#Who did this (to you)

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Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: PG-13 Tags: who did this to you, hurt, comfort, hurt/comfort, injury, implied violence, brief violence mentions, angst, canon sylus behavior, blood mentions, kissing if you squint Summary: You barely survived a night on your own in the N109 Zone without the watchful gaze of certain Onychinus leader, but at what cost? Word Count: 1.5k

The dull sound of your door closing was like the snap of a final curtain call falling into place and you slumped against it, relieved to be safely in your own apartment. You had survived a night in the N109 Zone on your own, but it had been a near miss. One you wouldn’t be repeating, especially since the intel you wanted had been a bust, anyway. 

You touched your side, your breathing uneven, and you wince. You definitely have a cracked rib. You try to take a deep breath and pain radiates from your chest into your stomach, making you a little nauseous. Okay, maybe two.

You were trying to psych yourself up to move and trudge into your apartment to give yourself much needed medical attention when the reverberating shock of someone's forceful knock bounced you against your door-frame. You consider not answering the insistent caller on the other side, but a muffled, familiar baritone floats through the door.

"Open the door, sweetie."

A sigh left your lips at the demand and you tried to stifle the pathetic, painful whimper that your exasperation cost you. Of all the people on the other side of that door, Sylus was the most unexpected. Or maybe not, considering he boasted that he knew everything that went on in his territory. Maybe that’s why he was here and if it was, he wouldn’t leave until his curiosity was satisfied.

The door cracks open and you stare up at him through the hole you made, reluctant to allow him entrance and to partially block his view of the damage those thugs had caused when they mugged you in the alleyway earlier tonight. However, Sylus’s easy smile is nowhere to be found and the frown lines on his forehead are the deepest you've ever seen them. His large hand wraps around the door-frame so you can’t close it again and he pushes gently against it, but you don’t budge. 

"Who did this to you?" His tone is dangerously low.

You ignore his question, instead poking your head out to look down the deserted hallway of your apartment building. "Why are you here? It's dangerous." It was risky for Sylus to wander around Linkon City normally, even if he claimed many people didn't know what he actually looked like. However, the Hunter’s Association did and your building was crawling with employees at all hours of the day and night.

"You didn't answer your phone, so I got worried."

Oh right, you had forgotten they had taken that too. You sighed again, the pain of having to replace everything beginning to give you a headache. That key charm Zayne had given you for your birthday was perhaps the worst thing to have lost, maybe more than the phone itself.

"Let me in, kitten." Sylus’s voice is gently cajoling and you concede because you're too tired to argue with him tonight. So you open the door and  try to act normal, but your voice is far too lighthearted for how heavy your legs feel as you trudge into the apartment. 

“You know, if you keep frowning like that you’ll get wrinkles and people really will think you’re an old man.” 

He follows you in with a small chuckle, his eyes bouncing around the room as if the perpetrators could be hiding in the shadows. When you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down to tend to your injuries, Sylus was suddenly there, kneeling in front of you. His hands push yours out of the way and he silently takes over the job of nurse, and you think about fighting him as you watch him roll up his shirtsleeves but realize you were just too exhausted to care. 

“What happened?” He asks eventually and you realize you will have to tell him something. Lying won’t work, he’ll find out if he didn’t already know. 

“What often happens when you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time in the N109 Zone, Sylus.” You offer with a single shrug, doing your best to sit still while he cleans the wound on your arm. “You know that better than me.” 

“Were you wearing–” he was referring to the brooch that signified your status as protected. 

“They took that too.” His hands stilled on the bandage he was applying on your forearm. “Did they, now?” he murmured silkily and you saw a muscle in his jaw tick, though his expression was partially obscured by his unruly hair. “After all that trouble I went through, too.” You tried to make a joke to ease the tension which earned you a soft amused twitch of Sylus’s lips. He was too angry to truly smile and you could feel it radiating off of him in waves. Despite that, his hands were painstakingly gentle as he touched what was clearly a blossoming bruise around your wrist. Sylus’s tender touch lingers on your injuries and he checks each one with a thoroughness that feels as if he’s memorizing exactly where you were hurt. 

He orders some of your favorite food, helps you get cleaned up, and tucks you into your bed. He points to the notepad you kept by your bedside table that you sometimes scribble notes on when you took calls. “Make me a list of what they looked like, and then go to bed. I’ll take care of the rest.” Before you could protest, he left the room abruptly. You picked up the notepad and stared at the print of the cute little animals dancing around the top. You’d bought it on a whim after seeing how cute it looked in a stationary shop window near one of your mission sites. It seemed too obscene to write what would virtually be a hit list on such charming paper. 

Instead, you scribble all of the reasons you’re grateful for today. Right at the top was that you had survived all on your own in the N109 Zone and you were able to see the infamous Onychinus leader kneeling at your feet. The list grew as you included the tasty food you ate earlier, and the glimpse of a suspiciously familiar crow you saw on your way into work this morning. The page was halfway filled when the pain medication Sylus had convinced you to take started to kick in and you felt your eyelids drooping. 

Drowsily, you snuggle down underneath your covers and clutch the plushie Sylus and you had won at the arcade last weekend. When you hear the distant muffled click of your door opening, you try to rouse yourself but you felt so warm and your body felt so heavy that you couldn’t manage it. That doesn’t stop you from trying until a large hand gently smoothed back your mussed hair, and the sensation of soft knuckles trace the curve of your cheek. “It’s just me,” the familiar voice murmured and you tried to speak but he shushed you. “Sleep, kitten.” 

You swear you felt the ghost of his lips on yours before he was gone, but maybe it was just part of the hazy dream you had of crows, violence, and enchanting sanguine eyes. 

Sylus returns to the N109 Zone and finds himself staring at the “list,” a bemused smile on his face. He shakes his head and tucks the cutesy page into his pocket. You were far too adorable and it made what he was about to do that much more satisfying, sauntering into the abandoned warehouse where your phone had last pinged; deceptively calm. The screams and stench of death shuddered throughout the N109 Zone tonight, serving as a violent and bloody reminder to all that no one should dare to touch what was his lest they face the consequences. 

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, your fingers fumble for your buzzing phone and land on the familiar outline of the brooch, both in their normal places as if yesterday was just a bad dream. Through your sleepy daze, you realize your other hand is occupied–as is your bed. Turning, you’re surprised to find Sylus is fast asleep next to you, his hand intertwined tightly with yours. There’s deep circles under his eyes, but his normally furrowed brow is smoothed out in sleep. With a sleepy smile, you curl back up to let him rest a little while longer, tucking your joined hands against your chest, cuddling his arm.

You both doze off together, and you’ve never felt so safe.

[flowercrowngods]

who did this to you. part 2

🤍🌷 read part 1 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie

This is not happening. None of this is happening, he’s… He’s dreaming. He’s high. High as a kite somewhere where reality doesn’t matter, where it can’t fucking reach him and he’s— He’s not panicking behind the wheel with Steve Fucking Harrington bleeding against the passenger side window. 

It’s not happening. 

Because if it were happening, Eddie would simply throw up. He’d leave his van on the side of the road and run the fuck away. Away from Harrington and his trouble, away from his rattling breath that’s so loud and unsteady, Eddie doesn’t even dare to turn on any sort of music, even though he’s itching for it, his hands clenching and unclenching around the wheel until his knuckles go white. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles under his breath, barely aware of his surroundings at all, his eyes flitting from Harrington to the red stain against the window, back to the road and then down to the white-knuckled grip and the speckles of dried blood that is decidedly not his. 

Lost in his panic and disbelief, Eddie almost runs a red light. 

It’s harsh, the way he hits the brakes, and the sound Harrington makes is pathetic enough that Eddie feels like maybe this might actually be happening. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, his voice no better than Steve’s — and he’s not the one with a concussion, a broken rib, and that… fucking fear. Of something. Or someone. 

Who’s hurting you, Steve? 

Jus’ everyone, sometimes. God you don’t… You don’t even know.

He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t wanna know. All he wants is for Harrington to stop fucking bleeding, to keep his eyes wide open and— 

“Ed,” the boy says, wheezes, and it sounds like he wanted to say his full name, but had to swallow first. Blood, Eddie thinks. Don’t let it be blood. “Think I’m… ‘M gonna throw up.” 

“Please don’t throw up,” Eddie says before he can stop himself, hating how small his voice sounds, how urgent — like that’s the thing to be urgent about. God, he’s such an ass, but he… If Harrington throws up, Eddie will lose it. He knows he will. 

He chances a glance over at Steve, who has somehow managed to get his right arm tangled with the handle at the door, keeping himself upright and safe from Eddie’s rather frantic driving style. His head is drooping, moving this way and that against the red-stained glass, and he blinks unseeingly as blood begins to trickle down from his nose and temple again. 

He’s making himself small, and Eddie wants to pull him upright and tell him to stay like that, tell him to stop looking so terrible, so horrible, so… 

So much like Eddie’s fucking problem. 

He hates it. Hates everything about that vision. Boys like Harrington shouldn’t look like this, shouldn’t hold themselves like this, shouldn’t… Shouldn’t have no one but Eddie to take them somewhere safe. 

It’s just not tight. 

“Don’ wanna throw up,” Steve says at last, the pause too long for Eddie’s liking, and he sounds so solemn about it, yet so helpless, and Eddie kinda wants to scream. Wants Harrington to scream. Anything to stay awake and maybe not ruin his car. Anything to not fucking die in it. 

“Tell me something,” he says then, because he knows he has to keep Harrington awake and speaking. Just for another ten, fifteen minutes, he tells himself. “Anything, yeah? Tell me anything. Gotta keep you awake there, you hear me? Sounds great, right, staying awake?” 

He’s rambling and he knows it, desperation shining through his words and the god-awful way his voice breaks a little. This is not about him, he knows it isn’t, but still he wants to punch himself, wants to pinch himself and stay fucking calm. 

But who could stay calm in a situation like this? The silence is filled with the horrible wheezing and rattling of Harrington’s breath barely audible over the engine, and Eddie has to look over several times to make sure he’s still there, still with him, still alive. His panic spikes each time. 

He’s just about to reach over and shake him a little, snap in front of his face to get him back, when—

“I don’t know what.” 

It’s quiet, that voice, breathy and tiny and almost invisible, and Eddie wants to scream again. 

Tell me why you’re so scared. Tell me why your old buddy did this to you. Hagan would never touch you, so why did he now? Tell me what happened to Hargrove. Tell me why you sound so fucking small. 

“Tell me about your…” He fumbles for a moment, taking a sharp left and pretending not to hear the choked-off whimper. Focusing on good things. On normal things. “Your favourite person.” 

Eddie cringes at himself the moment the words leave his mouth. Your favourite person? Really, Munson? He scrambles to find something better, something cooler, or maybe something easier like asking his favourite fucking colour, but the overthinking really doesn’t mix well with the already panicked state of his mind. And Eddie just blanks. 

Beside him, though, Harrington sits up a little straighter, smearing more blood against his window in the process that Eddie pretends not to feel nauseous about. 

God, he never did like blood. 

“You wan’ me to tell you ‘bout Rob?” 

“Sure, yeah,” Eddie says, a little too loud, a little too shrill, actually running a red light this time because he doesn’t want to brake again and hurt the boy some more. There’s no one around anyway. This is Hawkins. Fucking dead-end of a town. It doesn’t need red lights, or boys who look like Harrington. “Rob. Tell me ‘bout him, what’s he like? Favourite colour, all that shit.” 

“Her.” 

Eddie blinks, looking over to find Harrington looking at him — or trying to, his eyes still drooping and empty. But it’s a good sign. People don’t die when they look at you, right? 

