoing-gravity]

Batman: No metas in Gotham.

Ladybug: No Leaguers in My city.

Season 4 Ep1 Truth villain: Ladybug! Tell me your biggest secret!!!!

Hawkmoth: Yessssss tell me who u are

Ladybug: I'm Adopted!!! And my dad is secretly batman but he doesn't know that I know !!! and i kinda hate him for not helping with this bullshit so he can go fuck off !!!!1!!!!

Marinette internally: *-uckfuckfuckfuc-*

Truth:....what?

Hawkmoth: what.

The justice League: What!

Bruce Wayne- watching the fights' newscasters Livestream with the batfam *-WHATHEFUCK.*

Damian: *already has a knife* he is NOT happy.

Give me fic recs. Or write it urself idc. I NEED this scenario like- yesterday! And I can't write it because I'm to focused on writing dp x DC Braindead.

I want a fic where no one know who ladybug is and no one knows who batman is(except Marinette and her fucking photographic/phonetic memory) but now do to Naja shamac live reporting EVERYONE knows who ladybug's dad is.

And also maybe ladybug x red Robin let the geniuses love each other plz.

( Damiette is a bit overrated. It's just: wow I'm a teenage hero, I like animals. Wow I'm also a teenage hero who has magic animals. That is their whole dynamic. And honestly I think tim has more things in common with Marinette to bond over with.)

the "get out of my room DAD!!1!!!" au that we all need

[goldenlaurelleaveswrites]

[Redacted]

AO3

How do you talk about the unspeakable? How do you share a secret you can’t tell? 

____________________________________________________

This was a complete accident. I was chatting with @quickspinner and @rierse and I plunnied myself and I somehow ended up with... this.

I'm still not entirely sure what this is 😅

_____________________________________________________

She dragged her feet along the cobblestones as she made her way to the bridge, doing her best to prolong what little time was left and delay the inevitable. The inevitable that was like lead in her heart.

She had been so stupid. To think that…

Being Ladybug had been hard enough. She had had so little time for her family. Her friends. Herself. 

And that had been before… 

She should have known better. She should have known that secrets and love didn’t mix.

That Ladybug had to come first. And the box now too…

That all she would ever do was hurt people. 

And she had hurt the person in Paris who deserved it the least. 

And it had been entirely her fault.  

Despite her her heavy heart weighing on her and her best efforts, all too soon, she was at the bridge she knew Luka would be waiting for her on. 

Her footsteps were too loud in the quiet of the night. The city was mercifully if not painfully quiet; the streets, usually bustling with nightlife were all but deserted. The river too, usually choke full of tourists taking romantic strolls along its banks, or taking in the city lights from boats, was serene and silent.  It was like the city itself was holding its breath. Like it knew what she was about to do. 

What she had to do. 

Slowly, she made her way towards its centre, where a lone figure stood. 

He was staring down into the river below, his shoulders hunched and head hanging heavily as he leaned against the railing. She knew she wore her heart on her sleeve, and in his own way, Luka was just as much an open book. She could tell by the way he was drumming his fingers on the railing that his mind was going a mile a minute, and that he was trying to slow it. Just like she could tell he was frustrated with himself by the way he was digging the toe of his shoe into the ground. 

That he was hurting. 

She had to stop herself from going right up to him, to stand beside him the way she had grown so used to doing. So fond of doing. It wasn’t fair to him. 

None of this was. 

She opened her mouth, and floundered with words that were suddenly lost to her. 

“Marinette,” he said quietly, still looking down into the water. 

“Luka…” she managed to say. A lump was forming in her throat that made even just his name difficult to say. “I…” 

Luka pushed off from the railing, turning to look at her as her voice trailed off pitifully. His face was haunted by pain. Pain she had caused. But because he was Luka, there was patience there too. And that deep sense of understanding. 

The lump in her throat was suddenly impossibly bigger, turning her already uphill battle of trying to find words she didn’t want to say into a treacherously steep climb. And it didn’t help that Luka was watching her with so much patience and care. The way he always did when she tripped over herself.

She had never wished more than right now, that she had never been chosen. 

Uselessly, she opened her mouth. No sound came out. She wetted her lips and took a shaky breath. 

“Marinette-” he started to say. Just the way he said it, so gently, yet so heartbroken.  

“I don’t want to lie to you, Luka,” she almost whispered. “I don’t think I can-” the hurt was still so raw in his eyes. She dropped her gaze. Maybe it was cowardice, but she couldn’t look him in the eye. She wouldn’t be able to say the words she had to say if she did. “I mean-” her voice cracked. Hot tears were pricking at her eyes. “Maybe we should…”    

“I’m sorry, Marinette.” Her eyes snapped back to Luka. Unshed tears blurred her vision, but she could see the anguish on his face, as clear as day. “I- I saw that you were upset.” It was so horribly odd, seeing Luka so distraught. “But I wanted to know. Secrets and lies,” he sighed, his eyes refusing to meet hers, “they’re hard for me.” 

“Luka… Luka no…”

“And I meant it, whatever it is, I will support you. If you ever tell me. But I don’t want you to- not if you don’t want-”

“Can’t,” she corrected.

He paused, his brows furrowing together. His fingers plucked at invisible strings, the way they always did when he was trying to puzzle something out, whether it was a song or a math equation. And then his fidgeting froze, and he looked up at her. “Can’t?” She nodded dejectedly. He frowned, but it was the frown he got when he was concentrating on something. And then, understanding flashed in his eyes. And then he nodded solemnly. “If you can’t tell me… maybe…” despite the heaviness in his eyes and in the space between them, a familiar glimmer of what she had come to recognize as Couffaine Chaos shimmered in his eyes, “Maybe you can tell me, without actually telling me.” 

“What? Luka, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Just hear me out,” he said with what sounded like an attempt at a chuckle. “You know how whenever legal or government records are released to the public, they redact private or sensitive information?” 

“Yeah…” she said slowly.

“You could try that?’ he offered. 

“You want me to write a report on-”

“No. I thought…” he ducked his head, dropping his gaze to stare down at his shoes. “Well, I thought since you’re here now…” he finished, somehow peeking up at her through his hair despite being so much taller. 

“Oh. I…” 

“But only if you’re comfortable with it!” His head had shot up, and he had taken a step towards her, his hand reaching out in a familiar gesture of comfort. 

Only… 

His hand had frozen. Just above her shoulder. His eyes wide with hesitation and his face wracked with guilt. 

And then he had taken an uncertain step back. 

And her heart had broke. 

“How do I… how do I do it? Do I actually say it or do I just skip that parts I can’t tell you or…?” 

A shred of a genuine smile slipped through the heaviness on his face, dissipating the guilt that had been there. The guilt he shouldn’t have shouldered. It had been her fault Shadowmoth had gotten to him… 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a right way to do it. But you’re sure?” She nodded. “Ok. Take as much time as you need,” he said with a tiny, encouraging smile still tinged with the heaviness that had been there since she found him on the bridge.  

“Ok…” she said slowly, still not particularly convinced. “I-” she stopped to take in a shaky breath. Luka nodded again in that patient way of his. Her breath rattled her chest as she let it go. “The reason I kept leaving your date was because redacted. Not because I didn’t want to be there.” The words came out- tumbled out faster than she had anticipated. 

“How did that feel?” He asked quietly, and suddenly his hand was on her shoulder, its familiar weight comforting even with how light- how hesitant his touch was. “Better?” She looked up into piercing blue eyes brimming over with concern; she hadn’t even realized she had flinched as she had spoken, well, almost spoken the words she had kept secret for so long. 

She frowned. She- she was still reeling from how Luka had been akumatized. How it had been her fault. How this whole mess had been… 

But she was also… 

She hadn’t told him. It was still a secret. He was still safe. 

She shouldn’t have, but.. 

Swallowing the thick lump in her throat, she slowly nodded. “I- I do.” 

His concern melted into a relieved smile. 

“But I still didn’t- I still can’t…” 

He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “But you did.” 

“But I… you still don’t know…” 

His eyes softened. There was a weariness in his eyes. A tiredness. But understanding as well. 

“I don’t know where you disappear to. But I do know that it’s not a matter of won’t, it’s a matter of can’t. You said it yourself.” She gave a small nod of agreement. “And I also know that you just told me. Or at least,” he amended with a tiny chuckle, “told me what you could. And maybe it’s not the truth I wanted to hear. What I wanted you to share. But I can’t- I don’t want to force you to share your secrets…” his gazed flickered down, and his shoulders slumped. 

“Luka… that wasn’t your fault. Shadowmoth… he took advantage of you. I know you would never do that. He twisted your pain. After I… after I hurt you…”

“Marinette…” 

“I am so, so sorry, Luka. I never wanted to hurt you. But I did. So many times. I know I did,” she said when he opened his mouth, no doubt to protest. “I know I did,” she said again, quietly. “I hated leaving you. I hated lying. I couldn’t bear it- I can’t bear it, hurting you.” 

Suddenly, she was enveloped in familiar arms. Clutching her tight to a chest, their comforting weight and pressure offering her the promise of safety and security they always did. And the dam finally broke. 

Hot tears streamed down her face as she buried her hands in Luka’s hoodie. As she curled into him. “And I wanted to tell you. For a long time. But I-” she clung tighter to him, burying her hands in the soft, threadbare fabric of his favourite hoodie as she took in another shuddering breath. “I’m scared.” 