“What?” 

“Her,” Harrington says again. “An’ blue. Deep ‘n’ dark blue. She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.”

Eddie doesn’t really listen, doesn’t really process what Steve is saying, already thinking of the next question just to keep him talking. But then he continues on his own. 

“Mornin’ blue dep— de… makes her sad, though. So only dark blue. Says it’s why we’re friends. You’re so blue, Stevie. Got half’a my clothes, still, she does. All the blues.” 

That's... really fucking endearing, actually. 

And he says it with a half-smile, too, bloody and pathetic as it is. Like it’s a secret that only the two of them are in on, only Steve and Robin. It’s kind of sweet. 

Not for the first time today does Eddie find himself wondering, Who the hell are you, Steve Harrington?

He exhales through his nose, ignoring the way he’s started to shake with all that panic that’s been sitting inside him for a little too long now with no way to let it out. 

“Not much longer,” he mumbles under his breath again, or maybe he just thinks very hard. Maybe he doesn’t know where he is at all. It’s like he blanks every few seconds, too busy thinking and trying not to.

Before he can tell Harrington to talk some more about that girlfriend of his, there’s a pained, confused little whine that forcefully tears Eddie’s eyes from the street for a moment only to meet hazel eyes widened in confusion. 

“Wh— Where… Where’re we going?” 

Oh no. 

“Why’m I in y—“ 

“You’re safe,” Eddie interrupts him, speaking slowly because suddenly his tongue is too big for his mouth, and not entirely sure if he’s reassuring Harrington or himself. “You’re hurt, okay? It’s bad, but it wasn’t me. I’m taking you to… to someone. My uncle Wayne, he’s— He knows about that kinda stuff. You were telling me about Rob. Remember her, Blue? How about you tell me some more, hm?” 

Eddie’s voice is unsteady with worry and fear and panic, and he’s doing a piss-poor job at hiding it. The thing is, he’s going to cry. He’s actually, absolutely, no-doubt-about-it going to scream and cry and punch a fucking hole into something when this day is over, when his van is no longer bloody, and when Steve Harrington won’t have reason to look at him any longer. 

Oh, how he wants to skip forward. Past the nausea, past the fear, past everything that’s happening right now. Maybe past the insomnia that will come with a day like this, too. 

Past all of it. 

Or better yet, travel back in time and never get to that fucking boat house. 

But he can’t. So he breathes. 

At first, through the ringing in his ears and the racing of his own heart so loud and so forceful he’s shaking with it, he worries that Steve’s gone silent again, that he’s gonna ask again, ask what happened, ask where he is, ask all the questions that make Eddie feel like he’s been doused in ice water because they’re questions that only get asked in stupid movies where terrible things happen to people. 

But then he hears him mumbling something. Numbers. 

“What’cha mumbling there, Blue?” 

“‘S her number,” Steve says, his voice slurring again, worse than before, and Eddie hits the gas a little harder. “‘S jus’ her number. Robbie’s number.” 

And he mumbles again. Over and over and over, until Eddie couldn’t forget it if he wanted to, ingrained into the frayed edges of his mind now. 

He lets him ramble, lets him repeat the number until the words slur together and he can’t separate a four from a nine anymore. Each time Harrington hesitates, each time he stumbles over the words or forgets a digit, Eddie wants to punch the wheel. 

He doesn’t. He only grips it tighter and counts down the turns he takes, the streets he passes, the fucking trees that are familiar, before, finally, the trailer park comes into view. 

The sob Eddie lets out when, with shaking, trembling hands he pulls up to his home to find his uncle having a smoke outside is deafening to his ears after the quiet weakness of Harrington’s voice. 

It startles him, makes him stop his rambles and sit up straighter when Eddie finally kills the engine. For a moment, without the steady, rolling hum, the car is filled with the small, tiny whines Steve makes on each exhale. Like it hurts to even breathe. 

“Wha’s wrong?” He asks, but Eddie can’t really hear him. Can’t turn to him, can’t— “Eddie?” 

He’s out of the car before he can take hold of another thought, stumbling out of his open door on legs that feel numb and heavy. The urge to cry is back again, the burning in his eyes only getting worse when Wayne takes in the dried blood on his clothes and hands with careful, calculated worry.

“Ed?” 

“I didn’t know what— where—- I’m… Wayne, I’m sorry.” 

“Slow down, kid,” Wayne says, raising his hands as if to calm a spooked deer. Like Eddie is the one who needs his help. And he is. He really, really is, and he shouldn’t be, because this isn’t about him, but—

Wayne grabs him by the shoulders to keep him still, and only now does Eddie realise he’s shaking again, restlessly moving his weight from one leg to the other. His uncle steadies him, gently pressing down on his shoulders to ground him, and Eddie nearly sobs again. 

“Ed. Are you in trouble?” 

“No,” Eddie scrambles to say, becoming aware of what this looks like, hiding his hands behind his back on instinct, like that’ll make Harrington’s blood disappear. “‘S not my blood, I didn’t do anything, I swear! I swear. It’s, uh. I just found him. In the boathouse, I found him, and he was… God, he looked so bad, okay, but he didn’t want the hospital, and he was, like, so scared of something, and we don’t even talk, we don’t even look at each other, but I just… I didn’t know what to do, and you know something about concussions and people who were beat to shit and, again, I’m—“ 

“Eddie,” Wayne says, his voice so calm but so assertive that Eddie shuts up immediately, gladly handing over to controls to his uncle now. “Who’s the kid?” 

He nods towards Eddie’s van, where Harrington looks to be halfway unbuckled, but his eyes are closed and his face smushed against the door again, like he just gave up.  

“Shit,” Eddie says, adrenaline and panic slowly falling from him with Wayne’s hand on his shoulder. He sags into his uncle and rubs at his face. “It’s Steve. Uh, Steve Harrington, I mean.” 

“Okay,” Wayne says, and he’s so calm. So calm. Eddie feels like he’s about to fall apart, and Wayne is the only one keeping him together, with that’d steady, warm hand on his shoulder. “And you promise me he didn’t give you trouble? Or anyone else who’ll come finish what they started?” 

Eddie shakes his head profusely, getting a little dizzy with it. “I promise I’m not in trouble. He said Hagan did this to him, was alone when I found him. No trouble, Wayne, I swear, I’m not like that, you know I’m not.”

“Okay,” Wayne says again, and Eddie wants to weep. “I know you’re not like that, but some people are, y’know? You did good, son. You did good. Now help me get him out of that car.” 

It takes his uncle tugging him towards the van for Eddie to kick back into motion, nearly falling over his feet turning back around. It’s only Wayne’s “Easy” murmured under his breath that keeps the ground from opening up and swallowing him whole. 

He climbs in on the driver’s side while Wayne rounds the car and gets to Harrington’s side. 

“Hey there, Blue,” Eddie says, his voice shaking and the nickname slipping again — but it’s easier to call him that than his real name, it’s easier to pretend it’s literally anyone else in here with him, bleeding against his door. 

It’s easier to pretend it’s not Harrington’s breath rattling the way it does, easier to pretend those pained groans so high in their cadence they can only count as whines don’t come from Hawkins High’s Golden Boy who graduated a few months ago and was supposed to be done with bullshit like this. 

“Come on, up you get,” he tells him, not daring to raise his voice too much. 

He looks so frail. Like he’s already broken. Or like he’s trying not to. Like he’s holding on. 

Eddie pretends not to think that the hand he places on Steve’s cheek to gently pry him from the window is not the only thing keeping that boy together right now. 

Harrington groans, whines, wheezes, but opens his eyes to meet Eddie’s. Jesus, we’re they this blown before? Or this swollen?

“Hey,” Eddie says, just to say something. Just so he won’t have to hold the boy’s face in silence, just so he won’t have to focus on all the blood. Just so he won’t have to hear more questions that people aren’t supposed to ask. 

Steve opens his mouth, his breath coming out a little sharper, like he wants to say Hi rather than Where am I? or When will it stop hurting? Like he wants to say How can I help you help me? 

Somehow, Eddie manages a smile. 

Wayne chooses that moment to open the door — just unclicking it, not pulling yet; giving Eddie enough time to support Harrington, make sure he doesn’t fall.

“Careful,” he whispers, though whether it’s for Wayne, for Steve, or for himself, he can’t quite tell. Maybe it’s a plea to the rest of the world, and to anyone else who will listen. 

Steve is still staring at him. That’s probably not a good sign. He leans back a little, turning Steve’s head to make him follow him. Slowly, of course. Gently. Eddie can’t remember ever having touched something like it was going to break if only he looked at it wrong, but somehow he’s hyper-aware of it now. 

Because Harrington is staring at him. Entirely too still, like he has no strength, no coordination to do anything but stare. And yet Eddie is the one who, now that the adrenaline has fallen from him, now that he can let someone else take over, now that Harrington doesn’t need him anymore, finds himself unable to look away. 

Because Steve is just a boy. And so is Eddie, who can feel Steve’s breath against his wrist. And maybe, out of the two of them, Eddie is the fragile one. The one about to break. 

“Blue, you with me?”

Steve nods. Doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t move. Eddie swallows, briefly looking back down at Wayne to see if he’s ready. His uncle nods, ready to catch Harrington should he go down, and Eddie turns back to the boy who’s smeared with his own blood.

“I’m gonna take off your seatbelt now, yeah?” he tells him, not entirely recognising his voice anymore. “That man out there, that is Wayne. My uncle. He’s safe. He’ll take care of you, okay?” 

“Safe,” Steve breathes, and that shouldn’t be the one thing he focuses on. It shouldn’t sound so unsure. So insecure. So hopeful, so relieved, so— Fucking earnest. 

Swallowing all these thoughts, all this desperation and all those questions, Eddie reaches over Steve, one hand still supporting his head and feeling the overheated skin of Harrington’s cheek against his palm, the hint of stubble and the crust of dried blood. As if in slow motion, not daring to make a wrong move and hurt him more than he already does, Eddie frees him the rest of the way, letting the seatbelt slide into its hold behind his shoulder. 

“Careful,” he says again, just to say anything, but he is careful, and his hold on Steve is steady. 

“‘M careful. Not gonna break, Eddie.” 

“I know.” But maybe I will. 

“Good. ‘Cause… Don’ wanna break.” 

Eddie smiles, despite everything. “You’re not gonna break, Blue. Wayne’ll catch you.” 

Harrington loses his focus then, his eyes glazing over, but the small smile on his lips widens. “Blue. ‘S nice.” 

Yeah, Eddie thinks. He kinda is. 

Somehow, miraculously, they get Harrington out of the van and into the trailer. He throws up halfway to the doorstep, and Eddie curses under his breath while Wayne talks quietly, asking him yes and no questions that Eddie can’t really hear through the ringing in his ears — a strange mix of fear and relief, a panic not quite over, but soothed by his uncle’s familiar voice; even if it’s not directed at him.

“Don’t worry about it, kid, the next rain’ll take care of that. Stop apologising.” 

It throws him then, rather suddenly and violently, watching Wayne supporting Harrington, watching the blood smeared boy with the swelling, angry red bruises in his face. Somehow it’s different, seeing him in his home. 

This was always a safe space. Always void of everything terrible. 

And now there’s a broken boy on his doorstep who’s not Eddie. 

He remembers the fear, the panic, the plea for no hospital, Eddie. Can’t go there.

Why not? You need a doctor—

Monsters. Only monsters there.

It paralyses him and he stays where he is, holding the door with an arm that’s heavy like lead, standing on legs that begin to go numb again. He watches, but not really, as Wayne sits Harrington down on the living room couch, between magazines and brochures and some of Eddie’s calculus notes from last night that he was searching for a sketch of a monster he was so certain he’d drawn in the margins a few weeks back. 

Now there’s blood on his calculus notes. And Eddie is helplessly keeping the door open as though he’s going to run away any second now. Letting in more trouble to join Harrington on his couch. 

He should… He should close the door. Help. Run. Disappear. 

“Ed,” Wayne calls, snapping him out of his stupor. “The first aid kit, please. A bottle of water. A clean, wet cloth. A blanket, too.” 

Wayne talks him through it, takes it one step at a time, has Eddie bring him one after the other like he knows how much he’s keeping his nephew together by keeping him on the brink of usefulness.

Soon, Wayne has everything he needs, taking care of Harrington and his wounds, keeping him awake and talking so much better than Eddie did, even making him smile here and there, hiding his wince when the motion pulls on his split lip or the huffed breath sends a jolt of pain through his rib that Eddie is absolutely certain must be broken with the way he holds himself — with the way he lets Wayne hold him up. 

Wayne is doing his thing and Eddie is hiding, gripping the kitchen counter like a vice, staring both unseeingly and hyper-vigilantly as exhaustion washes over him, dragging him under and draining him of more than adrenaline. He slumps against the cupboard behind him, rubbing at his face like that’ll make it all go away. 

It’s not right. It’s not. This is Eddie’s home, it’s supposed to be safe, it’s not… 

He breaks away, ripping his hands from the counter and all but stumbling outside, heaving a deep breath and giving in to the urge to cry. Tears spring to his eyes and he wipes them away angrily, because it’s dumb, it’s so stupid, it’s absolutely fucking insane that he should be so worked up when Harrington talked about dying earlier. 

These things don’t happen. They don’t! 

“Stop fucking crying,” Eddie grumbles, sniffling and wiping away more tears as he closes his eyes against the afternoon sun. “Get a grip, Munson, Jesus Christ, there’s no reason to cry you big fuckin’ baby.” 

Nobody’s there to contradict him. Nobody’s there to make it worse. So he lets his eyes sting for a while, lets his lips wobble, his jaw clenched shut, the balls of his hands pressing into his eyes, breathing deliberately. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

He doesn’t even scream. Doesn’t punch the still bloody side of his van, doesn’t run into the woods and disappear into the void. 

He simply breathes. Tries not to think about boys dying in mall fires, and even less so about boys beaten and abandoned in boat houses.

Doesn’t think about fucking Hawkins in Bumfuck-Indiana and the cursed way it has, driving its people mad. 

Doesn’t think about, They said my brain is hurt, Eddie. Doesn’t think about the Monsters Harrington mentioned. Doesn’t think about Blue, doesn’t think about I’m tired, Eddie. Don’t wanna hurt anymore. 

Doesn’t think about blue, blue, blue. 

He’s shaking when he comes back inside. He’s shaking when Harrington meets his eyes, looking a little clearer now, the blood washed away and everything bandaged a lot better than Eddie managed. He’a bundled in Eddie’s blanket. It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. 

Eddie can’t move, and neither does Steve. 

“Steve,” Wayne says, waiting until those eyes tear themselves away from Eddie and back to him, though Eddie sees them fill with such trepidation, he almost asks what’s wrong. “I won’t hear a no on this, and I won’t let you go home. I’m taking you to the hospital. Especially if you tell me your head was hurt like this before, more times than one.” 

“Three,” Blue breathes, a little dazed still. Not magically healed, not even from Wayne. Another thing that doesn’t feel right. 

“Three times,” Wayne says, nodding, like he’s encouraging Steve to continue. 

“But I don’t want a hospital.” Again with that tiny fucking voice. Like the Monsters are hiding under hospital beds. 

“I know, son,” Wayne sighs, tugging the blanket a little tighter around Steve, and Eddie’s eyes begin to sting again when he notices the tone Wayne uses. When he realises. When he remembers. 

”I want my mom.“ 

”I know, son. But she’s not coming. Your mama is gone, Ed, and this is your home now. Think we can make that work, hm? You and I?” 

Eddie had never felt so lost as he did then, clutching his blanket to his chest, burying his face in the wet fabric even as this man — his uncle — tugs it tighter around him. Like he is fine with Eddie wanting to hide as long as he doesn’t run away. 

He had shrugged, then, even though we wanted to shake his head, tell him no, tell him he wanted his mama. 

”I’m scared, uncle Wayne.” 

And Wayne had smiled a little, and nodded. “Then we do it scared, Eddie.”

Actually, Eddie feels like he never stopped doing it scared. 

And now there is Steve, who Eddie never believed knew what being scared felt like. It’s dumb, of course, because even Harrington is just a boy, but he was always untouchable to Eddie. They never talked. They never existed in the same space together, not in a good way and not in a bad way. Their worlds just never aligned, never collided, never coexisted. 

And now… 

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, okay? There’s a doctor, Doctor Clarke. Like— Yeah, like your science teacher, remember him? ‘S got a brother who’s just as much of a genius, and just as kind. He’ll take a look at you, yeah? Make sure your brain isn’t too hurt, clean your wounds, give you something for the pain. He won’t, uh. He won’t hurt you, kid. Whatever’s got you so scared, Dr Clarke will be nice to you. Especially when I’m there with ya, I’m an old pal of his. And I will be. Won’t let you outta my sight until you’re well enough to run away from me, you hear me, kid?” 

Eddie’s hands are hurting, his fingertips raw from where he’s been biting his nails while Wayne talks Blue through what’s going to happen — and he wonders, with the way Steve’s eyes are glued to Wayne, if he ever had anyone talking him through shit like this. 

“Okay,” Harrington breathes at last, still sounding way too small. “But. I’m…” 

“Scared anyway?” Wayne offers. Steve nods. You’re so blue, Stevie. “Then we do it scared anyway.”

And they do. Wayne goes to get the car so Steve won’t have to walk too far, leaving Eddie alone with him for a brief moment. 

He watches, from his place in the kitchen, how Steve’s face falls into a look of utter exhaustion and tiredness; the adrenaline washing from him just the same. Eddie wants to reach out. Wants to say something, break the spell of tension and silence and I know we don’t talk, but I’m glad you’re doing a little better. I’m glad you’ll go see a doctor. I’m glad you haven’t died, I guess. Do you really think you will? Are you really so scared of that? 

But Eddie keeps biting his nails, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, blanket around his shoulders. And they don’t talk. 

“Thank you.” 

Eddie perks up, not entirely sure he didn’t imagine the words — but Harrington moved slightly, his eyes still closed but his face now turned towards Eddie. 

“For, uh. This.” 

“I didn’t do shit, Blue,” Eddie says. “That was all Wayne. All I did was freak out, I promise.” 

Harrington shakes his head, though, slowly. “Mh-mm.” 

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, because there is no room for discussion here. They don’t talk. And he doesn’t want the bubble to burst with insecurity and sourness. 

“Thank you,” he says again, and he sounds final about it. It makes Eddie wonder what he’s like, really like, when he doesn’t consist of pain and nausea and disorientation. 

He has a feeling that, despite everything, despite Monsters under hospital beds and torture in boathouses and mall fires that kill teenagers, Blue Harrington might be someone good to talk to. Compassionate as shit, even when all he wants to do is pass out. 

“You’re welcome,” Eddie rasps, pretending that his eyes don’t sting.

He wraps his arms around his chest like he’s hugging himself, or like he’s holding himself back. From reaching out, from asking, from telling, from talking. 

Unwittingly, even with his eyes closed, Steve mirrors him, and Eddie wonders if he, too, it holding himself back, or just curling in on himself some more even though it must hurt, feeling so small. 

Maybe that’s what fear of death does to a nineteen year-old. It’s so fucked up. Eddie wants to scream again. 

Outside, he hears a car door fall shut just before Wayne reappears in the door, giving Eddie some kind of meaningful look that he wouldn’t mind deciphering on any other day, but today he fears he needs words. 

“I don’t know how long this’ll take. Will you be okay, Ed?” 

“Will I be— Yes! I’m not the one with the concussion, man, of course I’ll be—“ 

It’s a bluff, comes too fast, and Wayne sees right through it before Eddie even realises it, and he steps closer. A warm hand on his shoulder. His eyes stinging again. 

“You did good, kid. Everything will be fine. But it might take a while. It’s fine if you need to go somewhere, just… Don’t drive. Call Jeff if you need someone, just. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t get behind the wheel. Deal?” 

Eddie swallows hard, hit by another desperate, aching wave of I wanna go back in time and skip this day. A wave of tired exhaustion and wondering, aimlessly, just who the fuck Steve Harrington really is. 

“Deal,” he says, and Wayne pulls him into a hug. 

Eddie follows them outside then, trailing behind them like a lost little puppy, helping Harrington into Wayne’s car. His movements are still slugged and a little disoriented, so Eddie decides to lean in again and fasten his seatbelt. 

“Careful,” he mumbles, allowing the boy a moment’s warning, a moment to adjust before the weight settles on his chest. 

Dejá-vù hits him and makes him pause, with Harrington staring at him again. 

“I’m careful,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into a little smile.

More lucid than earlier, and Eddie thinks it that which takes his breath away for a moment. 

“Not gonna break, Eddie.” 

“I know,” he says, still not moving back, instead reaching up to tighten the blanket around his shoulders even though the seatbelt is already there to hold it in place. “You’re not gonna break, Blue.” 

The smile on those lips is genuine now, gentle enough to not be ruined by the blood crusting them. 

“Thanks. Again.” And then, when Eddie finally pulls away to close the door and tell Wayne to drive safely, “I really do like that name.”

It soothes the urge to scream.

Eddie closes the door as gently as he can — which isn’t much, because the car is old and not exactly smooth. 

“I’ll see you later,” he tells Wayne. Promises. To stay out of trouble, to stick around, to not run away for a while again, to stay out of his car. 

Wayne nods, a faint smile on his lips. 

“Later, Ed.” 

And then they’re gone, and Eddie is untethered again. Wonders, for a few seconds every now and then if it really happened, if this is real. 

But it did. And it is. 

And after sitting on the steps for a while, having a smoke and staring at where Wayne’s car disappeared ten, twenty, forty minutes ago, Eddie heads inside. 

He has a phone call to make.

🤍🌷 tagging: @theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 (a thousand percent sure i missed some but oh well such is the 3am disease)

addendum 22 jan 24: onwards to part 3

[coffinwoodx]

this is the ideal male body. you may not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like

[katboykirby]

Why 😭

[gracemcosta]

Him: Who did this to you?

Her, facing the worst trauma imaginable: It’s nothing.

Me, the writer: *snickering* it was meeee

[steddieas-shegoes]

i'm stayin'

for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'who did this to you?' wc: 869 rated: m cw: off-screen violence, mentioned childhood abuse (not in detail) tags: steve harrington has bad parents, established relationship, secret relationship, pre-season 4, hurt/comfort, asthmatic steve because i've made him go through everything else why not this too

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Steve's vision was blurry, his hands shaking as he tried to put his car in park in front of the trailer.

His backpack, no longer full of what he needed for school, sat in the passenger seat, half-zipped and telling the ugly truth of what he wasn't sure he could process right now: his parents had kicked him out with only the possessions he could shove into his bag.

Steve winced as he reached for his inhaler, a last second grab when his dad had decided he'd given him plenty of time to pack only three minutes into his rushed efforts.

He didn't need it at this moment, had managed to calm down on the drive to Eddie's, but knew it was only a matter of time before the anxiety would set in again. Hopefully, he'd have Eddie next to him when it did.