Luka’s arms tightened around her protectively the second the words left her lips, and she let herself melt into him even more. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath in, trying to ground herself in the familiar scent of clean laundry and wood and something faintly aquatic- his body wash maybe. She had never asked. One of his hands had found its way to the nape of her neck, and was cradling her head as he ran soothing fingers through her hair. 

“If you- if anyone found out… if I redacted… I would lose my redacted. All of them. The ones of my family. My friends. You.”

He held her as he let her cry, murmuring sounds of comfort and encouragement, and humming soothing tunes under his breath. He let her cry until she didn’t have any more tears to cry. 

At some points, she had felt tears that weren’t hers trickle down the back of her neck as he held her. 

“Are you…” he finally asked, breaking the quiet, “are you safe? I don’t want to- you don’t have tell me anything- But you said you were scared. I just want- need to know if you’re safe.” 

Sniffling, she nodded. “I- I’m safe. You don’t- don’t have to worry about me.” 

She was surprised by the quiet rumble of laughter in his chest. 

“I will always worry about you, Marinette. I care about you,” he murmured into the crown of her head.  

She pulled away from him, despite his protests. But just enough so that she could look up at his face.His eyes were red and slightly puffy. And there were tear tracks cutting down across his face. Her own eyes were itching, and she knew her face was just as tearstained, if not more. 

“And I’ll always worry about you. I love you.” 

His eyes widened ever so slightly. And then they softened before drifting down to her lips. Her own gaze shifted to his. With her hands still clutching fistfuls of his hoodie, she braced herself against him as she pushed up onto her tip toes as he leaned down to meet her halfway. At the last second, her eyes slipped shut, and her lips found his. 

Despite the taste of his tears on his lips, it was sweeter than any of the first kisses she had ever imagined. 

When they finally broke apart, they didn’t go far. He held her, and she was only too happy to stay there in his arms. 

It was impossible to say how much time passed. Some of it, they spent in silence, content to just hold onto each other. Sometimes the time slipped by with murmured words of comfort and whispered reassurances. And some, with quiet talk of how they were going to navigate this place between truth and lies. 

She sighed with contentment as she shifted in his arms to rest her cheek against his chest. And then she blinked. 

That couldn’t be… 

No… 

She blinked. Tried to clear her vision. 

But it was the same, loud, exaggerated purple hair. The same loud ensemble. There was no mistaking or denying it.  

“Luka,” she whispered. 

“Hmm?” 

“Look.” 

She felt Luka shift. She felt him turn enough to follow her gaze. She felt the sharp inhale of his breath.  

It was hard to tell if Jagged could see them both staring at him; he was awkwardly hovering on the pavement, halfway between the bridge and the Liberty. He was standing close enough to one of the lights that she could see the way he shifted his weight, fidgeting as his eyes darted from the two of them and the Liberty. Like he wasn’t sure if he should retreat or wait where he was. 

It was so odd… if was hard to reconcile the awkward, uncomfortable and uncertain looking Jagged with the rambunctious rockstar she knew. 

“He’s my father,” Luka said quietly. 

“Do you… do you want to talk to him?” she asked quietly. 

Luka hummed, and the vibrations in his chest tickled against her cheek. “I do,” he said quietly. “But not yet. I just… I want to stay here. With you.” His arms tightened around her with his words, holding her so close she swore she could hear his heartbeat. “Just a little bit longer.” 

She nodded. And then she tightened her arms around him as well, pulling him closer. 

So that she was holding him, too. 

[zadien]

I'll just scribble down a vague idea, I said. It'll not take too long I said. 3000 words later! They're up denial creek without a paddle and Angela is standing on the banks wondering if she should throw them a rope.

Lucy scratched a nail over the stressed label of her sweating beer bottle. “I’d have to see him at work though. Probably a bad idea to sleep with someone I work with.” Angela nodded. “True. He does seem clingy and you’re too nice.” “Exactly,” Tim said, with a firm nod as he sat back. “You’ll sleep together, and the next day he’ll call you his girlfriend, bring you to meet his mother and try to buy a house. And if you say no, he’ll play the kicked puppy and you’ll feel bad. And then you’ll have another puppy—a sex puppy.” Angela bit her cheek to stop herself from smirking as Lucy reached out to swat his arm. “No! Tim! Don’t call him that! That’s weird.” Tim grinned. “I’m sorry. Sex puppy.” “Stop!” Angela raised her bottle to her lips and studied them. There was something there. A vibe, an energy. She couldn’t put her finger on it. They weren’t flirting, at least not overtly, but there was something tangible there. They didn't even seem to realise it. Maybe another time, another place, another universe. Which seemed a shame, because they were uncannily perfect for each other in a way Angela could never have anticipated—she doubted Captain Andersen could have suspected how well the pairing of Bradford and Chen would turn out.

[atlantablack]

why does running away, feel so much like a cage?

Gen | no archive warnings apply | 2,479

Morgana has a sword to Arthur's chest, and her hands are shaking.  She has a sword pressed to his heart, and she keeps waiting for something, for anything, to stop her. For Merlin to come barreling into a location he should by all rights not be able to find, inexplicably fracturing her plans once again. For Gwen to melt out of the shadows, pity and rage mingling in equal parts in her gaze.  Arthur does not attempt to flee, does not attempt to lunge for his sword lying off to their right. He does nothing but stare up at her with an ocean of heartbreak hiding in blue, blue eyes, and her hands are still fucking shaking.  She's holding a sword to her brother's chest, pressing the tip forward just enough to see the shirt he’s wearing rip, and then-- --she is not.

[buggachat]

OT4 (Adrien, Marinette, Alya, and Nino)-centric Sentimonster Adrien fic, angst and hurt/comfort, 1/14 Chapters

Everybody had expected Monarch's defeat to be a moment of triumph. Nobody had expected Gabriel Agreste, unmasked and mind frayed from continual abuse of the miraculous, crying out to all who would listen and making Paris certain of one thing:

His son, Adrien Agreste, is one of his sentimonsters.

And now he's missing.

Nobody can find him— not even the superheroes, and not even his closest friends. But Marinette, Nino, and Alya aren't ones to give up so easily. They'll find him, no matter what it takes.

(But, geez, would it kill Chat Noir to lend a hand?)

So, I wrote this ~70k word fic a long time ago and it's been sitting complete in my docs for a few months. I'm finally going to start posting it, maybe weekly, maybe even more often depending on how I'm feeling.

Basically, it's a self-indulgent culmination of my love for the OT4, Adrien angst, and hurt/comfort.

[blaithnne]

I’m literally fine I don’t care its not even that big of a deal it’s whatever who’s Hilda

[steddieunderdogfics]

Let Love Come Running In by long_live_heehoo :)

Let Love Come Running In by long_live_heehoo

Rating: General

15,828 words, 3/3 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Post-Season/Series 04, Eddie Munson Lives, Dead Vecna (Stranger Things), Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, First Kiss, Getting Together, Steve and Eddie are roommates, Songfic, Kinda?, Steve makes Eddie a mixtape, If you find historical inaccuracies no you didn'tNot Beta Read, oh yeah also Jason's dead cause fuck 'im, implied ronanceimplied byler - Freeform, the gays are winning so hard, btw I'm posting all three chapters at once cause I refused to post anything unfinished lol

Summary:

Steve is in love with Eddie. Eddie is in love with Steve. They've been dancing around it since Vecna, but repression isn't everything it's cracked up to be, and patience is fickle. In the end, all it really takes to push them over the edge is a little ABBA, some (kind, mostly) bullying from Robin, and the teenage D&D club gossip mill. Or: Flipping "Eddie makes Steve a metal mixtape" into "Steve makes Eddie a cheesy love song mixtape" and letting the gays run wild <3

Thanks for the rec!

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks!

[rhaenella]

You & Me - Rhys Montrose x Reader - Masterlist

Summary: What happens when reader assassin is tasked with killing the possible future mayor of London; Rhys Montrose. Politician by day, Eat the Rich Killer by night. But he isn’t the only person wearing different masks. 

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence, murder, immoral sociopathic behaviour, mentions of alcoholism, drug abuse and neglect, (eventual) smut

Total word count (so far): 102k

A/N: Multi part Rhys Montrose x Female Reader fic. FYI, this fic will incorporate the use of Y/N. I have decided to also post this fic on AO3 (same username as on my Tumblr) and to change the x Reader to an Original Female Character over there using a fictitious name. That will be the only difference. So, if the use of Y/N isn’t your thing, go ahead and look the fic up on AO3 :)

Below you'll find the links to all the parts that have thus far been uploaded. I will try my best to upload a new chapter each week. Every part is also accompanied with a 'soundtrack', these are all listed below as well. Finally, a little preview of what's to come... I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoy writing it! There aren't a lot of Rhys x Reader fics out there, so I hope I can bring some extra flavour to the table.