Wayne's truck wasn't in the yard, probably working another night shift. Eddie's new-to-him van was parked crooked by the front porch, like he'd been in a rush to get inside when he got home earlier.

Steve immediately stepped out of his car into mud.

Right. It rained earlier.

No lights were on in the trailer, but Wayne had given him a key only a few weeks before, saying something about how he should always have a place to go if he needed it.

Almost like he had a feeling about what was to come.

Steve opened the door, surprised to find Eddie passed out on the couch, blanket pulled up to his nose and the space heater turned off.

If his eye didn't hurt so bad, he'd roll them both. No matter how many times he told Eddie to just turn it on before he sat down so he would be warm, it didn't seem to sink in.

He turned it on, cursing quietly when it made a loud popping noise.

"Wayne?" Eddie asked, rubbing his eyes and sitting up as he tried to wake up. "Work?"

"Not Wayne, Eds. Go back to sleep." The last thing Steve needed right now was Eddie freaking out about what he was sure was ugly proof of his father taking out his prejudices on him. "I'm gonna be in your room."

"Steve?" He sounded much more awake now, and Steve couldn't resist turning fully to look at him. "Holy shit. Who did this to you?"

Steve grimaced. He knew they couldn't ignore it, he was just hoping to patch himself up a bit before morning when Eddie would start asking questions.

"Um."

And then the damn tears started falling before Steve could give any explanation, and Eddie's arms wrapped around him carefully, like he was terrified to hurt him more. Eddie was always so careful with him, like he knew there were plenty of invisible bruises already.

He cried for so long, his entire body felt numb, and he could vaguely register that he was shivering. Eddie's hands were rubbing his back slowly, comforting him the best he could.

Eventually, Steve's tears stopped, his breathing slowed back to normal, and his chest didn't feel as heavy.

"Is that your inhaler or are you just happy to see me?" Eddie teased gently, leaving room for Steve to ignore him if he wasn't in the mood for jokes.

Steve snorted. "It's my inhaler. But I am happy to see you. Always."

Eddie's lips brushed the top of his head, so faint, Steve almost thought he imagined it.

"You wanna talk about it?" The caution in Eddie's voice was enough for Steve to pull his head away from his shoulder, flinching when he felt the pull of his split lip.

"Not now. Kinda tired." Understatement of the century. Steve felt like he could sleep for hours. "Can I sleep here?"

"Stevie, you can stay as long as you want, you know that."

Steve knew Eddie knew, and Eddie knew Steve wasn't gonna come outright and say it until he'd had time to come down from it all.

"Can we sleep in your bed?" Steve asked, resting his head back on Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie wordlessly led him down the short hallway to his bedroom, helped him get into comfier clothes, and used a washcloth to wipe any of the blood he'd missed at the gas station earlier.

They got in bed, Steve curling against Eddie's side like he'd done so many times before.

This felt different though. This felt like an end of something, a beginning of something else.

*-*-*-*-*-*

When Wayne saw him the next morning, he gave him a sad smile, a hug, and handed him a cup of coffee.

"You stayin'?" he asked, like it was simple.

Like Steve could stay.

"I-"

"I have two rules. One, you go to school. Two, you tell me if you're gonna be out too late, especially on a school night. You follow those, you stay. Sound good?" Wayne raised a brow.

If Steve hadn't spent the last six months at the Munson's trailer more than his own home, maybe he'd be intimidated.

As it stood, all he could do was give a small smile and grab a frozen bag of mixed veggies from the freezer to put on his swollen eye.

"I'm stayin'."

[puppyfixations]

"They're kinda cute when they're up and about!! Bangin' on the walls, yelling to go home..." I wanted to draw the funny noodle man and his pet rat :)

[ennawrite]

Saw a post yesterday talking about Elain seeing Lucien’s back scars from being whipped UTM and I can’t stop thinking about it.

Can you imagine getting a “Who did this to you?” moment from a female character’s POV. Perhaps Lucien gets injured on their journey to Koschei and Elain has to doctor up his back and she sees the lingering scars. Scars that even his fae healing abilities could not get rid of. How bad was the whipping if the scars still stayed years later? So Lucien briefly explains what happened. Elain soon realizes that they serve as a reminder of what he was willing to do for her sister’s survival, what he would do for a female his friend loved. For the sake of the good. To make the world a better place, even if it harmed him beyond repair.

And then Elain being so at odds with herself because of this bond that’s out of her control, she unwittingly fills up with fury she doesn’t quite understand while looking at his back. Thinking about the horrors he had to go through. She’s still afraid to show any sign of emotion towards Lucien (or anyone, for that matter), but the tips of her fingers linger on a long, pale scar as she wipes the blood away. They spread across him like ivy on stone, but vines can’t bring a building down. And in that moment, she realizes something. Torture did not turn Lucien evil, did not make him bad. Did not steal his light.

Perhaps it was just from the crackling fire, but something seemed to glow in Elain’s chest.

I think it’s time I write an Elucien fic 🦊🌷

update: I’m working on the fic now 🫡

[charlunday]

I- uhhh- um- I just- well- uhhh-

[samangstielwinchester]

Shout out to this one screenshot of Sam and Dean that makes it's way onto hundreds "who did this to you?" romantic book couple aesthetic boards

[flowercrowngods]

who did this to you. part 3

🤍🌷 read part 1 here | read part 2 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie. now with robin!

The number rings in his head, echoing off the inside of his skull and sinking lower and lower until his heart strings join the symphony that leaves him shaking as the memory of Harrington’s slurred voice is drowned out by the dial tone that feels harrowingly like a flatline right now. 

Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.

Eddie doesn’t really feel like his body belongs to him anymore, or like there’s anything left inside him other than panic and fear and that stupid, stupid shaking that he can’t suppress even as he bites his knuckles. Hard. 

The pain helps a little not to startle too much when the dial tone stops and a female voice begins speaking to him. Still he almost drops the phone, cursing under his breath as he pulls his hair to collect himself and get his voice to work. 

“H— Hi, hello, Mrs Buckley? This is, uh. I. I’m. A friend of Robin’s, could you, uh—“ 

“Oh, of course, dear,” the woman says, and Eddie feels his eyes beginning to prick with how nice she sounds even through the phone. 

Does she know Steve, too? Would she worry if she knew? Would she curse Eddie for not taking him to the hospital right away? Would she blame him if anything happened? 

“I’m sorry? What did you say your name was?” she asks, repeating herself by the sound of it. 

He blanks, for a whole five seconds, before he spots a note stuck to the fridge saying Don’t forget to eat, Eddie :-)

“Eddie,” he croaks. “Uh, Eddie Munson.”

“Alright, Eddie Munson, I’ll see if I can grab Robin for you. You have a good day, dear, yes?” 

No. “Thanks.” 

The hand clenched in his hair pulls tighter and tighter until the tears fall and he can pretend it’s from pain and not from— whatever the fuck is happening. 

He waits, phone pressed to his ear with a kind of desperation he’s never really felt, and never wants to feel again. He doesn’t even know what to tell Robin; what to say. It’s not like they ever hang out or have anything to say to each other, so why would she— 

“Munson?” Robin’s voice appears on the other end, a little too loud for Eddie’s certain state, and he does drop the phone this time, scrambling to catch it and only making the situation worse as it dangles by his knees. 

He drops to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and reaching for the phone again. 

“Hi.” 

“What do you want? How’d you even get this number? I swear, if you—“ 

“It’s Blue. I mean, Steve. Harrington.” 

That shuts her right up, and Eddie clenches his eyes shut for a moment, hoping to keep the tremor out of his voice if only he takes a moment to breathe. 

The moment stretches. And Robin’s voice is wary and quiet when she speaks again. 

“What about Steve.” 

Eddie rubs his face, leaving more dirt and grime to fill the tear tracks, and clenches his fist before his mouth. 

“Eddie,” Robin demands, dangerous now. Nothing left of the rambling, bubbling mess he knows her to be on the school hallways. “What. About. Steve.” 

“He… He’s hurt.” 

There’s a bit of a commotion on the other end, before Robin declares, “I’m coming over. You tell me everything.” 

“You— I mean, he’s in the hospital with my uncle, so—“ 

“I am. Coming. Over,” she says, enunciating every word as though she were making a threat. Maybe she is. But the certainty in her voice helps a little, anchors him the same way that Wayne’s calmness did. “And you tell me everything.” 

Eddie finds himself nodding along, knowing intuitively that there is nothing that could stop her now. Knowing that he doesn’t want to stop her. 

“‘Kay.” It’s a pathetic little sound, all choked up and tiny. She doesn’t comment on it. 

One second he hears her determined exhale, the next she’s hung up on him and Eddie is greeted by the flatline again. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans his head back against the wall. 

Breathing is hard again, but it’s all he has to do now, all that’s left to do, so he focuses. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. His lungs are burning and there’s something wrong about the way he pulls in air and keeps it there, desperately latching onto it until the very last second, his exhales more of a gasping cough than calm and controlled. 

It takes a while. Longer than it should. But with Harrington’s blood still on his hands, with his heartbeat in his ears so loud he can���t even hear the words Wayne used to say about breathing in through the mouth or the nose or… or something, he— 

He’s fine. He’s home. Wayne’s got Blue, and Buckley is on her way, and… He’s fine. 

People don’t just die. 

They don’t. 

He’s fine. 

Eventually, Eddie manages to breathe steadily, the air no longer shuddering and his hands no longer shaking. It’s stupid, really, being so worked up over someone he doesn’t even really know. Sure, everyone knows Steve fucking Harrington, and everyone sees Steve fucking Harrington — whether they want it or not. He has a way of drawing eyes toward him even if all he does is walk the halls with his dorky smile and that stupidly charming swagger he’s got going on. Always matching his shoes to his outfit.

Eddie can relate.

Always reaching out to touch the person he’s talking to; clapping their back or shoulder, lightly shoving them in jest, ruffling their hair or chasing them through the halls, moving and holding himself like teenage angst can’t reach him. Like he belongs wherever he goes. Like he’s so, so comfortable in his own skin. Like the clothes he wears aren’t armour but just a part of him; a means of self-expression. 

Again, Eddie can relate. He can relate to all of this. 

It’s almost like the two of them aren’t so different after all. Just going about it differently. 

And now he’s… Bleeding. Slurring his speech. Wheezing his breath. And Eddie feels protective. Eddie feels responsible. Like he should be there, like he should get to know more about him. About Steve. About Blue. 

But he can’t. And he won’t. So he gets up with a groan that expresses his frustration and the need to make a sound, to fight the oppressive silence that only encourages his thoughts to run in obsessive little circles, and he hangs up the phone that’s been dangling beside him all this time. 

He needs a smoke. 

He needs a smoke and a blunt and a drink and for this day to be over and for time to revert and to leave him out of whatever business he stumbled into by opening the door to the boathouse and, apparently, Steve Harrington’s life. 

But unfortunately, the universe doesn’t seem to care about what he needs, because just as he steps outside and goes to light his cig, he catches sight of a harried looking Robin Buckley, standing on the pedals of her bike as she kicks them, her hair blowing in the wind to reveal a frown between her brows. A wave of unease overcomes Eddie, an unease he can’t really place. Maybe it’s the set of her jaw, or the tension in her shoulders, or maybe it’s the worry and anger she exudes. 

It never occurred to him before that Robin Buckley might not be a person you’d want to set off. And not because of her uncontrollable rambles. 

“Munson!” she calls over, carelessly dropping her bike in the driveway and stalking toward him. 

Almost as if summoning a shield, Eddie does light the cigarette. Pretends like the smoke can protect him. 

She doesn’t stop at the foot of the steps, though, climbs them in two leaps and gets all up in his space with that unwavering look of determination — so unwavering, in fact, that it almost looks like wrath. Cold. Eddie wants to shrink away from it, not at all daring to wonder what could make her look like that upon hearing that Steve’s hurt. 

I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture.

But those are the words of a semi-conscious teenage boy beat to a pulp, they can’t— There’s no way. Eddie misheard him, or Steve was talking about some kind of inside joke, using the wrong terminology with the wrong guy. It happens. It happens when you’re out of it, really! The shit he’s said when he was shot up, canned up, all strung out and high as a kite… He’d be talking of monsters, too, and mean some benign shit. 

But the way Harrington looked, none of that was benign. The bruising all over his face, the blood still dripping from the wound by his temple or his nose, the way he held himself, breath rattling in his lungs, or— 

“Hey!” Buckley demands his attention, giving him a light shove; just enough to catch his attention, really, and just what he needed to snap out of it. Still the smoke hits his lungs wrong and he coughs up a lung, further cementing his role of the pathetic little guy today. 

“Hey,” he says lamely, his voice still croaking as he crushes the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know for what. But it feels appropriate. 

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him as she crosses her arms in front of her chest. 

“Tell me,” she says at last, and even though there is a tremor in her voice, she sounds nothing short of demanding. “I want the whole story, and I want it now.” 

And so he does. He tells her everything, bidding her inside because he needs the relative safety of the trailer even though the air in here is stuffy and still faintly smells blue. He pours them both some coffee and some tea, because asking what she wants doesn’t feel right in the middle of telling her how he found her supposed best friend beat to shit in the boathouse he went to to forget about the world for a while. 

She stills as she listens to him, staring ahead into the middle distance somewhere beneath the floor and the walls, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug of coffee. Eddie stumbles over his words a lot, unsettled by her stillness, her lack of reaction. She doesn’t even react to his fuck-ups. People usually do.

He wants to ask. Where are you right now? What have you seen? What’s on your mind? What the fuck is happening?

But he doesn’t ask, instead he tells her more about Steve. About how he seemed to forget where he was. About the pain he was in. About the smiles nonetheless. The way he reassured Eddie. 

That one finally gets a choked little huff from her, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. 

“Yeah, that sounds like him alright. He’s such a dingus.” 

There is so much affection in her voice as she says it that Eddie can’t help but smile into his mug. 

“Dingus?” he asks, hoping for some lightness, hoping to keep it. 

But the light fades, and her eyes get distant again. Eddie wants to kick himself. 

“Just a stupid little nickname. An insult, really.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to do with that. If he should ask more or if he should say that he has a feeling Steve might appreciate stupid little nicknames. Especially if they’re unique. Especially if they’re for him. But what right does he have to say that now? What knowledge does he have about Steve Harrington that Robin doesn’t? 

So he bites his tongue and drinks his coffee, cursing the silence that falls over them as Robin mirrors him, albeit slow and stilted, like she doesn’t know what to do either. Or where to put her limbs. 

“Wayne’s got him now. I took him here, after the boathouse, because I didn’t know what to do. He said he didn’t want the hospital, said there’s…” He trails off. 

Robin looks at him, her eyes wary but alert. “Said there’s what?” 

It’s stupid. Don’t say it. 

“Eddie?” 

With a sigh, he puts his mug on the counter and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He said there’s monsters. In the hospital, I mean. He said that.”

Instead of scoffing or at least frowning, Robin clenches her jaw and nods imperceptibly, her eyes going distant again. Eddie blinks, the urge to just fucking ask overcoming him again, but with every passing second he realises that he doesn’t actually want to ask. He doesn’t want to know, let alone find out. 

He just… He just wants to go to bed. Forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t do that, so he continues. 

“Brought him here and Wayne took one look at him and convinced him he needed a doctor. And, Jesus H Christ, he was right. I’ve never… I mean, those things don’t happen,” he urges, balling his hands into fists even in the confined space of his pockets. “Right? I mean… Shit, man.” He bumps his shoe into the kitchen counter; gently, so as not to startle Buckley out of her fugue like state. 

“You’d be surprised,” she rasps, staring into the middle distance again and slowly sinking to the floor. There is a tremor in her shoulders now, barely noticeable, but Eddie knows where to look. Without really thinking about it, he grabs two of his hoodies he’d haphazardly thrown over the kitchen chairs this morning while deciding on his outfit and realising that it was altogether too warm for long sleeves today. But now, right here in this kitchen, the air tinged with blue, they’re both freezing. 

Because fear and worry will take all the warmth right from inside of you and leave you freezing even on the hottest day of the year. 

She barely looks at him when he holds out his all-black Iron Maiden hoodie to her, freshly washed and all that, but she takes it nonetheless, immediately pulling it on. It’s way too large on her, her hands not showing through the sleeves, her balled fists safe and warm inside the fabric. It would make him smile if only it didn’t highlight her stillness, her faraway stare, and the years he has on her. She’s, what, two years younger than him? Three? 

It seems surreal. Everything, everything does. 

Robin Buckley in his home, sitting on his kitchen floor, swallowed by a hoodie that is a size too large even for him, but it was the last one they had in the store and he doesn’t mind oversized clothes, can just cut them shorter when the need arises or layer them or declare them comfort sweaters for when he wants to just have his hands not slip through the sleeves on some days. And now Robin is wearing his comfort hoodie because her best friend was bleeding in his car earlier and then on his couch and now in his uncle’s car, and they never even talk, but he knows that Robin’s favourite colour is blue, but not morning hour blue because that makes her sad; only deep, dark blues. 

Her favourite colour. Her favourite person. 

It’s so fucking surreal. 

He drops down beside her, leaving enough space between them so neither of them feels caged, and mirrors her position: knees to his chest, chin on his forearms. Staring ahead. 

And silence reigns. 

“Your uncle,” she says at last, finally breaking the silence that’s been grating on Eddie’s nerves and looking at him, really looking as she rests her cheek on her forearms crossed over her knees. “Tell me about him.” 

There is a gentleness to her voice now despite how hoarse it is. Maybe she’s just tired, too. And scared. At least the shivering has stopped. 

Still Eddie frowns, confused as to why she should be breaking the silence to ask about Wayne when everything today has been about Harrington. About Steve. About deep and dark blues. 

“Uncle Wayne?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because,” she begins, and sighs deeply, works to get the air back in her lungs. Eddie wants to reach out, but instead he just clenches his fingers a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. “My best friend is hurt very badly and the only person with him is your uncle, and I need to know that he’s in good hands. Or I swear to whatever god you may or may not believe in, and granted, it’s probably the latter, but still I swear I’ll give into my arsonist tendencies and burn down this city, starting with your trailer if you don’t tell me that your uncle is a good man who will do anything in his power to make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs. And deserves.” 

Her jaw is set and her bottom lip trembles, but it doesn’t take away from the absolute sincerity in her threat. 

“So, please,” she continues, her voice breaking just a little bit. “Tell me. Tell me about your uncle.” 

Tell me about your favourite person. 

Eddie swallows, and mirrors her position once more, so she can see his eyes and know he’s sincere. Because he’s learned something about eyes today, about how much in the world can change if only you have a pair of eyes to look into. 

And he nods, looking for somewhere to start. “He’s the best man I know. He’s the best man you’ll ever meet.”

She clings to his eyes. Searches them for the truth, beseeching them not to lie. He lets her. 

“Took me in when I was ten, because my dad’s a fuck-up and my mom’s a goner. Took me in again when I was twelve after I ran away. Makes me breakfast and I pretends the dinner I make him is more than edible.” He smiles a little, because how could he not? “He’s my uncle, but still he’s the best parent anyone could wish for. Writes those little notes that he sticks to the fridge, y’know, the one with the smiley face? Tells me to eat, because I forget sometimes. I tell him to drink water, because he forgets. First few years, he’d read to me. And the man’s a shit reader, has some kind of disability I think, and at some point I learned that he wasn’t reading at all. He was telling me stories all the time, conning me into thinking that the books were magic, and that every time I’d try to read the book for myself, the story would change.” 

There’s a lump in his throat now, and his eyes sting again. But Robin doesn’t seem to fare any better than him if her wavering smile is any indication. 

“There’s no one,” Eddie continues, “who will make you believe in magic quite like uncle Wayne. Or in good things. And d’you wanna know what he told Blue when he said he was scared of going to the hospital?” 

Sniffling, Robin shakes her head. 

“He said, Okay. Then we do it scared. And all of that after he just… with that patience he has, told him everything that was gonna happen. And that he’d be there with him through it all. That he knew the doc and wouldn’t let anyone else near him, and that there’s no need to be scared at all.” 

He sighs, breathes, stills. Swallows, before looking back at Robin. 

“So, if there’s one person who’ll make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs and deserves…” 

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Robin finishes his sentence, her voice still hoarse, but Eddie likes to think it’s for a different reason now. 

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Eddie says, nodding along as he does. 

There is something like understanding in Robin’s eyes now, and Eddie hopes it’s enough. Enough to calm the spiking of her nerves, enough to settle the coil of freezing nausea that must reside in the pit of her stomach, enough to let the next breath she takes feel a little more like it’s supposed to be there. 

He wants to say something more, wants to reach out and reassure her that everything will be okay, but he can’t know that. He doesn’t feel like it’s entirely true, let alone appropriate right now. 

There’s something in Robin’s eyes, in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she accepts his words at face value but doesn’t really believe them. Like she’ll only rest when she’s got her best friend back in her arms and hears the story — the whole story — from him. 

And Eddie doesn’t fault her, because the thing is, he doesn’t know what happened. Steve said that Hagan came at him, but that’s really all he got out of him before he started talking about death and shit, and Eddie really didn’t want to ask any more questions then. 

So they sit there for a while, the silence oppressive and unwelcome, clumsy and awkward; Robin’s mouth opening and closing a lot, like she wants to ask questions but doesn’t dare to ask them — and Eddie doesn’t know if he’s glad about it or not. Doesn’t know if he wants to hear the kind of questions asked with that kind of stare. 

It is only after a long while, when Robin’s shoulders start shaking again and she buries deeper into the hoodie and her own spiralling thoughts, that Eddie breaks the silence again, replaying in his head the last moment between him and Steve. 

“He’s not gonna break,” he tells her, aiming for gentle and reassuring. 

What he doesn’t expect is the minute flinch, the jolt shooting through her body and the pained expression it leaves her with. What he doesn’t expect is what she says next. 

“You know,” she begins, her voice as far away as her eyes, and it’s like she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. “Sometimes I wish he would.” 

What?

Eddie blinks, swallowing hard.

“Just for, just for a break. Just so he can rest. Let the rest take over for a while.” 

That… He doesn’t— What the hell does that even mean? 

“Like maybe then the world would… snap back.” She snaps her fingers, just once. This time it’s Eddie who flinches. “And everything bad would disappear. But it won’t. And he won’t.” She swallows. Then quietly, almost inaudible, “He won’t break.” 

And the way she says it… It was reassuring before. And now it feels like a burden. A curse. 

Who the fuck are you, Steve Harrington? And you, Robin Buckley. 

Eddie shudders, knowing he doesn’t want the answer to that anymore. He doesn’t want the questions either. So he buries his face in his hands, closes his eyes, and breathes. The adrenaline has worn off by now, the repeated panicking that added fuse to the fire has ceased now, leaving him worn out and strung out, tired and exhausted. He pulls up the hood, burrowing into the warmth. 

And then he stills. His usually twitching, fumbling, fiddling body falling entirely still beside Buckley. 

It’s like time stops for a while there, even though Eddie knows that it’s dragging ever on and on. He’s inclined to let it, though. He’s too tired, too exhausted to really care about what time may or may not be doing. 