Ps don't forget to watch the trailer/edit I made for the fic! x

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23

Soundtracks: 00. Feeling Good – Nina Simone 01. Royals – Lorde  02. Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene – Hozier  03. (I Just) Died in Your Arms – Hidden Citizens  04. Secrets And Lies – Ruelle  05. No Good – KALEO  06. …Ready For It? – Taylor Swift 07. Meet Me In the Woods – Lord Huron 08. The River – Daisy Jones & The Six 09. The Silence – Manchester Orchestra 10. Power – Isak Danielson 11. wicked game – Jessie Villa 12. Beautiful Crime – Tamer 13. Toxic – 2WEI 14. Cherry – Lana Del Rey 15. In the Air Tonight – Natalie Taylor 16. Whole Lotta Love (Dermot O’Leary) – Hozier 17. Lavender Haze – Taylor Swift 18. Don’t You Know – Jaymes Young 19. One For My Baby – Frank Sinatra 20. Run Baby Run – The Rigs 21. Sinnerman – Nina Simone 22. And so It Begins – Klergy  23. Darkness In Your Heart – Cowbell

Preview

Song: Feeling Good – Nina Simone

The sound of the heavy door opening as it noisily scraped the floor made you look in his direction. 

Rhys entered slightly out of breath, looking positively dishevelled as he ran a hand through his unruly curls.

“What happened to you? Killed another person?” You couldn’t help but teasingly joke, taking in his state as your eyes roamed freely over his physique. 

Rhys had put his hands on his hips, taking some deep breaths to slow down his heart rate. When he looked up at you, head tilted to the side, he shot you his charming smile that feigned innocence.

No way.

You stared at him. 

No way the man was truly this brazen.

He started to move closer to you, his eyes mischievous as they betrayed his wicked actions. You marvelled a little at how quickly you were getting better at reading him. Perhaps you recognised the murderous tendencies from the mirror. 

[klaineccfanficlibrary]

do you know of any fics that exist in an au we’re the s4 breakup never happened? like blaine hanging out in the loft with rachel santana and kurt while he was still at mckinley in s4.

From a previous ask, where Blaine didn't cheat in season 4, we have these three below. However, most writers tend to follow canon that they broke up for some reason in season 4. ~Jen

The Secret About Blaine’s Cheating byMadPie

After reading everything I could possibly find, this is what I think actually think Blaine did that night with Eli, and this is how I believe how Kurt will find out.

~~~~~

Loneliness Found Me by  CoffeeAddict80

Instead of cheating on Kurt, Blaine finds himself singing about his feelings to what he thinks is an empty auditorium.

~~~~~

Exhibit McKinley by @tonks42

AU Season 4. Living so far apart from NYADA student Kurt, Blaine decides to send his boyfriend a series of letters and objects to chronicle his senior year.

~~~~~

The Air in My Lungs By JButler

Kurt wasn't trying to be perfect, just honest.

~~~~~

Check the Season 4 tag for fix it fics.

Scenes During the Break Upby misqueue

A collection of vignettes set in season 4 across the time in which Kurt and Blaine are broken up. Not in chronological order. For the Klaine Advent 2013 challenge. Stories are consistent with my The Architects of Life canon ‘verse.

Note: Many of the stories have the friends-with-benefits tag.

~~~~~ 

There are lots of season 4 fics where Blaine hangs out with the newbies, Sam, Tina and Artie when they are split - Killerqueen80 on AOS writes some great stories.

Glee Gen Fictlet #2 Graduation Party By Killerqueen80

The remaining four seniors plan a graduation party, all of new ND and some of the graduates who have helped them at competitions and such are invited to attend. it ends up being biota 2.0. basically just shenanigans with former grads witnessing the drama free family dynamic the current seniors helped create.

~~~~~

If you want Blaine hanging with Kurt, Rachel and Santana, here are some that are set in season 5.

Drunk on You by flaming_muse

It takes Kurt three times to fit his key in the lock of the apartment’s door, partly because Blaine is swaying heavily against his side, a warm, drunk weight keeping him off-balance, and partly because the alcohol in his own system is making the lock swim just enough in the plane of the door that he can’t quite catch it.