“Why’d you call me?” 

It takes a while for Eddie to realise that Robin’s spoken again, asked him a question out loud, the cadence of it different to the endless circles of questions Eddie’s got stuck in his head since the early afternoon tinged in blue against crimson. 

He lifts his head, tucking his hands underneath his chin, and looks over at Buckley. Her hair is dishevelled now, her mascara smudged and crusty. Her lipstick is almost all gone, with the way he sees her biting and chewing on her lips. 

“I… It seemed like the right thing to do, y’know? He kept repeating your number. In the car, it was like… Sounds dramatic, but it was like his lifeline, almost. Repeated it so often it kinda got stuck.” He shrugs. “Seemed important, too.”

Robin frowns; a careful little thing. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Well, he just talked about you. Y’know. Tell me about your favourite person, I told him, because that’s the thing you gotta do to keep people, like, talking to you. Not shit about what day it is, or what. Just, y’know. Let them talk about things they like. Things they’ll wanna tell you about. ’N’ he talked about you.” 

She’s quiet for a while, letting his words sink in. And Eddie wonders if she knew. That she’s his favourite person. If he ever told her. If maybe he took that from him now. It’s a stupid thing to worry about, really; the boy was bloodied and bruised on his couch just an hour ago, there are worse things at hand for Eddie to worry about. But now he wonders if he just spilled some sort of secret. Some sort of love confession. 

“Did you, I mean… Are you guys, like, dating? Did I just steal his moment?” 

Robin huffs, but it’s more like a smile that needs a little more space in the room, a little more air to really bloom. It’s fond. She shakes her head, her eyes far away again, but closer somehow. 

“Nah,” she says, and the smile is in her voice, too. Eddie kind of likes her voice like that. “We’re platonic. Which is something I’d never thought I’d say. Not about Steve Harrington, y’know?” 

And the way she drags out his name… Eddie can relate. Like it means something, but like what it means is nowhere close to reality. Nowhere close to what it really means. Nowhere close to Blue. 

Robin sighs, the sound more gentle than it should be, and leans her head against the cabinet behind her. “We worked together over summer break. Scoops Ahoy.” Her voice does a funny thing, and her eyes glaze over as she pauses. Eddie waits, his lips tipped up into a little smile, too; to match hers. 

“What, the ice cream parlour?” 

Robin hums, her smile widening at what Eddie guesses must be memories of chaos and ridiculousness. “I wanted to hate him,” she continues. “But try as I might, he wouldn’t let me. Or, he did. He did let me. Just, it turns out, there’s no use hating Steve Harrington, not when he’s so… So endlessly genuine. There’s nothing to hate, y’know? And then he…” 

She stops, her mouth clicking shut as her eyes tear up a little. The Starcourt fire. Eddie remembers the news, remembers the self-satisfied smirk when he’d heard about it, remembers sticking it to the Man and to capitalism and to the idea of malls over supporting your friendly neighbourhood businesses. 

Guilt and shame overcome him as he realises that they must have been in there when it happened. 

“He saved your life?” 

Robin’s eyes snap toward him, wide and caught, and Eddie raises his hands in placation. 

“In the fire? Were you there?” 

“Y—yeah.” She swallows hard, avoiding his eyes. “The fire. He saved me. Yeah.” 

Eddie nods, deciding to drop that topic right there; to lay it on the ground as gently as he can and cover it with bright red colours so he never steps on it ever again. 

“He must be your favourite person, too, then, hm?” he steers the conversation back away into safer waters. 

“He is,” she says, sure and genuine and true. “It’s just. I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s favourite. He has a lot of people who care about him, you know? A lot of people he cares about. Even more numbers memorised in that stupidly smart head of his.” She huffs again, burrowing deeper into Eddie’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her hands some more. “It’s stupid, to be so hung up on this. Is it stupid?” 

“I don’t think it is,” Eddie says, scooting a little closer to Robin. “Like, I don’t even know that boy, right? But even I know that he’s got some ways to shift your focus or something. Give you a silver lining, or something to take the pain away even when he’s the one who… I don’t know, that’s probably stupid, too.” 

“Nah,” Robin says, scooting closer to him, too, until their sides are pressed together and she can lay her head on his shoulder. “It’s not stupid. You’re right; that’s Steve for you. ’S just who he is.” 

It is, isn’t it? 

You’re so blue, Stevie. 

She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.

Blue. ‘S nice. 

Yeah. Yeah, he is. 

Eddie lets his thoughts roam the endless possibilities and realities that is Steve Harrington, the depths he hides — or won’t hide, maybe, if you know how to ask. Where to look. 

Maybe he’ll find out, one of these days. Not about the terrible things that leave him scared of the hospital, not about the horrible things that have him speaking of death and dying like he’s accepted them as a possibility a long time ago. 

He swallows hard and shakes off these thoughts, because things like that just. They don’t happen. They don’t happen to blue-smiled boys who trust you to be kind even when they’re beaten straight to hell. And they sure as hell don’t happen when uncle Wayne’s around. 

Nothing bad has ever happened when uncle Wayne was around. 

And he wants to tell Robin, wants to make that promise. But part of him can’t bear the thought of being wrong. So he keeps his mouth shut and just sits with her, their heads as heavy as their hearts as they wait. 

The sun is long gone when the phone above him rings again, spooking and startling them out of their timeless existence. 

“Yeah?” he answers, his heart hammering in his chest. “Wayne?” 

“Hey, Ed,” Wayne’s voice comes through the phone like a melody. Calm and steady. Robin is scooting closer, and Eddie shifts the phone to accommodate her so they can both listen. Somehow, they ended up holding hands — and holding on hard. “We’re coming home now.” 

🤍🌷 tagging:

@theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 @annabanannabeth @deany-baby @mc-i-r @mugloversonly @viridianphtalo @nightmareglitter @jamieweasley13 @copingmechanizm @marklee-blackmore @sirsnacksalot @justrandomfandomstm @hairdryerducks @silenzioperso @newtstabber @fantrash @zaddipax @cometsandstardust @rowanshadow26 @limpingpenguin @finntheehumaneater @extra-transitional (sorry if i missed anyone! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged for part 4 🫶)

[ceelestinae]

"If I could save time in a bottle

The first thing that I'd like to do

Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away

Just to spend them with you"

Fitzloved, it's their song !

[tabbytabbytabby]

So what am I defending now?

Word Count: 1,590 words

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: 9-1-1

Relationship: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard

Tags: Season/Series 08, Hurt Evan "Buck" Buckley, Post-Break Up, Black Eye, Protective Tommy Kinard, Worried Tommy Kinard, Soft Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard, Tommy Kinard Loves Evan "Buck" Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley Loves Tommy Kinard, Getting Back Together, Love Confessions, Gentleness, Light Angst, Hopeful Ending, Bad Things Happen Bingo

Summary: When Buck gets hurt standing up for someone at the store, the last person he expects to show up at his door is Tommy. Yet there he is. He has questions, but so does Buck, and he's not letting Tommy leave until he finally gets answers.

Read on AO3

For @halebaccari who prompted "Who Did This to You?" for @badthingshappenbingo. Card under the cut.

[harmeu]

i see i see!! i was going to ask for rotmd characters (mayhaps jaha lee specifically...) pining and being whipped over you!! :O thank you so much heheh

I’ll Do Anything For You

  (Jaha Lee Being Pinned Over You)

(GN!Reader)

Tw: Cursing, blood

(Just did Jaha Lee cause I got lazy hope you don't mind)

It's a real mystery on how you got one of the strongest guys, Jahe Lee on a leash. For some reason anytime you request something from him he always accepts and does it. When you get hurt by someone you never ever hear or see that person again. 

(Scenario 1)

“My lord could you pass me the spoon?” You mumble softly sitting with the others, their faces paling.

“Are you insane? You're asking to get killed.” Seongtae mumbled.

“Just get it yourself before he stabs you with the fork.” Gunpyeong added on.

Jaha did give you the spoon with no hesitance or anger visible on his face. He seemed almost. 

Calm? 

The others' faces drop as you smile to yourself and drink some soup.

(Scenario 2)

You were playing with Jaha Lee’s hair, him not minding it one bit for some unknown reason and then all of a sudden as you brush it you accidentally pull on a tangle in his hair making his head jerk back.

Oh shit.

Hongshin spat out her water seeing the scene unfold and dipped running out the front doors.

You waited for the wrath of Jaha Lee but all of a sudden.

“Be more careful, okay?” He said with soft eyes patting his own head.

What's wrong with this guy? Is he going to anger management classes now or something?

(Scenario 3)

You were training with Jaha Lee and his swordsmanship was magnificent. As you tried to copy it you slipped and he caught you but sadly for you, your lips accidentally landed on his cheek.

How the hell does that even happen? You ask yourself millions of times, you're face going red in horror and embarrassment.

Seongtae Cha, seeing the scene happen, slammed into a tree trying not to laugh.

Why are there so many bystanders?

You wait to get yelled at or punched by Jaha but you're met with a..blush? 

“Watch where you're stepping next time okay?” He patted your head affectionately, making you flush.

(Scenario 4)

You got hurt. Your forehead was bleeding profusely because of a random bandit attack that you had no plan for. You walk back to the place holding your forehead in pain till you're met with Jaha Lee towering over you.

“Who did this to you?” A tone known to kill was evident in his voice making you flinch slightly.

“Just some bandits. I’m fine though see?” You give him a weak smile which he didn’t buy.

He picked you up and ran speeding inside placing you on a bed causing you to be dumbfounded.

“What's going on?” You say shocked.

“Rest and bandage yourself. I’m gonna find the fuckers who did this.” He vanishes in a blink.

What just happened?

(HAD TO ADD THE ICONIC "who did this to you?")

[bibislutmarvel]

Who Did This To You?

Summary: You'd grown up with the Princes of Asgard. They were your friends. And sure, things weren't always as sweet as pie with the God of Mischief, but you could trust him.

I'm a slut for (vaguely) enemies to lovers and the "Who did this to you?" trope, but really, who isn't?

Of course, that means someone did something bad, so here's your warning for attempted sexual assault.

18+ only, MDNI.

Word count: 5128

Read on Ao3 // Part Two

The slap of your feet on the cool stone echoed around the palace walls, the familiarity of your surroundings lost as the fear distorted the maze in front of you. Their yells seemed to follow you even as the distance between you grew, your ragged breaths doing nothing to drown out their voices. You skidded around the corner, lifting the skirt of your dress as you ran up the stairs, up and up until at last you recognised the floor you were on. The rational part of your brain hadn’t caught up yet, you were moving purely on instinct as the tears spilled down your cheeks.

Finally, the dim light of the palace grew brighter, and you had to swallow down the bile in your throat as the guards turned to you, eyebrows drawn together as they took in your dishevelled appearance. Your lungs burned for air, your legs struggling to keep up with the fear driving you on. One of the guards reached out an arm to stop you, but you slipped past his grasp as he called out to you. The thud of boots behind you as they followed sent another wave of nausea through you, and you stumbled, your hands grazing the stone beneath you as they broke your fall.

The door ahead of you creaked open, and you lifted your head to meet the gaze of your prince. 

—----

The trickle of blood was warm down your leg as you blinked back tears, trying your best to ignore the stinging of your knees as you pushed yourself to your feet. You rounded quickly on Loki, your palm connecting with his cheek with a satisfying CRACK. 

He stumbled back, cradling his face in shock. “How dare you! I am your prince-”

“I don’t care if you’re a prince! You’re an arse, is what you are!”