Bushwick futurefic, set within the next year or so, after Blaine’s graduation, no spoilers past 5x03

~~~~

Bushwick Game Night by flaming_muse

Pictionary in the Bushwick loft is serious business.

Bushwick futurefic, set sometime in fall 2013, spoilers assumed through but not past 5x07 (“Puppet Master”)

[nixthelapin]

Humble suggestion: while I love the Guardian Marinette stuff in s4, I think a cool different route for s4 would’ve been to basically jumpstart s5 early by having Hawkmoth never lose the Miracle Box at the end of s3.

Now, Miracle Queen was obviously the fandom’s least favorite episode (that is now in debate with s5 finished, but I digress). But I think ending it on a low note like s4 did would’ve been so cool, and also help with some of the show’s plot armor.

The specific plot armor I’m referring to: Marinette has all but 2 Miraculouses as her disposal, and yet they make no progress against Shadowmoth. It’s literally 17 v 2. They almost won against him with just 5 (s2 finale) and only didn’t because they were caught off guard by Mayura. Hawkmoth upgrading to Shadowmoth does nothing to really make him stronger other than making it easier to make senti beings, which they have already faced before.

The proposal: Miracle Queen happens mostly like canon, they use the existing Miraculous users to fight Ladybug & Chat Noir, but Hawkmoth and Mayura keep the rest, maybe even hide the Miraculouses (and let’s say they take them out of the box to use the box as a decoy so when Fu changes ownership, they won’t be trapped inside). Ladybug and Chat get the Miraculouses from the active users back, so not all of them are lost. So, to keep track:

Hero Team: ladybug, black cat, fox, turtle, bee, snake, dragon, horse, monkey (9)

Villain Team: (everything else) butterfly, peacock, rabbit, tiger, ox, mouse, pig, rooster, goat, dog (10)

So it’s almost an even match! (In terms of numbers at least… those power sets are arguable 😬)

But! It has the same Ladybug-guilt issues as s5 (her feeling at fault for losing them) because she accidentally led Hawkmoth to Fu, and I think it helps solve the issue of how many individual new Miraculous episodes they had to stuff into s4 before she lost them at the end (Penalteam was really doing overtime lol).

I do think this version would lose the Alliance rings, but it would be good ground for setting up some kind of villain team instead. Probably not with all of them at once- while that would be smart to overwhelm the heroes, Gabe doesn’t have that many allies 😂. Natalie is half dead and that just leaves the psycho 14 year old (Lila).

The heroes could also win back the Rabbit like they did in s5 with the time chase (with some tweaking because the dynamics of the two would be different from that point). Because that thing is WAY too powerful to let the villains keep yet not let them win with it (not this time, plot armor!) At least with the heroes they have the excuse of “don’t mess with the time continuum,” which hawky clearly wouldn’t care about.

Thoughts?? This was just a tangent thought that popped up out of nowhere, so there are probably some holes, but I think it’s a fun idea! Any other suggestions or add-ons? Or do you think I’m totally off my rocker? I’d love to hear anything!

[steviewashere]

Discombobulated by The Disembodied

Rating: Teen and Up (May Change)CW: Graphic Depictions of Violence/Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Blood & GoreCharacters: Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Vecna, Other Characters to Be AddedTags: Canon Re-write, Canon Divergence, Season 4, Vecna's Curse, Steve Harrington Gets Vecna'd, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington's Friendship, Steve Harrington Has Nightmares, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Mild Humor, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Worried Robin Buckley, Mentions of Steve's Bad Parents, Other Tags To Be Added WC: 4,177

Season four rewrite where Steve gets targeted instead of Max. More to be added eventually, but here's chapter one! Enjoy! <3

Or, read it on AO3 Over Here!

🪦—————🪦 A bloody nose isn’t good for business. Not when it drips down onto the case he’s holding. Staining the pristine white edge with a rich pool of his warm blood. He’s never done well at the sight of it. And knows damn well she won’t allow him to just walk around Family Video with a wad of toilet paper up his nostril. “Robin,” he calls out towards the back room.

“What d’ya want Steve? I’m on break!” She shouts. Her mouth is full of something. Probably fries, if the smell of grease in the air says anything.

“Um—I—Don’t freak out!”

“You know that as soon as you say something like that, I’m going to do it regardless. Now, what’s wrong?! Use your big boy words!”

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. Finger laying flat against his nostrils, head tilted towards the ceiling. The flow won’t stop. He pinches. Voice high pitched and embarrassingly similar to Kermit the Frog, “I’ve got a bloody nose! I’ll go to the bathroom and clean it up, already half way there. Just need somebody to watch the counter.” And since he’s honest, he’s in the men’s restroom before she has the chance to even open the break room door.

It’s a mess. His hand is coated in his own blood, already drying between his fingers, caught in the life lines. A faint ring of red on the edge of his right nostril. Damp spot above his lip, caught in the little bit of mustache hair he’s got, tacky. It’s on the tip of his tongue when he catches a little bead between his lips. He wets a paper towel and dabs at the stains on his face. The white paper turning hideously pink. Almost salmon. Wrings it out under the steady stream of warm water from the tap, watching as the blood washes away in little swirls. This has to be the most inconvenient time to get a nose bleed. But every single time has been inconvenient. Is there convenience in blood on his face?

He sighs when he’s finally clean. And takes a good look at himself in the mirror. Dark circles and oily skin. Shaking hands. Dark pink lips—stained. “Get it together,” he mutters, “rent’s due in a few days. Need all the money you can get.” He runs his hand over his face, grimacing at the flakes of blood that come away from his sweaty palm. “Fuck.”

When he’s back on the sales floor, he has to force the annoyed sigh back down his throat. Robin’s already looking at him. Wide eyed and reaching out. “I’m fine,” he automatically says. She’s got questions, he knows this. Will he answer? Most likely not.

“There’s no way you’re fine, Steve!” She says in return, exasperated. It’s her signature catchphrase. “That’s the fifth nose bleed in the last like…four days? You should really—“

“Get it checked out. I know, Robbie. I can’t do that and you know that.”

She grumbles some sort of profanity under her breath, missed by Steve’s slow shuffling towards the counter. “Steve, I’ll literally…give you my paycheck for the rest of your rent if it means you’ll get checked out by a doctor,” she attempts to bargain.

“I’m not taking your money, you need that, too,” he rebuttals. “And I’m not going to a doctor. I don’t have insurance. It’ll get better, I’m sure. We have nothing to worry about.” Though when he looks down at the cases on the counter, stretching to take one, his hands are shaking. Of course he’s worried. He’s had concussions and enough doctor visits in the last three years, it’s enough to finally make his parents tut and coo over him. He’s heard all about brain damage and risks and all the other garbage. What’s nose bleeds on top of that? Just a minor setback. But also, maybe it does mean something. Maybe he’ll die in his sleep, too much blood on his pillow. He’s not sure. The doctor would prescribe him something, probably. Though, doctors aren’t his forte. Not after last summer.

“What if it’s cancer?” Robin oh-so helpfully supplies.

“It’s not cancer,” Steve drones.

“What about a brain bleed?”

“Think I’d know if that was happening.”

“What about—“

“Robin,” Steve interrupts firmly. “Your little diagnostics are not helping. And I wish you’d stop for the sake of my own sanity. I’ll get it figured out eventually. Now’s just not the time.”

He grabs the tape he had before, wiping at its edges with a sanitary wipe. The cloth is pink in his hand. Just like it’d been in the bathroom. He knows that she’s right. She always is, or at least mostly to some degree. But he can’t miss work. Not when he’s got groceries to buy and bills to pay and rent to cover. Not when he’s on his own, no longer covered by his parents.

“When will be the right time? Because at this rate, Steve, it’ll be when you’re covered in your own blood and dead on the floor.” She moves behind him. Standing all too close to his back. He moves away. Her hand falling back down to hit the side of her thigh. “Why won’t you just let me worry? Let me in, y’know. I’m your best friend, you can trust me.” He hates how wounded she sounds. A strain in the back of his throat. The lurching in the pit of his stomach.

“I do,” he weakly murmurs. “I’m just fine with handling this kind of stuff. Not like I haven’t done it before.”

“But you have your own place. You have independence. You’ve got your friends,” Robin lists. Voice rising in urgency and volume. “They want to help you. They want to give you what your parents couldn’t, Steve! That’s part of my purpose! To just be there!”

He sighs. Bends himself in half over the counter, forehead resting on his open palm. The aching tinge of a migraine settling uneasily behind his eyebrows. They’re getting more frequent, too. He’s already out of his prescription medication for this bullshit. Now reliant on Tylenol, and ibuprofen, and weed from Eddie Munson. It’s been weeks since he’s been able to just go about his day, normally and at peace. Haunting nightmares. Whispered voices in cold silences. Getting high just to cover up the pain that doesn’t even recede when he’s finally out of his mind. It’s bad that he’s got Robin yelling at him. Bad that he wants to cave, give in. Knows that he can’t, though. It’s all such bullshit. “I’d ask for your help,” he grits, “But it wouldn’t do much good.”

She exhales sharply over his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to fucking mean?” Her voice bites.

“It means,” he drags on, voice going weaker and weaker by the second, “means that I’ve tried everything. And nothing you could do is going to help me right now. That’s all I meant. I’m not—You know I’m not that guy anymore.” A part of him wants to cry. Grovel at her feet. Chomp down on the side of the counter and sob into the surface, sounds muffled by the formica. But he stays bent over his own hands. Knees forward and ready to crouch down. His hair flops into his eyes. It’s almost laughable how he keeps forgoing his normal hair care routine, but knows that it’s cause for concern, too. What the hell happened to me, a small part of him wonders. The rest of him is just caught up in Robin. What she thinks of him. Why she sticks around for somebody like him.

Steve stands from his stupor. To look back. Her eyes are forlorn towards the doors. Body tight and still. “I don’t know how you can help,” he mutters. “I’d ask if—“

“I know,” she quickly interrupts. “Doesn’t mean you have to be alone, though. I—I’m gonna head back to the break room. Have the rest of my lunch. Take yours in fifteen minutes, alright?” Her eyes find him. And for once, her eyes that are normally excited and curious and welcoming, are dull and closed off. “I want you to eat today. Bounce back. Be yourself.”

He nods once. A finality to it. “Right. Yeah, I’ll take my lunch soon. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be normal.”

“Then don’t be normal. Just be Steve. Be the guy I’m friends with. Not some…Some self conscious jerk who won’t let his best friend worry. Because she does. Do that. A lot. But only because she loves you and doesn’t like the idea of you being dead. So don’t do that. Don’t die because you’re being an ignorant moron.” He laughs, loud and belly forward. Something in him sparkles, glinting gold and honey-like when she smiles at him. Even as she tries to hide it from his sight. She chuckles herself and walks by him, but not without throwing a fake-out punch to his arm. “Fries are calling my name, Steve-O. Practically screeching for me to eat them.”

“Go eat, you dork,” he chokes out through his fit of giggles. Stomach clenching with the words. “I’ll still be here, you know that.”

“You better be, Steve Harrington. Or I’ll find you and kill you myself.”

“Not unless somebody gets to me first,” he fires at her back, already half way through the break room door.

She flips him off. Good natured. Chipped nail polish gleaming in the Family Video light. Her voice is muffled by the swinging door. “Don’t be a stranger! Maybe close up! Come chow down! I’ve got your stupid burger with yellow mustard, you freak!” Before he can dignify that with a response, the bell above the front doors chimes. He schools himself.

His headache festers. And he swears, for a moment, that somebody whispers his name.

——— Before he sleeps, he pops three Tylenol. Technically, he’s not supposed to. But he’s also out of weed. And what he’d normally take for migraines. This goddamned headache won’t leave him. It went from a dull ache within the last four days to a throbbing, pulsing mass at the back of his head. And, sure, maybe he should go to a doctor. Not now. Not with what his brain will surely create for him tonight.

He’s tried just not sleeping. But then he’s too groggy in the morning. Running off of tepid cups of coffee and whatever candy he grabs from the rack in Family Video. While it’s not ideal, the suffering in his sleep, he knows that he’ll have to shut his eyes. Sweat through his clothes. Get caught in the blankets like a mouse in a trap.

It takes a while. The all encompassing brownish-black behind his eyelids to swallow him whole. But it does. Sucking him in, tying him down to the mattress, shoving him further and further into the indent his body makes.

———— He can hear them screaming through the large metal door. The separation growing farther and farther as he sits. Strapped to the chair. Eyes pointed and unblinking at the door. Nauseous and off-kilter, but so damn afraid. Terrified as another screech breaks through the underside of the door.

They shouldn’t have come down here. No matter how enticing this secret code was. No matter if he knew where the music was coming from. He knew that it was stupid. That all of this was a bad and awful idea. And now he’s got two basically brand new people roped into his and Dustin’s bullshit.

The screams fade. Walls crumbling around him. He’s stuck to the chair.

Trapped. His labored and panicked breathing echoing between the floor and the endless abyss that cages him in on all four sides. Beyond where the door was, he sees them.

He tries. Tries really hard to look away. To find a corner or a stain by his shoe or a stray ice cream cone crumb on his uniform, but to no avail. His eyes remain glued to where the door should still be. Where it should be shielding him from this gnarly, unsightly, gruesome view.

Robin Buckley is a tangle of broken limbs and matted blonde hair, smeared lipstick and plucked black fingernails. Her sneakers are soaked in red, covering the doodles he’s seen before, smearing whatever ink was previously there. The white on her uniform is unmistakably pink. Her face…Steve doesn’t recognize it. Features smashed in, bloodied, or missing. Eyes no longer blue. Just two black holes. Suggestions for where eyeballs should go. And he veers his line of sight just to the left of her slumped body, all crooked and messy on the bench they’ve thrown her on. There, on the ground by her rolled over left foot, is her eyeballs. Piercing blue and retina tailed.

Dustin Henderson is also more broken bones than put together human. His curls are frizzy, stained with red, sticking tacky to his forehead. A bloodied pile of teeth lay rotting next to his corpse. His hat is too far away for him to reach. Hands tied behind his back and strained, rubbed red raw on his wrists. T-shirt worn from camp instead ripped and jumbled, stained with crimson, and sticky to his body.

Erica Sinclair. She’s only twelve years old. He can’t look any longer. At what he couldn’t prevent. What he should’ve been able to save. They’re all kids, a part of him realizes. He’s the only one there who’s an adult, who’s had the chance to graduate high school, who’s alive.

A presence lingers behind him. He dares not turn his head.

But a disembodied voice accompanies the lingering shadow towering over his soon-to-be corpse.

“Steve Harrington…Your time is up.” ————

He startles awake in his bedroom. It’s dark. The black inkiness undefinable in the space around him. Filled with the white noise of silence. His clothes are wet with sweat. Limbs locked straight and stiff at his sides. Eyes centered to the foot of his bed.

There’s nobody there, which he wants to believe. But Steve swears, in this torturous moment, a figure stands over him. Tangled in its own flesh. A singular white eye. Dangling claw-like hand brushing the comforter tucked insecurely at his feet. It’s mouth remains still and closed and absent of lips. He swears it. He hears it. “Steve Harrington,” the figure seems to whisper. Voice deep and rumbling. Disembodied from all sides.

He swears it comes from the figure. He knows it does. It has to. But the next time he blinks.

Eyelids squelching with the tears he couldn’t sense.

The figure is gone. Dissipated. He knows he won’t sleep again. Searching the room, eyes going right towards his night stand, the alarm clock reads 3am. It was worth a try. Managed a good five hours somehow. It’s something.

It’s enough as he peels himself from bed and stumbles to the bathroom. It’s enough when he reemerges in a towel with sopping wet hair. It’s enough when he idles in his car outside of the shitty apartment complex he’s managed for himself.

It’s enough to wonder if what he foresaw was just a figment of his imagination.

For now, however, he pulls out of the parking lot. Riding slow and careful to Robin’s house. Today’s the day of the championship game. And he’ll be damned if he misses it.

——— “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Robin drawls. She doesn’t have to look at him to know that it’s the truth. Her eyeball is practically pressed against the passenger’s visor mirror. Applying her mascara with fingers prying the eye open, tongue squished between her teeth, nostrils flared in concentration.

Steve scoffs. “It’s just early, man. Not that weird.” He rolls his shoulders as much as he can with his hands extended to his steering wheel. Sometimes he wishes she weren’t so perceptive. Or that she only noticed him when he was down on his luck about his dating pool, not his existence. He blinks sluggishly, the road blurring for a brief moment. He should’ve had more coffee or something this morning. Being alert is important. Being aware. Being ready, especially after what he saw last night.

“It is a little,” she mutters, still hyper-focused on her makeup. “I mean—Usually, you’d be melting my ears off with some discussion about your dating life. How much it sucks. What you’re looking for. Your success in bed the night before.” Finally, she pulls herself away from the visor, open mascara tube in hand, and stares long at his profile. “Did you even go on your date yesterday? That girl…What was her name…From the other day? Thought you scored a movie with her or something.”

He shakes his head. Eyes vigilant to the road. “Heidi. Her name is Heidi, first of all.”

“Okay, Heidi. Her name is Heidi. Did you go on a date with her? Or are you going to tell me how she isn’t the right person? Because you aren’t eager to. Which means one of many things: she’s going out of state for school, she’s more interested in your douchebag dad, she thought that you could get her a word in with Tommy the Horrid, or she almost bit your dick off while giving you a blow-ie and now you’re too afraid of a girl with a little bite to her bark.”

“Hey! The girl that almost bit my dick off had serious teeth to her, dude! I have every right to be afraid of somebody making a snack outta my dick,” he objects. “Besides, I wouldn’t know about Heidi because I didn’t even call her!”

Robin sucks in between her teeth. “Low blow, Steve-O.”

“I forgot!”

She groans. “That’s even worse, Steve,” she bemoans. “It’s like objectively terrible to forget to call the girl that you asked out. If anything, I should’a called her and taken her up on the movie.”

“Oh, come off it,” Steve shoots. “God forbid a guy forgets every once in a while.”

“God forbid a girl accidentally bites your dick,” Robin mumbles under her breath. She leans forward before Steve can refute and turns up the music on the radio. Her nose crinkles immediately. “Tears For Fears…Again? It’s the exact same tape as yesterday!”

Steve just shrugs in response. Sure, it is the same tape. But also, it’s keeping that lingering whisper at bay. He’s made almost a science out of it. Whenever he prickles with a floundering sense that he’s being watched, he plays the first few seconds of their song, “Watch Me Bleed”. It works, though. Brain zeroing in on just the voices emanating from the tape’s delicate nature. He plays it in his Walkman at work. During his break. From the stereo in his car. The sound system he stole from his parents. Wherever he can fit the music like caulk between tiles, that’s where the whispers don’t reach him.

She sighs at his non response. “Alright, what’s going on with you?” She finally asks. “We’ve been in this car for like fifteen minutes. You won’t talk to me about girls. You won’t ask me why I’m getting all dolled up or whatever. And now you’re listening to, admittedly, the most heart wrenching Tears For Fears album I have ever heard. At least so far.”

“Does there have to be something wrong with me to listen to Tears For Fears?”

“Yes. When it’s depressing, there absolutely needs to be something going on with you. Talk to me,” she eggs, slapping the back of her left hand on his bicep. He winces at the sound. “Let me in Steve or I’m gonna ban you from picking movies at work.”

He gasps, offended. “You wouldn’t!”

“I’ll turn on The Apartment everyday I work with you this week. Swear on it, I will. Let me in or there will be dire consequences.”

He shifts in his seat. And for the first time in the whole drive, he pulls his line of sight over to Robin. She stares back. But he can’t actually bring himself to look. Not at her eyes or where her lipstick might be smudged. Or at her fingernails, no matter the color they’re painted right now. He finds a freckle between her eyebrows instead. “Okay, fine,” he mutters. “I’ve been having nightmares, that’s all.” And then he’s back at the road. The long and stretching road. An uneasy silence around all aspects of his car. It’s not usually this vacant. But something is changing, shifting. Lurking, he can sense it.

“Just nightmares? Or does this have to do with the bloody noses and chronic headaches you’ve been getting, too?” Of course she knows what to ask. The exact questions he doesn’t like answering.

He shrugs once more. “I don’t know, Robbie. Maybe. Probably doesn’t help my headaches when I get less sleep than needed. The nose bleeds are their own issue, I think.”

“See, this is why you should be going to a doctor. They’d actually know, y’know? Instead of speculating all this garbage.”

“Robin—“

“I’ll drop it. For your sanity. But, come on, it’s not weird to you? Not at all. All these things suddenly happening in your life. Practically mingling and making out in the corners. There has to be—“

He can’t listen to this any longer. To her paranoid ramblings. The what ifs and possibilities. At the next red light, he slams harder than necessary on the breaks. Hands squeezing the steering wheel tightly. Pointedly looking at his white knuckle grip. Tears simmer in his eyes. But he can’t. Can’t do this. The next swallow of spit he takes is harsh and agitating on his throat. “Why are you putting on so much makeup? Nobody has ever cared that much about a pep rally. Why do you suddenly care about this pep rally?” He interrogates.