Thor’s chuckle echoed from behind you and you spun around to him, embarrassment heating your face. The golden prince raised a brow at you. “You may be right, Y/N, but you probably shouldn’t say it quite so loudly.”

You bit your lip, looking up at the palace that sparkled in the sunlight. You flicked your eyes back down at Thor. “He pushed me.” You couldn’t help the petulance that laced your words.

Thor frowned at the boy behind you. “Brother, you shouldn’t hurt a Lady.”

You heard Loki’s snort. “Look at her, she certainly doesn’t look like one.”

It was your turn to frown, and you turned to him as you fumbled with the knot you had tied your skirts in around your thighs. “Well I couldn’t exactly race you if I was tripping over my dress, now could I?”

Loki sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. “You still lost.”

“Because you cheated!”

“Sshh!” Thor’s hushing stopped you mid-march towards Loki, and it was then that you heard the quiet chatter of your mother and the Queen. 

You dipped into a low curtsey as the pair appeared along the path, arms linked together in friendship. “Your Majesty.”

“Lady Y/N.” Queen Frigga greeted with a smile, “We thought we might find you all out here.”

Your mother pulled away from the Queen, extending her hand to you. “Come, let us leave Her Majesty to talk to her sons.”

You took her hand with a well-practised smile, curtseying to the royals in turn. “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, Your Royal Highness.” Thor and Loki struggled to contain their amusement at your manners; having grown up together you only ever bothered to refer to them by their proper titles in the presence of others. 

You walked away arm in arm with your mother, barely listening as she chatted enthusiastically about your closeness with the princes. Instead, your mind wandered to what bribes you could offer Thor to fill Loki’s bed with raw fish.

—--

You panted beneath Archer’s touch, his hands firm on your waist as he nipped at your throat. Your eyes flew open as you bit your lip to hide your smile in the moonlight. It was Archer, wasn’t it? Or was it Hunter? You swallowed your giggle as you considered the absurdity of your own forgetfulness, your distracted mind not noticing the glimmer of magic at the corner of your vision. 

The boy pulled away, searching for your lips, but you planted your hands on his chest, batting your eyelashes at him. “I should get back before they notice I’m gone.” You murmured, smiling at his protests. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You pushed off the tree and out of his grasp before he could say another word, making your way back onto the path and up towards the palace. You managed to avoid anyone of importance, slipping into your chambers unnoticed.

You sighed as you took in Loki’s nonchalant expression as he reclined back on your couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table before him as he lifted a goblet to his lips. “It’s quite improper to let yourself into a Lady’s rooms, you know.”

The God of Mischief smiled wickedly at you, eyeing you up as you made your way over to the mirror, inspecting your reflection for any signs of dishevelment. “And you know how much I love all things improper.”

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him. “Is Thor still walking me down to dinner?”

“Of course, who else would escort the birthday girl?” Loki sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched you smooth out your dress. “Lady Y/N, finally of age… All of the Lords will be scrambling to court you.”

You snorted, turning to him with a smirk. “Let them. You know I’m not-”

“I wonder what they’ll say when they find out you’ve been whoring yourself out to a servant,” Loki said frankly, watching you over the rim of his goblet as he took a sip. You opened and closed your mouth in shock, before his visage shimmered and faded. A warm body pressed against your back as an arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand tucking your hair behind your ear as you stood frozen. Loki’s breath tickled your neck as he whispered in your ear, “You really should be more careful, darling, anyone could have happened upon your little meeting in the woods.”

You silently scolded your body for the reaction to his touch, a shiver creeping up your spine. He was teasing you, mocking you, enjoying the proximity of your bodies contrasting your mutual dislike for each other. You pulled away with a frown. He let you go, watching as you picked up his discarded goblet and downed the contents. You winced at the burn in your throat, coughing. “You’re such an arse.”

Loki smirked at your words, pulling a flask from his pocket as he made his way over to you. He poured the amber liquid into the goblet in your hand as you jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t you dare say a word to anyone.”

“Would I really do that?” He raised an eyebrow at you and reached for the goblet. You pulled it away from him with a pout.

“Promise me, Loki.”

“You have my word, darling,” He smiled, tracing his thumb over your cheek. You frowned once again at his mocking and stepped back, but he caught the hand that was wrapped around the goblet. “I think you’d better give that back.”

“Why?”

“It’s not meant for your delicate mortal body.”

“I’m not delicate-” Your childish rebuke cut off as all the blood seemed to rush to your head at once, and you swayed on the spot. Loki took the goblet from you, nudging you back onto the couch. 

The prince hummed as he considered you, “I probably should have stopped you before you finished the glass.” He sat down next to you with a sigh and you bounced slightly. “Oh well.”

You closed your eyes as the dizziness began to subside, reaching out a thump and meeting Loki’s arm with a satisfying thud. “Don’t pretend you’re sorry.” You could practically hear his smug grin.

A knock sounded at the door and you opened your eyes. “Come in.”

Thor strode into the room, bowing absurdly low before you. “Happy Birthday, Y/N.”

You giggled, standing up and offering your hand to him to kiss. He did so with a wink, pulling you to tuck your hand in the crook of his arm. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

“My brother hasn’t been pestering you, has he?” 

You ignored Loki’s snort of indignation. “No more than usual.”

—--

Your mother fussed with your hair as you stood outside of the banquet hall, rowdy cheers echoing down the hallway from the feast. You batted her hands away. “It’s fine, mother. Let us go in, I’m dying to say hello to the Princes.”

“They only become more handsome with each new victory under their belt, don’t they?” She smiled as if she knew what you were thinking.

“Oh, do leave it be, mother.” You rolled your eyes.

“You’re not getting any younger, dear. You could do much worse than a Prince of Asgard.” She looked at you pointedly and you huffed, pulling her into the hall. 

You curtseyed to the King and Queen, and left your mother with Frigga. You made your way down the hall, nodding to those that greeted you, until a familiar booming voice called your name. Thor waved you over, motioning away one of the lords to make room next to him and you curtseyed to him before sitting down. He pulled you under his arm in a hug and you laughed, thanking him as he poured you a glass of wine.

“How have you been, Lady Y/N?”

You took a sip of your wine, glancing at Loki as he sat opposite you, immersed in conversation. You were thankful to avoid his sneer at yours and Thor’s affections. “I’m well! I’m afraid I have nothing new to tell you,” you smiled at the golden prince, “I can imagine that you have plenty of stories to tell me, though.”

Thor needed no more encouragement than that, and launched into a battle story that was sure to become legend as you waved over a server to refill the jugs of wine. 

You lost track of time as you listened to his stories, laughing with your friends. Loki joined in occasionally, barely sparing you a glance. You hated to admit that his lack of acknowledgement stung; it wasn’t as if you were best friends, but you had always thought you shared a unique understanding of each other, having spent most of your childhood together.

You flicked your gaze to the guards, who were trying their best to act as if they couldn’t hear the sounds of destruction coming from the prince’s chamber. You offered them a polite smile, asking them if they might give you some space.

When you entered Loki’s rooms, they looked as if they had been ransacked. Chairs were overturned, a vase of fresh flowers lay shattered on the ground, and a seething prince paced the length of the room. The various stacks of books lay untouched, you noticed, and you tried not to smile. Even when he was angry, Loki couldn’t bring himself to destroy anything of importance.

You picked up a chair, setting it down properly and taking a seat. You waited for him to speak.

“Their favouritism knows no bounds.” Loki hissed, mostly to himself.

You grimaced; of course it was this again. “What happened?”

“They’re throwing a feast! In his honour!” He spun towards you, lifting his arms in exasperation. “They didn’t even mutter a ‘thank you’ in my direction!” He laughed dryly. “He couldn’t even remember the ambassador’s name, the oaf. I had to step in and charm my way out of war. And then he somehow befriends them, turns the whole trip around, and I’m long forgotten, once again!”

“You shouldn’t call your brother an oaf.”

“Of course you’d take his side.” Loki sneered, stepping towards you.

“I’m not. I just don’t see the point in resenting him when it’s your Father that has angered you.” You didn’t break his gaze. Most would cower under the angry gaze of the god, but he didn’t scare you. You still remembered him pre-puberty. There was nothing scary about a spoiled little boy. 

You looked around the room at the destruction. “You should clean this up before anyone sees.”

The god leaned over you, placing his hands on the arms of the chair and caging you in. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

You looked at him unwaveringly, and he held your gaze with fire in his eyes, until it eventually died down. He sighed, pulling away and waving his hand. The room righted itself, and you hid your self-satisfied smirk. Instead, you stood, making your way over to him and resting your hand on his arm.

“It’s not fair, Loki, I never said it was. But you can’t give them a reason to scold you. Continue being the best you can be, and eventually they’ll have to notice.”

Loki offered you a small smile. “I preferred it when you were annoying.”

Soon, the hall began to empty, and your mother took up an empty seat next to you as Loki excused himself. You watched him go, dropping your gaze to your mother. 

She wasted no time in getting to the point. “Her Majesty says that she is keen to get her sons courting, to take them away from their laddish behaviour.”

You had to stop yourself from groaning. “They’re not as laddish as you think,” you said, ignoring her obvious point.

She looked at you, unamused. “Y/N, you can’t refuse to court forever-”

“I think I shall follow Prince Loki’s sense and retire for the night, I am rather tired.” You interrupted her, standing up and kissing her on the cheek. “Goodnight, mother.”

You strode from the room before she could stop you, leaning against the wall outside to take off your heels and give your aching feet a rest. It was late enough that you were unlikely to be seen carrying your shoes, and you padded contentedly down the corridor, thinking of your bed and a glass of warm milk.

Taking a detour, you hoped to bump into a servant to request the comforting drink. You took your time, but didn’t see anyone, and so decided to head down a floor in search of assistance. The sound of laughter greeted you as you descended and you hurried towards the sound, eager to get back to your room.

Two guards stood to attention when they saw you, stifling their smiles as they nodded. “Can we help you, M’Lady?” One asked.

You smiled at them and opened your mouth to speak, but the second guard interrupted you. “Or maybe you can help us.” He smirked, nudging the other one. They shared a look before turning to you. 

You frowned in confusion as they stepped towards you, but you barely had time to process the predatory look in their eyes before they grabbed you, pulling you into a darkened alcove. One pulled you back against him, his hand over your mouth to muffle your screams as he used his other arm to pin your arms to your sides. You dropped your shoes as you struggled against him, squeezing your legs together as the other one lifted your skirt, his rough hands dragging against your thighs. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest as fear and disbelief coiled painfully in your stomach.

He pulled a dagger from its sheath, trailing the cold blade against the exposed skin on your chest, and you yelped against the hand on your mouth as he pressed it into your flesh, drawing blood. He collected it on the tip and brought it to his mouth, licking it off.

They both panted in excitement and the one in front of you chuckled quietly. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a real lady.” He shoved his leg between yours, pressing the dagger against your thigh. “Wonder if your cunt feels any better than the whore’s down the inn.”

You squeezed your eyes shut against his hungry gaze, tears cascading down your cheeks. This couldn’t be happening, it had to be some kind of awful dream. How had your wonderful night turned so awful so quickly? You were about to be raped, helpless against two armed men.

“Erik? Gunnar?” A voice called out, and the two men froze. Your eyes flew open and you watched as the guard in front of you slid the dagger back in its sheath, your skirt falling back down as he stepped out of the alcove. 

The other guard held you tight, but your heart filled with hope and desperation. Surely you could take on one guard? You certainly couldn’t give up on what might be your only chance.