Except, while he’d been expecting a long and agitated ramble that turned all too sappy, there’s silence. An odd and tense type of silence. Drawn with charcoal and engulfed in flames. His chest drops inwards, stomach swooping towards his throat, and his breath grows choked and distant from himself. He doesn’t move his eyes. For fear that the tangled flesh of that unidentifiable late night visitor will be wearing Robin’s scent. Doused in her perfume, but wickedly tall and bent. He doesn’t look. Not even when the recognizable drag of claws grows sharp and mean on the back of his right hand. Even as they curl into the cuff of his jacket. Even as the fabric bunches with the movement. Crinkling like plastic. And for a moment, it’s like he’s ground beef stowed behind plastic wrap on a grocery store shelf. Awaiting some fate. A fate somehow like death. Death after death.

“Steve,” it whispers. Definitely not Robin. Deep and masculine and vibrating. He swears the voice echoes in his chest. In his head. But he favors the steering wheel. Doesn’t want to confirm something he made up. He’s making this up. He has to be.

“Steve,” it tries again. The claws on his hand press firmer. He winces. But doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Even if it could take him at any moment. Even if it could diffuse his suffering. Even if it would rid him of the crawling under his skin that he’s tried to lock away for the last three years.

The next time, “Steve,” is said again, it’s Robin. Shaking his hand. Firmly pushing into his skin. Panicked and sharp and loud by his ear. He blinks, shifting, whipping his head to see her. Her piercing blue eyes perfectly placed in their sockets, fitted by black mascara and her lips a shiny pink, freckles, shaking voice, meticulously styled bob. “Steve, hello? What the hell—Where’d you just go?”

He flits over his surroundings. Pulled to the side of the road. Idling with the engine on. The tape done and over. How long have I been out of it, he has to wonder, and how did I get over here from the road? “I—I don’t know what that was,” he musters. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

“Is your head up your own ass or something? Made me have to pull over and emergency brake, you asshole.”

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, “must be more tired than I thought.” His hands go back to the steering wheel. The leather squeaks under his sweaty grip. It’s solid where he touches. The only thing he can hear are his hands and her breath. He sighs with exhausted relief. “So,” he chirps, “getting ready for Vickie, right?” He deflects. “She definitely likes boobies. And you like boobies. Match made in heaven.”

For a moment, Robin’s eyes flash with something like grievance. A worry. But she schools her expression and scoffs. A tight, tight laugh. “Don’t call them that!” She squawks.

If he continues to egg her on, he can pretend like there isn’t something breathing down his neck. Can pretend, too, that he doesn’t feel the need to be ready. For danger. For imminent peril. For his death.

🪦—————🪦 More to come later, but take this for now. Basically throwing you a bone. Whoops. Chew on this for a bit while I think about how to keep the narrative going.

[laysean87]

This story is my first Avatar: TLOK fanfic. A Lin/Asami crack pairing that was written off the top of my head, and wasn't outlined or anything.

Might consider doing some more of these two in a proper story once I'm finished with doing Teen Titans, Justice League/Justice League Unlimited, and Young Justice stuff on AO3.

[swanqueenelmaxshadowhunters]

Oh, this next chapter will be something!

"You're lying! Emma is dead."

Regina's eyes were hard and cold, nothing like the young woman Emma had known. She knew things had changed, but seeing it through the magic mirror and seeing it right in front of her were two very different things. "Re-gi-na, please," Emma gasped. "I swear - it's me - Em-"

"Don't you dare speak her name, creature!"

The grip on Emma's throat tightened, and she just tried to relax, knowing that fighting against it would only make it worse.

"Regina, dear, why not give the lady a chance to explain?"

At that moment, Emma finally realized Regina wasn't alone, and her eyes met the owner of the voice. Maleficent was sitting on Regina's bed, the sheet wrapped around her waist, but her torso exposed, and she seemed unfazed by it.

[samanddean76]

Chapters: 7/7 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel & Gabriel (Supernatural) Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Gabriel (Supernatural), Sam Winchester, Alastair (Supernatural), Lilith (Supernatural), God | Chuck Shurley, John Winchester, Mary Winchester Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, season four au, Hurt Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Love, Rescue, Research, Hurt Sam Winchester, Protective Gabriel (Supernatural), Mental Anguish, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Castiel and Dean Winchester Falling in Love, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Constantine References, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Tortured in Hell, Dean Winchester's Soul, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Borrowed grace, Hell Is Never Going To Be The Same, First Time, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Eventual Happy Ending, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2024, Art by xfancyfranart Summary:

Dean Winchester is living a plain, ordinary, and boring life. Until one day a new student shows up in the little town of Spain, SD. It’s love at first sight, but then an unimaginable tragedy happens, and Dean is left alone in his misery. Or is he a student attending Oxford University on a full athletic scholarship who finds a familiar face in his coxswain? Or is he hiking in the desert and attempting to save a known stranger? Or is he a traveler who stops for the night at a cheap motel and finds the pizza man of his dreams? Or is he none of those things? Just an unwitting victim of fate and destiny?

Castiel had led the assault on hell, in order to save the righteous man and prevent the first seal of the apocalypse from being broken, lest hell should be allowed to reign on earth. In the aftermath of his disastrous mission, he is being held captive by Alastair, and his image is being used in a final, determined attempt to break Dean.

But the profound bond that Castiel feels towards the pure soul won’t allow him to go down without a fight, and he makes a desperate prayer to his very old friend to set in motion a chain of events that might save him and his beloved mortal, or possibly, doom them for all eternity.

@xfancyfranart​ @deancaspinefest​

[steddieunderdogfics]

For the "Rockstar Eddie, Normal Steve" theme weekend I'm throwing my own fic onto the pile because I have no shame

on your knees before babylon is one of my babies, one of my first fics in this fandom, and if you love some identity porn and fast flings then this is the one for you

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44322604

@matchingbatbites

on your knees before babylon by matchingbatbites

@matchingbatbites

Rating: Explicit

5,768 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Rock Star Eddie Munson, Famous Eddie Munson, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post S4, Concerts, Identity Porn, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Blindfolds, Praise Kink, Stranger Sex, Dom Eddie Munson, Sub Steve Harrington, Spit Kink, But just a little, Dirty Talk, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson Friendship, Steve Harrington-centric, Steve Harrington Being Called "Princess", Fluff, Unsafe Sex, Face-Fucking

Summary:

A spotlight snaps on, illuminating a single guitarist on stage, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat. Avernus looks ethereal, his curly hair like a halo framing his mask and Steve watches, enraptured as nimble fingers dance over the neck of the instrument. Steve takes Dustin to see his favorite band live in concert, then has a fast fling with the lead guitarist after the show.

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Theme Weekend. The theme this weekend is Rockstar Eddie, Normal Steve.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[rhaenella]

You & Me - Rhys Montrose x Reader - Part 22

Part 21 | Part 23

Summary: What happens when reader assassin is tasked with killing the possible future mayor of London; Rhys Montrose. Politician by day, Eat the Rich Killer by night. But he isn’t the only person wearing different masks. 

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence, murder, immoral sociopathic behaviour, mentions of alcoholism, drug abuse and neglect, smut

Word count: 4.7k

A/N: another Rhys pov! (to make up for the long hiatus lolol) Enjoy <3

Song: And so It Begins – Klergy 

“The disappearance of Tom Lockwood, sir.”

Bloody hell.

Even in death, the bastard managed to find a way to disrupt Rhys’ life and well-crafted plans one way or another. 

He felt a surge of adrenaline, but whereas most other people would succumb to the nerves, start sweating and rambling, make mistakes. Rhys didn’t. Instead, it only sharpened his focus, making him that much more dangerous. 

The reporter had used the word disappearance, meaning Lockwood’s body hadn’t been found, meaning there was no physical evidence that could potentially link him to the crime, which ultimately meant that he was in the clear. At least for now. If he played it right, perhaps Rhys could even turn this little hiccup into a story that would reflect him positively in the press.

The mob of journalists and cameramen were waiting with baited breath for him to comment, silence befalling the crowd once more. The only sounds that could be heard were that of the bustling city around them—the honking of a double-decker bus, London’s never-ending construction noises, and the screeching of a police siren a mere two blocks away. 

Rhys allowed a mixture of emotions to pass over his features. Initial shock—which hadn’t involved much acting—followed by a hint of grieving sadness, before he settled on a more calm, compassionate look. Because, like any good psychopath who studied the intricacies of human emotion, Rhys knew that that’s what the public needed to see in a leading figure. Someone who showed the appropriate level of feelings and compassion, but ultimately was able to offer reassurance and take action if need be. 

“Mr. Lockwood…” Rhys shook his head, unfolding his clasped hands to convey a subliminal message of openness and sympathy. “I must say that I am deeply shocked by this news. Is there any more information regarding his disappearance?”

“News surfaced after an anonymous tip was made to The London Dispatch, a spokesperson for the T.R. Lockwood Corporation has just released a statement that they are and have been aware of the circumstances and are working on an internal investigation, the Met Police have also just reported they are launching their own investigation,” the same reporter summarised, reading off of his phone. “Any thoughts on what could have happened, Mr. Montrose?”

Any thoughts… Oh, he had plenty, alright. 

An anonymous tip. To The London Dispatch. That could only be from one man: Jonathan. 

Did he seriously have the balls to go to the press, knowing full well that Lockwood’s disappearance could be traced back to him? Rhys hadn’t thought he would raise the alarm after revealing that detail to him, but it seemed Jonathan was keen to call his bluff.

On the upside, Lockwood’s employees had tried to keep the whole thing under wraps, just like you and Rhys had predicted. But now that it had come out, the peace and quiet would come to an end, especially with the police’s involvement as well.

“I could not say at this time, I’m afraid,” Rhys stated, schooling his actual thoughts. “I think, as of now, the best course of action is to allow all parties involved to conduct their investigations without adding unnecessary speculation that could potentially hinder their job.”

That prompted an immediate response from the crowd.

“You don’t think Lockwood’s partners should’ve been upfront about their CEO going missing?”

“Lockwood was last spotted in Prague–”

“Hasn't his staff already been hindering the police?”

“–over two weeks ago, what are the chances that–”

“Considering these suspicious circumstances–”

“–could this be another murder?”

“I understand,” Rhys interrupted, raising his hands in an attempt to quiet the masses. “I understand the demand for answers. I do. But we have to let them do their jobs. The Met Police will get to the bottom of this and find Mr. Lockwood, I have every faith.”

Lukas stepped up to the press then, drawing their attention with a wave of his hand. “That will be all for today, everyone. Please, step aside to let Mr. Montrose pass.”

They did so begrudgingly, some ignoring his campaign manager as they kept shouting questions left and right. Rhys walked past them, thanking them for their time. His head of security met him halfway, guiding him the last couple of metres to the car.

“Where’s Y/N?” Rhys asked.

“She’s waiting in the car, sir,” Reggie answered.

“Mr. Montrose!”

“One final question, please!”

Rhys easily picked up on the thinly veiled exasperation in Lukas’ voice as he tried to reason with The Telegraph. “No can do, sir. Mr. Montrose is already late for his next commitment. If you have any follow-up questions, please feel free to send them to our office.”

But the seasoned reporter wouldn’t just let it go, following Rhys all the way to the kerb.

“Mr. Montrose! What about his family?”

Reggie had already opened the passenger door, but Rhys paused, turning back around. He had to give it to the guy, no politician in their right mind could ignore that type of question.

He wetted his lips, a mournful smile flickering across his face. “Ofcourse, I give my deepest sympathies to Mr. Lockwood’s family during these uncertain times. I hope he will soon return in good health, and be reunited with his loved ones.”

Rhys dipped his head, pouring all the sympathy he did not actually feel into a final smile before he slid into the back of the car, where he was greeted by you, sending him an amused but troubled look. 

Reggie shut the door as Rhys leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Take us back to Primrose.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver nodded. “We might hit some traffic, though. There’s been an accident on Holborn and City Road.”

“That’s alright. Nothing we can do about it. Get us there as quickly as you’re able.”

“Straight away, sir.”

Rhys raised the soundproof, glass divider between the front and back of the car, giving you the privacy to talk about all that had just transpired without the driver being able to eavesdrop. 

You turned to face each other as the car pulled into the stream of ongoing traffic.

“So. Deepest sympathies, huh?”

“Why yes, ofcourse, darling,” he grinned.

You snorted. “Liar.”

He was about to retort when his phone started ringing. Rhys checked the caller ID, and sighed. “Excuse me, this won’t take long,” he said, accepting the call. 

“I don’t want to hear a word about Cynthia, Luke,” Rhys announced, wanting to move past his indisputable error in judgement quickly. “Go back to the office, coordinate from there. We need to get an official written statement out ASAP, one that is based on all the facts known at present.”

“Agreed, sir. I’ll fetch Brian to–”

“No. No, have Sam write it, she’ll need the experience. Just make sure to double check it before you post it online.”

“You don’t want to read it yourself? Are you not coming to the office?”

“No, I’ll meet you there later. There’s another pressing matter that requires my attention first. I trust you to handle the situation while I’m out.”

“Yes, Mr. Montrose.”

Rhys ended the call and pocketed his phone before resting his head against the headrest. What a day this was turning out to be. And it wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. 

He must have involuntarily let out another sigh, for he felt the softness of your touch, your slender fingers wrapping around his hand. 

“How is that patience of yours doing?”

“I won’t lie, it’s hanging by a thread.”

“Figures,” you smiled, squeezing his hand.

Your smile was quickly overshadowed by that same troubling look from before, one which you didn’t have to hide anymore.

“That anonymous tip… it must be–”

“Jonathan? Yes, I think so, too,” Rhys finished. “Unless you called The London Dispatch and failed to inform me of a new tactical move.”

You shook your head no as the car slowed to a stop, now officially stuck in the busy rerouted traffic. “Nope, it definitely wasn’t me,” you said, looking out the window to catch a glimpse of St. Paul’s looming presence.

It was a cloudy day, ten a penny for London, even during the summer time. The storm front may have passed, but the uncertainty of what was coming still lingered in the air.

“Whilst you were giving your statement to the press, I kept thinking, why?” You looked back to Rhys. “Why would Jonathan do this now? He knows that we put the account that was used to bribe the pilots in his name. That was supposed to keep him quiet, at least for a little while longer. So, what’s his angle?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, the same question dominating his thoughts. “Jonathan’s calculated. But also rash, and unpredictable, as today has clearly demonstrated… We need to act quickly before he goes from being a liability to a full-blown threat.”

You chewed your lip. “You know who else can become a threat?”

His eyes flickered between yours, trying to find an answer there as he mentally went down the long list of possible enemies he made along the way. The ones that were still able to draw breath, that is. 

Only one name came to mind.

“Marcus Atkinson.”

The man who conspired with Lockwood to have Rhys removed from the upcoming elections, by categorically trying to erase him from the face of the earth. 

“Atkinson,” you agreed. “So far, he’s been quiet, but there’s no telling what he’ll do now that the news of Lockwood’s disappearance has been made public.”

Rhys hummed, affirmative. “You’re right. We need to prepare for every possibility.”

“Is that why we’re going home?”

“No,” he said, a little reluctant. 

You frowned, not following. “Then why did you tell the driver to take us back to Primrose Hill?”

He sighed. “Because you’re going home, whilst I go and pay dear old Jonathan a visit.”

You paused, slowly letting go of his hand as the meaning of his words landed.

“You’re what?”

“You heard me.”

Rhys set his jaw, his decision already made and final, but that didn’t stop you from glaring at him.

“And you’re sidelining me because…?”

He looked away, something flicking over his expression. “It’s the only way I know how to keep you safe.”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed. “What about me and what I do for a living gives you the impression that you need to keep me safe?”

Rhys winced. He’d anticipated this reaction from you. But there was no way in hell he would allow you and Jonathan in the same room ever again. It wasn’t that he didn’t think you could fend for yourself, because, as more than one occasion had attested, you certainly knew how to throw a punch or two. And make it hurt. He himself was privy to the knowledge. 

However, he didn’t trust Jonathan and what he would do… Especially now. Besides, as far as Rhys could tell, Jonathan still didn’t know anything about your true identity. And he’d very much liked to keep it that way. 

“He’s a psychopath, Y/N,” Rhys stressed. 

“Right,” you drawled. “Do you want me to look up the exact definition? Because I’m pretty sure it would also include present company.”

He smiled, bitter. “I’m not planning on hurting you. Jonathan might. You know the things he was mixed up in across the pond. If he figures out how important you are to me…”

His forehead creased with genuine concern, and even in your anger, your eyes softened a little at the admission.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he amended. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that I want to keep you as far away from him as I possibly can.”

You nodded thoughtfully, still far from happy with his decision. But Rhys wasn’t going to change his mind, and you knew it as well.

Once again, the sound of a phone pinging interrupted your conversation. Privately, Rhys hoped it would put an end to it as well, although you quickly relieved him of that illusion. “We’re not done talking about this.”

“A man can hope,” he muttered.

You shot him a warning look as you retrieved your phone, effectively making him shut up.

He looked around, noticing they were still motionless. No. That wasn’t right. They had moved about three car lengths in the last five minutes. Progress, he thought, clocking his inner voice’s sarcasm with a wry smile. At least the extended travel time would give him a little more time to prepare for his surprise attack on Jonathan. Although, that twat was likely already waiting for Rhys to show up after the shit he pulled earlier today… 

Rhys gritted his teeth as he thought of Jonathan. How he must have watched the press interview live on tele, probably thinking he’d won this game… Well, Rhys would make damn sure that his victory would be short lived. 

A startled noise came from your side of the car, and his eyes shot back to you, jerking him from those thoughts. 

Your wide eyes were scanning whatever message had appeared on your phone’s screen, four times over, as if making sure your eyes weren’t deceiving you. A wave of worry careened through him as he watched the colour drain from your face.

“Y/N?” he said, alarmed.

“Oh my god…”

Frantically tapping the screen, you brought the phone closer to your face. “Oh my god.”

Before Rhys even got a chance to ask what the hell was going on, you’d already pressed the device to your ear, fingers now tapping restlessly against the car’s interior door.

“Y/N,” he said, firmer this time, clasping your hand in his. You looked at him, panicked, uncertain… terrified. Rhys felt his own stomach drop. “What happened?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out.

The call went straight to voicemail, and you groaned in frustration. “Damnit, she’s not answering her phone.”

“Is it Zoe? Sadie?” Rhys tried, concern slipping into his voice. 

He softly squeezed your hand to garner your attention. It worked. You refocused on him, visibly swallowing a tang of adrenaline before shoving your phone into his hands. Rhys read the ID: Zoe. He was right—there were only so many people that could pull this type of reaction from you. He could probably count them on one hand.

His eyes slid down to read the most recent incoming texts, and he sucked in a breath, immediately understanding your nervousness.

>>> mum’s back

>>> please come

Your mother… 

Alarm bells went off inside of him, his concern slowly getting replaced by something sharper, harder. 

You’d both known the day would come, yet the words on the screen still shocked him to silence, the only thing he could muster a feeble, “Fuck…”

“Yeah…”

Rhys closed his eyes. Another person who had completely disappeared—albeit not by your doing—resurfacing. It had been quite the mystery as to what had happened to her, and you had spent many a night trying to figure out where she could have possibly gone. Without much success. But now she had seemingly returned.

The timing could also not have been better. Apparently Murphy’s Law always lurked around the corner somewhere.

“Where did she come from all of a sudden?”

“From hell, likely.”

He huffed a strained laugh. That was certainly one possibility. Rhys met your gaze, then. The initial shock had lifted, and now the fire he’d grown to love glowed bright in your eyes.

“I’ll kill her,” you whispered, unyielding. “I swear to god, if she’s hurt them… I will kill her.”

You snatched your phone from his hands, your thumbs flying over the keyboard as you typed out a series of messages in quick succession.

“Hey,” Rhys said, pitching his voice into a soothing range. “They’re gonna be okay. Just like their big sister, they can fend for themselves.”

“I know they can,” you said, still holding your phone in an iron grip. “But after what happened last time, I can’t help but worry.”

He couldn’t stop himself. “I know the feeling...”