Slowly, you reached out your foot, searching for your shoes. When you found one, you slid it on, stamping on the guard's foot as hard as you could. It didn’t do as much as you’d wanted with him wearing boots, but it was enough that you could duck down out of his grasp. He latched onto your dress before you could make it more than a few feet away, and you spun around, digging your nails into any skin you could find, scratching until you drew blood. He swore loudly as his grip loosened.

You fled as fast as you could. The slap of your feet on the cool stone echoed around the palace walls, the familiarity of your surroundings lost as the fear distorted the maze in front of you. Their yells seemed to follow you even as the distance between you grew, your ragged breaths doing nothing to drown out their voices. You skidded around the corner, lifting the skirt of your dress as you ran up the stairs, up and up until at last you recognised the floor you were on. The rational part of your brain hadn’t caught up yet, you were moving purely on instinct as the tears spilled down your cheeks.

Finally, the dim light of the palace grew brighter, and you had to swallow down the bile in your throat as two guards turned to you, eyebrows drawn together as they took in your dishevelled appearance. Your lungs burned for air, your legs struggling to keep up with the fear driving you on. One of the guards reached out an arm to stop you, but you slipped past his grasp as he called out to you. The thud of boots behind you as they followed sent another wave of nausea through you, and you stumbled, your hands grazing the stone beneath you as they broke your fall.

The door ahead of you creaked open, and you lifted your head to meet the gaze of your prince. Loki took in the fear in your eyes, your tear-stained face, the bleeding cut on your chest, all in an instant. He moved quickly, silently helping you to stand before picking you up into his arms before your legs could give way. He cradled you to him as he moved you through his rooms and part of you wanted to lean into his warmth, the strangely comforting scent of him, but you couldn’t get the thought of the two guards out of your head. 

He sat you on the edge of his bed and reached for your shaking hand. You let him take it, your sobs turning into shallow hiccups as you watch his thumb trace calming circles on your skin. As you calmed, you finally met his gaze, watching the storm behind his eyes.

He stood and you watched him through bleary eyes, waiting for him to laugh and make you leave. Your mind was racing, your heart hammering with adrenaline, and all you wanted to do was crawl into a corner and screw your eyes shut against the pain in your head. 

Instead of laughing, Loki went to the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the room. When he returned, he pulled a chair over and sat opposite you.

“Who did this to you?” The words were quiet, but firm. 

You couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked your body at his words, the terrible gasps you made for air as tears began to stream once again. You couldn’t see the pain on his face as he watched you shake, yearning to reach out and comfort you.

The images replayed in your head, and you cried harder as you realised that he was watching them too, searching your mind for the answers he wanted. You could feel his boiling rage before he closed the connection. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” His words were cold, and some part of you knew that he was protecting you from his true emotions, but you couldn’t help the painful pang in your chest at the thought that his anger might be directed at you. You swallowed the sob in your throat to let him continue. “You will go and have a bath, and stay as long as you need. I will have a maid fetch your things and bring them to you. You will sleep here tonight, under my protection. Understood?”

You’d never taken orders from him, and normally you’d laugh at him for even trying to boss you around. But you ached to feel the warm envelopment of the water, and you knew there was nowhere safer to be.

You bit your lip and nodded, standing on shaky legs. Loki reached out a hand to steady you, but you flinched at his touch. He withdrew it immediately, watching you silently as you half-stumbled to the bathroom and closed the door. 

You stripped as quickly as you could with your shaking hands, determined not to let yourself break until you were in the bath. The water was too hot, but you welcomed the burn as you sunk in, the tears streaming silently down your face.

You held yourself tightly, as if you could stop yourself from falling apart completely. When you noticed the blood caked under your nails, you had to swallow the bile in your throat, hiding your hands beneath the bubbles as you scrubbed them.

A quiet knock sounded at the door and you struggled to find your voice to call them in as you crossed your arms over your chest. You averted your eyes as the maid placed down your things, collecting your dress. She stopped at the door and you looked up at her.

She bit her lip nervously and gestured to the dress. “His Royal Highness says to get rid of this, M’Lady.”

You swallowed hard and looked away. “Burn it.”

—----

Despite your protests, Loki insisted on you sleeping in his bed, and you watched as he settled himself on the couch. You fell asleep quickly, the lack of adrenaline leaving you both mentally and physically exhausted. It didn’t last as long as you’d hoped, and you woke up as the birds started singing, the sky still dark. 

The tears leaked silently onto the pillow, and you found yourself afraid of your own thoughts. It’s as if you could still feel the two guards’ hands on you, and you absentmindedly traced your fingers over the cut on your chest. You sniffled, sitting up on the bed and wiping your nose. 

You could make out Loki’s long form in the low light, his feet propped up over the edge of the couch as he slept. You didn’t think as you stood up, your aching legs carrying you gingerly over to him, stopping barely a foot away. You ran your eyes over his form, his dark hair splayed on the pillow, down to his softly parted lips. Your gaze lingered on the exposed skin of his chest as the top of his night shirt splayed open, watching the soft rise and fall of his breaths. 

Why had you run here? Was this really where your subconscious had carried you? Why hadn’t you run to Thor? You bit your lip as you thought. You didn’t want Thor to see you like this. You’d never truly been vulnerable around him. And despite your best efforts, Loki had seen a side to you that most hadn’t, on more than one occasion.

You frowned down at your book as Loki sat down in the armchair opposite you, hoping that he would take the hint and leave you alone.

“I see you’ve already given up on the literature I recommended to you.”

You sighed, sparing him a glance. “I finished it.”

“All three novels?” He quirked an eyebrow at you.

“Yes.” You couldn’t hide your annoyance, trying once again to actually take in the passage in front of you.

“I didn’t know you could read so quickly.”

You knew he was only teasing, but the words stung, the comments from your tutor too fresh in your mind. You swallowed thickly, blinking back tears as you willed yourself not to cry in front of him.

Loki sighed. “I’m only winding you up, Y/N.”

“Well don’t!” You slammed your book shut, standing up with a huff. Loki caught your arm as you stormed past.

“What’s wrong?”

You bit your lip, knowing it was futile to pretend you were fine. Still, you didn’t particularly want to pour your heart out to him.

“My tutor says that we should stop our lessons. That I read too much and it doesn’t do a girl any good to be too smart.”

Loki dropped your arm and you sighed at his expression.

“I’ll be fine, Loki.” Your reassured him. “I’m just being over-dramatic.” You turned away and left the library quickly, sure that you’d embarrassed yourself enough for one day. 

The next morning your mother informed you that Queen Frigga had recommended a new tutor, insisting that ‘young ladies should always be able to explore their potential’.

Despite your differences and your difficulties, you found you did trust Loki. You knew that he would never hurt you. You flicked your gaze back up to his face, your breath catching in your throat as you found him watching you.

“I can’t sleep.” You whispered.

He didn’t say anything, sitting up and gesturing for you to sit beside him. You sat, fiddling with the sleeve of your nightgown. Finally, he spoke.

“What do you need?” His words were soft, quiet.

You thought for a moment, your mind clinging to a ridiculous idea, a childish need for reassurance. You couldn’t bring yourself to say the words, instead looking at him and tapping your forehead with your finger.

He understood instantly, and you felt him searching your thoughts. Part of you expected him to laugh at the notion, but instead he offered you a small smile and reached out a gentle hand, tugging you to him. 

You fell onto his chest, his arm around your shoulders, and your heart beat rapidly in your chest. It should have felt strange, being in Loki’s arms, but you found yourself melting into his warmth. You felt him rest his chin on your head, and realised just how comforting it was to be held by him.

—----

You didn’t realise you had fallen asleep until you woke to sunlight streaming in the windows. You blinked slowly, flicking your gaze to the couch to see it empty. Lifting your head, you found yourself resting on Loki’s chest, enveloped in his embrace. He must have carried you to the bed.

You wanted to be embarrassed, mortified even, but couldn’t find the energy to care as you stretched your muscles, finding yourself content in that moment.

Then, the memories of the night before came flooding back, and you breaths grew quicker. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, and you sat up quickly, gasping for breath as you hyperventilated. You crawled off the bed, sliding onto the floor as you held yourself, trying to catch your breath. 

Loki moved to the edge of the bed silently, and you felt him spread his legs behind you. He pulled you back to him, your back to the edge of the bed as you sat between his legs. He tilted your head up, his fingers kneading at your temples.

“Close your eyes,” he said quietly, and you obeyed, focusing on the feeling of his fingers. Your breathing began to slow, and you tried to untense your shoulders as you allowed him to ground you.

You stayed like that for a while, until you felt relaxed enough to open your eyes. You tilted your head up, looking up at him.

He smiled, a rare smile that wasn’t cruel or mocking, and it fluttered something in your chest.

“You should go and get ready, I’ll have breakfast brought to your chambers.”

You instinctively grabbed his hand in an iron grip. “Come with me,” you whispered, the thought of being alone sending a shock of panic through you. You didn’t want to think about how quickly your dynamic had changed, how much you needed him all of a sudden.

“Of course.” He squeezed your hand, before sliding out from behind you. You watched him change before your eyes, a glimmer of magic, and he was now dressed for the day and looking as if he hadn’t slept on a couch for half the night.

He collected your robe from the back of the chair, offering it to you. You slid it on, thankful for your chambers not being too far, a perk of being the Queen’s favourites. 

The walk seemed slow, your legs tired from the night before, and you kept your eyes down, willing to get there as quickly as possible. As you passed a couple of maids chatting on their way to the Prince’s rooms, you found yourself turning to them, something in their conversation tugging at your brain.

“What did you just say?” You interrupted, not realising you had stopped.

“Oh! Your Royal Highness!” They curtseyed to Loki before turning to you. “M’Lady,” they curtseyed again before sharing an anxious look.

“We were just saying what a shame it was, M’Lady.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, tilting your head. You felt Loki stop behind you.

“About the two guards. They were found this morning, ‘said they drank too much and went for a swim and were found washed up on the river bank.”

Loki must have gestured behind you because the maids dipped into a curtsey and hurried away. Your hands were shaking when you turned back to him. Loki gently tilted your chin up with his fingers, and you found his eyes dark and stormy.

“No one will ever hurt you again, my love.”

// Part Two //

[whumpberry-cookie]

Caretaker says something with good intentions, but it hits Whumpee right in the sensitive spot

(Cw: Argument between Whumpee and Caretaker, bad Caretaker, mention of interrogation, intimate/creepy whumper)

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"What... on earth happened to you?" To Whumpee who worked so hard to recover before coming back to Caretaker, so they don't notice the difference. All efford for nothing. Caretaker sees at the first sight that Whumpee's still a broken good.

"Who did this to you?" You did, Caretaker. You just don't remember.

"Are you sure you're okay with doing it? You can take a break if it's too overwhealming. I know it might be scary" To a Whumpee that has a hard time showing vulnerability. They thought the Caretaker treated them with respect, like an equal. Looks like they were wrong. Caretaker does in fact pity them, patronises them, looks down on them. Whumpee was wrong to trust the Caretaker.

"I love you" / "I'll always love you/be here for you" after the experiences with an intimate/creepy Whumper. Caretaker unknowingly complements the aspects of Whumpee that Whumper adored as well. Pretty eyes, beautiful lips, soft hair. Caretaker doesn't understand why Whumpee doesn't like these compliments anymore. They used to blush and smile happily in the past.

(C:) "Do you feel guilty for what happened? No one blames you. No one could possibly stand this type of interrogation for long, even with-" (W:) "Caretaker, just shut up. You aren't helping." (C:) "...I'm... sorry..." Caretaker simply does not know what to say. Reaches their hand, but Whumpee stands up and walks away from them. (W:) "Reminding me of what I've done is the last thing I needed".

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