You dropped your phone, turning to him with a look that made it abundantly clear that now was not the time to test you. 

“Rhys,” you warned.

“Sorry…” he muttered, squeezing your hand again. “How do you wanna tackle this?”

“I’m going over there.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Right now. I have to make sure they’re okay. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do,” you shot back, eyes narrowing.

Rhys pursed his lips. Yep. He deserved that.

You looked outside to find that you were, still, stuck near St. Paul’s. And it didn’t look like that was going to change anytime soon. Sighing, you clasped the door handle, but before you could sprint out, Rhys tugged you back to him.

“Whoa, wait a second,” he said, worry seeping back into his voice. He didn’t want to part like this. “Are you sure you want to do this by yourself? I can help.”

You looked at him evenly. “This can’t wait. And neither can the Jonathan situation.” 

Damnit. 

No, it couldn’t.

“I’ll take care of my mother while you take care of our professor,” you offered, running your thumb over his hand in an attempt to persuade him. However the grim look on your face wasn’t helping.

He held your gaze for a long moment, equally grim, before nodding once. There was no other way. 

“Be careful, and call me when you need me,” Rhys implored, already cursing himself for agreeing to this plan. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” you said, purposeful, determined.

And with that, you were off, shutting the car door with force. 

Rhys watched you go, worry now mixing with guilt. By trying to protect you from one situation, he was now the sole reason you were diving head-first into unknown danger all by yourself.

Although, you would have gone either way. No matter the circumstances. You were just like him in that respect. Once you’d made up your mind, there was nothing anyone could do to dissuade you. Rhys had to let you go. Leaving you the space to deal with problems the way you saw fit. He didn’t like it, but if he wanted to keep you by his side, there was no other choice. 

As far as he was aware, your mother wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. But even so, she’d come pretty close to manslaughter with the Hackney house fire. Rhys also knew for a fact that you hadn’t yet told him about all of the harrowing things you’d endured during your childhood. Some details, yes. But definitely not all. He hadn’t wanted to push you too hard, you would tell him when you were ready. Just like with everything else. 

Rhys shook himself. Dwelling on this wasn’t going to do him much good either. He had his own headache to deal with. After that, he would work to make things right with you.

He pressed a button, lowering the glass divider. “Change of plans. I need you to take me to South Kensington.”

—

An hour later, after trudging through London’s busy traffic, the car parked in front of Kynance Mews. The driver hastened to open his door, and Rhys slid out, glancing left and right. 

“Give me twenty minutes,” he said, adjusting his suit.

“Yes, sir.”

The ride over had given him plenty of time to consider his options, which in the end boiled down to two simple objectives: kill Jonathan, or not. 

As tempting as the first option was, Rhys had to accept that it wasn’t the most prudent one. Now that Lockwood’s disappearance had become a public affair, and the police were conducting their own investigation, there would be a lot of heat bearing down on the case. Sooner or later, the police would find out about the bribe money, and once they’d successfully trace the money and start making connections, ‘Professor Jonathan Moore’ would be the subject of a lot of scrutiny. 

Like with Atkinson, the risk would be too great. If either of those two were killed right now, people would surely start asking questions. Questions Rhys didn’t want to be asked. 

Therefore, with a tinge of annoyance, he opted that the best course of action was to keep the professor alive a little longer. 

However, Jonathan couldn’t continue on like this. He had to be reined in—reminded of who was in control here. Good thing Rhys had one more trick up his sleeve, and now was the time to use it.

He made his way inside the building, taking the stairs two at a time, determination edged in his pace. Once he made it to number ten, he lifted his fist, landing a series of powerful knocks on Jonathan’s front door. He didn’t have to wait long before it swung open. 

Rhys bursted into the flat, the door nearly hitting Jonathan in the face. 

“You’ve been busy, mate.”

Jonathan recovered quickly. “So have you.”

His dark eyes tracked Rhys as he strode around the flat, making sure there were no unwanted third parties present. Once he made sure there wasn’t, he stopped in front of Jonathan, meeting his gaze.

Rhys took a breath and nodded. “Tell me about it. It’s hard work, winning these elections—making sure all possible threats are dealt with accordingly.”

Jonathan looked him up and down, measured. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Among other things... I was starting to miss our fun little chats.”

“I wasn’t,” the professor sneered.

“Oh, pray tell,” Rhys said, light.

Jonathan appeared calm, but the tightness around his eyes told Rhys all he needed to know. A single, disdainful head-tilt cinched it.

So, this would be fun.

“You’re a cold-blooded psycho.” 

His mouth twitched. “Ah, one that needs to be taken down? Is that why you tipped the press?” 

“I’m done with your bullshit and your fucking mindgames,” he hissed. “And I’m not going down for your sins whilst you become mayor of this godforsaken town.”

“And yet here you are,” Rhys snickered, waving a hand at him. “Digging your own grave. Or did you forget that Joe Goldberg helped cover-up Lockwood’s murder?”

“I’ll tell them the truth about you,” Jonathan promised. “You’re not getting away with this.”

“And who do you think they’ll believe?” Rhys returned, tilting his head, a challenge. “A suspected murderer who faked his own death, or the man that’s working tirelessly to strengthen their police force—making sure their kids will have access to a higher education, someone who’s battling corruption and fighting for what’s right. You tell me.”

Jonathan shook his head. “No… No, you will go down for your crimes.”

Rhys couldn’t help but laugh. “And what crimes are those? Do you have any proof? Or will this be another case of your word against mine?” he taunted, stepping up to the fuming American.

Jonathan stood rigid, frowning in contemplation. He took a moment to mull over whatever thoughts held him before he looked at Rhys askance. 

“There has to be proof. People always seem to mysteriously disappear or die around you. Like last night.”

Rhys remained entirely unfazed. “That Fernsby bloke, you mean? Well, if you’d listened to the news, you would know he died of natural causes. Very unfortunate but it happens,” he said, inscrutable, picking a piece of lint off of his suit. “Besides, I have an alibi.”

“Of course you do,” Jonathan mumbled, more to himself. “Your girlfriend?”

Anger simmered under Rhys’ cool facade at the mention. But he couldn’t let Jonathan see it. 

“She serves many purposes,” he smirked, lewd.

Jonathan’s face twisted in disgust. “You’re using her.”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “It’s all she’s good for anyway. A pretty face for the cameras, and an excellent shag at night.”

Jonathan looked away, uncomfortable despite his own nature. He took a beat, his eyes locked in an endless stare, seeing seemingly nothing. Then he blinked, once, and looked up to Rhys again. 

Something in his eyes had changed. Like he’d made up his mind about something. Rhys couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t sit well with him, at all. That much was clear.

His smile faded, it was time to get down to business.

“Alright,” he exclaimed, delightfully startling Jonathan in the process. “Enough chit-chat. I think it’s about time I remind you of a few things…”

Jonathan stiffened, but didn’t respond. Rhys sauntered over to the window, the one providing a perfect view into the flat of one Miss Kate Galvin. The flat was dark, and it didn’t look like anyone was home.

“Do you know where she is?” Rhys asked, peering through the window.

He didn’t need to specify who he was referring to. Not to a seasoned stalker like him.

“At work,” Jonathan said, clipped. 

Rhys glanced back over his shoulder, clocking Jonathan still standing in the exact same spot, shooting daggers at his back. Rhys’ lips curled. 

“Remember this feeling, Jonathan,” he said as he zeroed in on the fireplace, bending to pick up the fire iron. “Remember how it feels to know where she is. To know she’s safe…”

He twisted the metal object leisurely, feeling the weight of it in his palms. “But above all, remember how I can take all of that away, in the blink of an eye.”

If possible, Jonathan stiffened even more, nails digging into his palms as he clenched his fists. 

Rhys’ eyes sparked with amusement. Jonathan hadn’t wanted to play any more of his ‘mindgames’, but unfortunately for the professor, he was only just getting started.

“Now, we wouldn’t want her to meet the same fate as her father, would we?” Rhys mused, using the metal tool to prod at some charcoal remains. “Because speaking of unfortunate things, I’d say that would definitely qualify as such.”

Jonathan glared at him, not even attempting to cover the hatred he felt for the man daring to enter his home like he owned the place—and threaten him, his girlfriend, and everything he had tried to rebuild for himself. 

“Stay away from her,” he said, voice as cold as ice.

“Come now, Jonathan. There’s no need to get snippy,” Rhys tutted, eyes flicking to him. “You and I both know that whatever happens to her, it’s entirely up to you.”

The sound of metal scraping against the fireplace's stone surface caught Jonathan’s attention, his eyes flying to where Rhys was still playing around with the rod. He relished the look on Jonathan’s face, a sweet mixture of trepidation and rage. It meant he was listening carefully. 

“Fun fact about fire,” Rhys went on, off-kilter. “Which, correct me if I’m wrong, I believe you may be familiar with,” he added jokingly, stabbing at a larger fragment of unburned wood. 

“Nothing ever truly vanishes. There’s always something that remains. And what’s so amusing about this fact is that you never know which pieces are left behind… or when they might resurface.”

This was it. The last card Rhys could play to keep Jonathan silent—short from killing him, ofcourse. 

To threaten him to complete the framejob by planting Lockwood’s other hand that you and Rhys had kept as a backup, and call in the cavalry. Physical evidence tying Jonathan to the crime, in combination with the paper trail already set up in his name, would ensure Jonathan’s arrest and indictment. And he knew it.

Jonathan swallowed. “Lockwood?”

Rhys walked up to him, eyeing him steadily. “You better stick to our first agreement, and keep quiet,” he warned, tapping the fire iron against Jonathan’s chest. “Otherwise, I’ll make sure you’re going down for all of it.”

Defeat flashed over Jonathan’s face. He was still angry, no, livid would be the better term… But the growing apprehension and doubt was unmistakable.

Satisfied that his message was received loud and clear, Rhys dropped the metal rod to the floor. The loud clang of the object hitting the wooden floor caused Jonathan to flinch back, much to Rhys’ pleasure.

He turned his back on the American, gleefully making his way towards the front door where he paused, resting one hand on the handle, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“It’s all about who holds the power, mate,” Rhys smirked, looking back to Jonathan, whose jaw was clenched tight. “And at present, that isn’t you.”

–––– 

A/N: FINALLY a Joe and Rhys meet… I know it’s been a long time coming 🙈 I had a lot of fun writing this particular scene, I hope you enjoyed it as well. Now let’s see if Jonathan will heed Rhys’ warning or… not. hehe

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Tags: @artaxerxesthegreat